John Swinburn

A new visitor (I think the visitor is new, anyway) left a very helpful comment for me yesterday. Unfortunately, WordPress has, for the last week or more, steadfastly refused to reveal anything about comments except the number left on a given post. That is a shame, because comments can be far more insightful and valuable than the posts about which they are made. Comments from people who, for one reason or another, stumble on my blog can open up the possibility of communicating with others with whom we may have almost nothing in common (or with whom we share so much we might be clones). I like the idea of establishing connections with people whose backgrounds and lifestyles and philosophies are completely unknown to me. Relationships with people about whom we know almost nothing can grow like newly planted seeds. Tiny rhizomes spread just beneath the surface, establishing a mat of connecting ideas; by the time the shoot breaks ground, connections have been made with a network of roots. Only after the relationship has begun to take shape do the commonalities and differences begin to show clearly. And when differences that once might have prevented even a nod between individuals become apparent, the connections may have become strong enough to survive provincial differences.

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Yesterday was a better day for my wife. She spent time watching a movie, then watching an entertainment reality show (dancing, singing, and the like). Though she ate very little, she ate something, which is a good sign. However, when the home care aid was moving her into my wife’s reclining loveseat, the Hoyer lift tilted and almost hit my wife in the head; that scare the devil out of me and caused me to lose considerable confidence in the home care aid. She will be back today, though, as she was among the only ones available for the schedule. I have to decide early today whether I will opt to have help tomorrow and the next several days. I think I have no other choice; I know, now, I cannot do it by myself. Even with the help of my sister-in-law, until we are more comfortable with transferring my wife from the bed to her wheelchair, etc., I cannot risk it.

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I am in the mood to write, but I cannot afford to focus my attention on this, so I’m off to tend to my wife.

Yesterday gave me an education. I had half expected my wife to come home in a jubilant mood, finally home after three-plus months. That was an unrealistic expectation. Why would I expect that when her return home was so different from the last time she left? The last time she left, she was able to use a walker and ride in our car; she returned in a wheelchair, unable to stand and weaker than I’ve ever seen her. Her time in the hospital and rehab facilities—time essentially in isolation like solitary confinement—took an enormous toll on her, both physically and mentally. She is depressed, though it perhaps is not as severe as it has been, thanks to a mood-elevating medication. But she is most assuredly not jubilant.

She slept the vast majority of the day, waking long enough to drink some water and to nibble on some crackers and sample some Mexican food I ordered for take-out. And she was awake through the process, every three hours, of the home aid turning her in bed. The home aid was here from 11 in the morning until about 7:30 last night; during that time, she did the hard work of turning my wife in bed (to prevent bed sores and ensure better circulation). After she left, though, those tasks and changes were up to her sister and me. So, every three hours—at 9, midnight, 3, and 6—I attempted to do what I was ostensibly trained to do; I was inept, though. I think I succeeded in about half my responsibilities.

The admonition that my wife needs 24/7 care finally hit me. It will be impossible for me to do it myself. And I cannot expect any friends, no matter how generous or close, to do it with me, not even for short periods. The money I am paying for twenty-four hours of home health assistance over the weekend is astronomical; I cannot possibly afford 24/7 care; I cannot even afford a few hours every day. And I know I cannot long do even the basics by myself; especially given the need for repositioning my wife every three hours she is in bed.

I do not know what I will do. I will manage somehow, but how that will be is beyond me at the moment. My wife deserves to be at home, but she deserves far better care than I can give her at home. And she does not deserve to be in an institution, being “cared” for by people who are paid minimum wage and who resent it. Reality is a monstrous beast. Suddenly, life seems horribly, impossibly, unacceptably unfair; my wife deserves so much better than reality is willing to give.

I awoke about 2:30 this morning. I got up for a while, then went back to bed to try to sleep. Eventually, after what seemed like an hour, I drifted off. But I awoke again just before five with an ache in my upper back, just below my neck. It’s reminiscent of the pain I had a few years ago, when I learned I have bone spurs and stenosis of some vertebrae; that causes nerves to be snagged or pinched, resulting in pain in my back, shoulders, and right arm. Fortunately, I feel no pain in my shoulders and arm. I may have spoken too soon; my shoulders are beginning to ache, too. This pain may be completely unrelated to my earlier bout. In fact, I suspect it may be caused by stress. This is not a good time to have physical maladies, in that my wife is returning home today from the rehab center. She needs me to be in top form so I can help her convalesce. The answer is: Chill. Relax. Unflinch.

