I am attempting to make an appointment to see a counselor; someone who might help slash the reeds of anxiety or depression that sometimes seem to withhold fresh air from my lungs and my life—even though nothing in particular seems intent on suffocating me. Little things—and not-so-little things—work together in a way that makes me feel like I am wading through mud at the edge of a marsh. A step in the wrong direction could find me sinking in a pool of muck from which escape is difficult, though not impossible. I await the bill for repair to the rental car whose tire burst when I ran it into a high concrete curb. Replacing a tire, alone, is expensive; a wheel is more costly and any damage to the steering mechanism and other parts of the undercarriage would be even more. Money is not the issue, really. It is the fact that apparently I could not see that I was about the smash into the curb until I had done it. The fact that my diminished lung capacity contributes to a lack of stamina—and breathlessness—also makes me feel more than a little inadequate, especially in comparison to how I was a few years ago. Increasing age—and illness and physical decay—emphasize the reality that I am not the same person I once was. I read an old blog post this morning, from another of my blogs that is now dormant, “celebrating” the fact that I had just reached my 58th birthday. Almost twelve years ago. Too much water can flow under the bridge in twelve years, deeply carving the channel’s walls and making the banks above them dangerous and unstable. About that counselor; finding one who can accept Medicare and who has openings for new patients is proving quite difficult. Another reality to face: large numbers of people in and around the area in which I live need help as much as or, more likely, more than I. Fortunately for me, my oncologist’s office is trying to identify qualified people who would accept me. Ach! The population is confronting a crumbling wall that may not withstand the pressure of people trying to climb it.
I hate to write paragraphs like the one above, because it looks like an effort to entice readers to pity me. That is not my intent. While I do not like writing this sort of thing, I think it may help me identify and measure my challenges. It is quite odd, feeling the way I do, after spending ten days away, including seven days in what amounts to paradise. Coolish weather, lush and absolutely beautiful flora, extremely pleasant people, lovely restaurants…the vacation should fuel my anxiety-free and depression-free experiences for weeks or months to come. Maybe the contrast between where I was and where I am is influencing my mood. Or maybe I am just having trouble adapting to the real world again.
I took Phaedra (the cat) to day-care yesterday and again this morning to keep her from being underfoot while solar tubes (to provide sunlight illumination) are being installed. We are investing in our house to make it even more livable. This morning’s cool weather (it is only 69°F at the moment) should boost my mood. And maybe it does.
Enough of this. I’ve been trying to clear my mind ever since I awoke, at 3 a.m. I slept, off and on, after that, but not enough to completely eliminate my headache. I went to bed quite early last night, which probably contributed to my insomnia. Little things. I think I’ll have a meal of acetaminophen.
I am not complaining, just musing with my fingers.