Most of my time is spent indoors, in this house where I sit writing most mornings. The air conditioning works quite well; often better than I’d like. When I venture outside (a rarity), I relish feeling the wave of heat wash over me. If I had the right lounge chair/outdoor recliner, I could go right to sleep in that luscious heat. A few minutes is all it would take, though. In no time, I would feel as if the sun had moved much closer to me, starting fire to my cheeks by licking my face with its flaming surface. The planet needs a thermostat; one over which I have control. Maybe the planet doesn’t need one; maybe it’s just me who wants to have that power.
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Reasons must exist for my sometimes sour mood when I wake, but I cannot put my finger on them. I can only guess at the causes of my unpleasant attitude and its accompanying surliness. Perhaps general bodily discomfort is at fault. Or maybe it’s a low-grade headache that refuses to go away. It could be my innate sense of self cracking my fragile shell. Resentment about cancer might do it, but I think I’m over that. I am sure there are other explanations; whether they can be held accountable is an open question. If I were to describe myself on mornings like this, I would call myself cynical, skeptical, derisive, contemptuous, misanthropic…just open the Thesaurus and let the acidic descriptions fly. It’s probably best for me to get back in bed and hibernate for the remainder of the day, I think, than to try to overcome my moodiness. The latter might simply exacerbate my unpleasant frame of mind. But if I go back to bed, I might resurrect some dreams I’d rather leave dormant. Yet if I stay awake, I may spend my day thinking about dreams I barely remember, trying to determine whether they are responsible for my mood. Ach.
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When a home health nurse visited yesterday, she inadvertently revealed that she is supposed to spend thirty minutes with me. I think the time is longer than necessary, in that she completed checking my vital signs and repeated the questions she asked last week…at least twice…and still had time to kill. I learned a little about her current husband, during that half-hour period, and that she is in her second marriage. She divulged a tendency to disregard formal English grammar by using “ain’t” at least twice, among other notable terms demonstrative of language butchery. None of these points warrant poking fun at her or otherwise demeaning her background, but there are times when I need to justify my contemptible behavior. I did not let on to my attitude, though, so she left with her dignity intact and I remained behind, soaking in shame, when she left.
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One of the weaker synonyms for “euthanasia” is the phrase describing the act as “putting [a living being] out of misery;” That is, causing the humane death of someone who is suffering. Another expression has been suggested to describe an act that shifts concern from an individual enduring undeserved suffering to one or more individuals who cause suffering in others. The articulation of the act uses the language of genealogy as clarification: euthanasia, once removed. Some people refer to the act as extreme vigilanteism. The terminology attached to it is irrelevant, though; it is one of the few concepts for which words do not matter. Only the concepts and the carry-through matter. Euthanasia, once removed can be executed (pardon the pun) in several ways, including assassination, mid-summer abandonment in inaccessible deserts, desertion by sailing away while the subject of the act is in a body of water sixty miles from shore, and various others.
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I wonder whether I’ll learn anything new when I visit my oncologist tomorrow? It always comes back to that. Argh! Mi novia could use a break from the unflinching attention I pay to my physical condition. My curiosity and interest get depressingly older by the day. Or the hour. That does it. A nap is in order.