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Against my better judgment, I watched last night’s presidential debate. While it did not replicate the chaos of the first one (of which I watched only a few minutes before turning off the television as an act of self-preservation), it was a pointless exercise. People have made up their minds by now. Either they remain locked in blind allegiance to an incompetent con artist and liar or they reject him and opt to take their chances with the other guy. That’s not a particularly glowing endorsement, but at least the other guy recognizes the need to give credence to advice from people with expertise in many, many disciplines (rather than claim absolute, “perfect” knowledge of areas utterly out of his depth). I hope against hope for a landslide victory for the other guy.

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There was a time not so long ago that I would have said I would jump at the chance to move to a Scandinavian country. Lately, though, after watching several political and crime dramas set in Norway, Finland, Denmark, and Iceland, I have begun to question that concept. If the dramas present realistic experiences that take place in those countries, those places are not as “pure” as I’ve wanted to believe. The series I’ve watched have shown violent drug culture, murders, political backstabbing, and various other forms of human deviance. Maybe, though, television and film from those countries is like our own: exaggerated portrayals of relatively rare occurrences. Moving to Scandinavia would involve language problems, too. That’s a downside. But, then, is there anyplace in the world today I could consider a true haven? With COVID-19 spreading like wildfire, is it possible to find safety and serenity anywhere? I am afraid not. So, the question becomes: where is the least treacherous place, the place where serenity might visit on occasion? I am still looking.

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Speaking of Scandinavian dramas, I was several episodes into the series Deadwind (a Finnish crime drama) when Netflix went wonky. When I try to watch Deadwind, the system freezes.  This has been going on for several days. After a few tries, I gave up and switched to something else. My first switch, last Monday, landed me on a film I recommend highly: The Trial of the Chicago 7. It brought back the emotions I felt during the 1968 demonstrations and subsequent police rage. Before Deadwind and The Trial of the Chicago 7, I watched Borderliner (also known as Grenseland), categorized as a Nordic noir crime drama. I enjoyed it very much, too. I recommend it. Before that, I tried to watch Schitt’s Creek; I managed to watch four episodes of the first season. I wanted to like it, because it has received such glowing critical reviews. But I could not; I found it slapstick silly; a waste of time. I might return to it one day, but for now I’ll stick to stuff that I find more appealing.

I also watched the pilot for the series Ratched.  I think I will enjoy it, but I will have to be in the right frame of mind. I’m not there at the moment.

As I think of all the Nordic dramas I want to watch, I wonder whether I will be able to do it. My wife’s return home will certainly change my routines; I may have to devote considerable time to her, as opposed to whiling away hours watching television. We’ll see, we will.

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I have not had breakfast yet and I think I might forego it this morning. I am not hungry in the least. I know what I’ll  have for lunch; tuna salad. When I got up this morning, I made tuna salad even before I made a cup of coffee. I hope my wife will be hungry for lunch when she gets home and I know she enjoys a simple tuna salad. Dinner tonight is up in the air. While I’m willing to cook, I think my time this afternoon will be better spent getting used to the wheelchair, hospital bed, Hoyer lift, etc. And talking with my wife. My wife’s sister will be here and I think she is willing to pick up dinner for us from El Jimador; my wife loves Mexican food and I am certain she has had none for the last three months, so I hope either  Ranchero Jalisco or chile verde will please her taste buds. But she gets to choose, not me.

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The Democratic Club of Hot Springs Village is having a shindig today, including free brats and beer. I had planned on attending, but will miss it. It’s really rather heart-warming to see a fairly large contingent of progressives in Hot Springs Village. We’re far outnumbered by conservatives and their mutant brethren, Tea Partiers. But that does not dissuade us from announcing that we are proud liberals. While I do not necessarily buy into all aspects of the Democratic Party platform, my philosophies tend to mirror those that launch Democratic positions. So, it’s as close as I come to having an organization that represents my point of view.

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I’ve been writing here, off and on, for too long. Time to face the day.

Finally, I found a caregiver agency that could commit to having someone here when my wife comes home. They will stay until around 8 pm and will return the next two days for twelve hour shifts. I hope, during that time, I can learn what I need to know so I can do most of the caregiving myself. I simply cannot afford ongoing care without doing something drastic like selling my house; and the proceeds from the sale would be gone in a year at the rate things are going.

In a short while, I will take the wheelchair I borrowed from the Village Loan Closet to Good Sam so my wife can be discharged in that chair. That way, she won’t have to undergo a chair-to-chair transfer when she gets home. The caregiver agency representative I met yesterday said I should arrange a nightgown for my wife that buttons down the full length of the back. I made a trip to Walmart this morning, where I learned they do not carry such a thing. I was advised, too, to get a special kind of sling for use with a Hoyer lift; no luck on that front yet, either.

To make things just a touch more difficult, I have been unable to get my wife on the phone since yesterday morning. I called her early yesterday; she picked up but did not continue the conversation. I then saw her briefly at the wound center, but our interaction was brief and superficial. Since then, she has not called me and she has not answered my calls. I am afraid she may be in the midst of another bout of deep depression. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

Many people have admonished me to avoid burnout by taking respites from my caregiver duties from time to time. The caregiving has not even started and I already feel the mental wear and tear and the sense of physical strain. The answer to that is to deliberately “chill.” That’s the answer.

Yesterday, two people from my church delivered a twin bed to my house, along with some birthday goodies. I cannot say enough good things about those two women; they epitomize goodwill and compassion. And they are among a legion of other people who have offered help in a stressful time. Their generosity their insistence that I call whenever I need assistance are what will enable me to cope with the challenges of being a caregiver.

It’s time for me to go deliver the wheelchair. I hope the medical supply company does not call while I am in the midst of that task. If so, I’ll cope.

The first thing I did this morning after getting up, even before making coffee, was to put sheets in the washer. Yesterday, I stripped our bed and, with some much-needed help from the guy who painted my deck (and his wife), disassembled the four-poster bed. The deflated mattress and box springs are leaning against the wall and the components of the heavy wooden frame are in the garage, sitting where the Camry normally sits. The Camry is in the driveway. When the sheets are clean and dry, I will fold them and put them away. In the bedroom, in place of the disassembled queen bed, we’ll have a twin bed for me, lent by a friend, and a hospital bed for my wife, provided by the local Health Mart.

Only after I made coffee and checked my email this morning and discovered a Jacquie Lawson ecard did it register with me that today is my birthday. I’m sure it would have occurred to me at some point, even without the card, but I was oblivious to the fact until I saw the card in my inbox. I suppose birthdays become less occasions to celebrate, as we age; instead, they become reminders of our mortality. At twenty, thirty, even forty, we can imagine being twice our age. The possibility disappears about forty; maybe forty-five.

My wife has an appointment with the wound clinic in Hot Springs this morning, so I will drive into town and will wait until the end of her appointment to learn the doctor’s assessment; will she finally be able to put weight on the front of her foot? If so, that may accelerate the process of recovering her strength. If not, her strength will continue to ebb, requiring that much more effort and time to rebuild it. Either way, her experience will be different after she comes home. She will have less access to therapy to help rebuild her strength, courtesy of Medicare’s idiotic rules. I am confident many of Medicare’s rules and regulations were created by people who have never experienced, nor known anyone who has experienced, the challenges brought on by age. The Medicare system (indeed, the entire health care system in this country) should be taken over by people over sixty-five years of age. The wisdom of experience should inform policies and procedures that impact people; not the arrogance of youthful inexperience.

My neighbors and friends, the ones who sent the Jacquie Lawson card, had planned to have me over for a birthday dinner tonight, but I cancelled because my mind is racing and I am afraid I would seem distracted and unappreciative. I would be distracted; I would be appreciative, but unable to show it. It’s best that I cancelled. I would have appeared an ungrateful guest.

Yesterday, I thought I had secured assistance in the form of two “helpers” from a senior services company to help with my wife’s return home. But, after I was ready to hand over a “retainer” check and authorize ACH withdrawals from my checking account, I was informed the price I was given was half the amount I would actually have to pay. The actual price was impossible, so I began looking again. I have spoken to five or six companies, all but one of which said they did not have sufficient staffing to be able to help. I have an appointment today with another company; if it cannot provide one or two people to assist me, I am not sure what I will do. I can ask people from my church, but that might be asking too much…spending hours and hours in my house, helping my wife into and out of bed and into and out of a wheelchair.  I promised myself, and my wife, I would not put her in a nursing home. One way or another, I will keep that promise.

Even before her return home, I am feeling the pressure of caring for her. The reality of helping her recover her strength, if it is recoverable, is settling over me like a blanket. Or a shroud. I am not certain I have the wherewithal to do what I promised I would do. My physical strength has declined over the years and I have done little to counterbalance that decay. I suppose now, though it’s late, is the time to rebuild that strength. I better have some protein for breakfast if I hope to build my strength.

I received a surprise phone call yesterday morning. Good Sam is discharging my wife on Friday because her progress does not meet Medicare standards for improvement, they say. Medicare will not continue to pay, so she is coming home. While I planned for that, the timing surprised me. I am scrambling to prepare for her and trying to figure out just how I will care for her. Fortunately, several people have stepped forward to offer support and assistance. At this stage, though, I don’t quite know what assistance I (and she) will need. This morning, I’ll disassemble our four-poster bed so we can put a rented hospital bed and a twin bed in the master bedroom. Sometime between now and Friday, a hospital bed, a Hoyer lift, and various other “stuff” will be delivered (I hope). In between, I need to go shopping for things she’ll need.

I hope her return home will set in motion the recovery of her happiness. Being locked away in an isolated medical setting with no visitors for three months is, I think, akin to torture. I wish I had brought her home from the hospital instead of relying on Good Sam to help her; in my view, Good Sam did just the opposite. Now it’s my chance to make things right.

I’ve been binging on Deadwind, described by Forbes as “Nordic noir,” for the last few evenings. Like so many other Scandinavian films and television series I’ve watched during the past few years, it is—to me—absolutely gripping. I cannot quite put my finger on why I find these Scandinavian crime dramas so much more appealing than the domestic versions; probably has something to do with the fact that they seem more realistic, as if I’m actually engaged in the action, rather than simply following it. So, although the plot is nothing new (murder, duh), it is executed quite well.  The first season of Deadwind has twelve episodes; the second, only 8. At the rate I’m going, I suspect I’ll wrap it up within the next few days. Then, I’ll move on to something else; more than likely, another ScandiDrama.

But maybe not. I’m interested in another noir series, this one (Hinterland) a Welsh noir series originally titled Y Gwyll (Welsh for “The Dusk”).  It, too, is a police drama. I love the IMDB description: A noir crime drama set in Aberystwyth, Wales, where troubled DCI Tom Mathias solves murders while searching for redemption. Something about that simple description appeals to me. The series’ languages are Welsh and English; I suspect I’ll rely on subtitles for both, given my ears’ not-infrequent difficulty with accents.

Though most of the films and series I’ve watched lately have been at least modestly stimulating, intellectually, if I am honest about them I have to admit they all are simply escapist. I watch them and allow myself to get absorbed by them so my mind is freed from worry for a while. The reason I know they are purely escapist is this: after watching an entire series, I cannot recall much about it. It’s as if my mind was on autopilot during my viewing. I enjoy the hell out of them, but I have to coax details about them from my memory (if I want to remember them). I suppose this could be a symptom of an underlying physical or mental problem, but I don’t think so. I think it’s evidence that I’m escaping into the television screen. I used to escape by getting into my car and taking long, aimless daytrips. Not these days. These days I read subtitles and vicariously experience foreign countries and their all-too-familiar problems with crime triggered by greed, jealousy, fear, and other caustic emotions.

While trying to attach a title to this short post, I learned I had already entitled two posts, “Escape,” and had included the word “escape” in two more titles. The psychoanalyst in me believes there is meaning in the repetitive return to the term. The psychoanalyst in me sees evidence that I have a history of psychological imprisonment; a sense of being caged or chained to situations from which I feel a need to flee. Fortunately, I am ill-equipped to be a psychoanalyst; my license to practice would be revoked before I started. So I’ll have to be satisfied that my proclivity toward using “escape” is simply coincidental. And this post shall be entitled, “Escapist.”

Something is awry when, at just a bit after two in the afternoon, one feels a sudden desire for a shot of good whiskey. The onset of such a craving should wait until after dinner; that’s the natural time for it. But my thirst for something to slap me in the face with its aroma and sting on the tongue refuses to pay attention to the clock. No matter, though; I do not possess good whiskey at the moment. The closest I come is Seagram’s Seven Crown, blended American whiskey best suited for mixed drinks, not for downing from a shot glass. Would that I still had some Maker’s Mark or some Jack Daniels black label. Oh, well. Or, I could go for a very nice añejo tequila, instead. I am equipped for that; indeed, I have good tequila, lime, and salt, the ideal triumvirate. But, still, it’s not even 2:30 p.m.

The question arises in my mind, of course; why do I feel like a stiff drink at this unwholesome hour? It is a rarity, indeed, which is a good thing. A frequent longing for afternoon whiskey or tequila could be problematic.

I blame my youngest brother for this sudden urge to indulge myself. He wrote an email earlier today expressing a desire to try a sidecar, a mixed drink he has never had. I hadn’t ever thought about it, but I don’t think I’ve ever had one, either. Though I’d like to try one, I am not ready for one today. But the thought of brandy turned my mind to other good stuff; I’m sure that’s how bourbon found its way into my brain. From there, it was just a matter of time before my mind turned to shots of good liquor, zeroing in on good whiskey and then substituting tequila for whiskey. If I lived in a civilized state, I could go buy some good whiskey today; I live in Arkansas, though, a state that prohibits the sale of liquor on Sunday because…fanaticism, AKA religion on steroids.

It’s now 2:43 p.m. and I have successfully avoided shots of anything, so I may be out of the woods. Or I may slip into the kitchen and pretend I am sitting at a waterside bar on Lake Chapala, washing my cares away. Time will tell.

Thus far, I have resisted the temptation to turn on the heat, opting instead to cope with the moderate discomfort of too cool temperatures by wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt in the house. This morning, the indoors temperature is 66 degrees, a couple of degrees cooler than yesterday, despite the fact that the outdoors temperature is considerably warmer than yesterday. I suspect houses retain heat for quite a while, regardless of cooling outside temperatures, but over time the retained heat escapes. That’s my explanation, anyway, for the cooler inside air in the face of warmer outside air. If today were to be sunny, I suspect the indoors temperature would rise considerably, and quickly; but the forecast is for clouds. So, my question to myself: should I turn on the heat, or should I continue to cope? At the moment, my answer is that I will continue to cope. No point in wasting energy when I can be reasonably comfortable in lounging attire. Of course, when I take a shower, my attitude may change; I will wish for a bathroom heater for a while, I imagine.

A few degrees one way or the other should not command so much of my attention. Before the age of HVAC systems, people dealt with the vagaries of weather without pushing buttons or turning dials. Their options in relatively recent times might have included decisions about opening or closing windows or vents, turning fans on or off, putting a log on the fire (or not), and adding or discarding layers of clothes. I think it pays to remember that modern conveniences are not necessities. Overreliance on conveniences tends to rob us of our ability to deal creatively with our environment. And that reliance tends to involve using vast amounts of nonrenewable energy. I wonder how much energy might be saved if every household in the USA took a one-week sabbatical from using energy sources with which we have become so comfortable and on which we rely: no driving, no electricity, no HVAC systems…okay, I’ll allow refrigeration for food…and so forth? Unfortunately, we will never know with certainty because most of us would be unwilling to put up with the inconvenience. Unless forced to by natural disaster or some other such calamity.

But IF we were to go for a week without using power, what would it reveal about us? That we are soft, demanding whiners? That we have the capacity to understand that convenience and necessity are different? That we can adjust to trying circumstances with grace? That we are not suited for an earlier era of self-reliance or collective support? Who knows? I don’t. I would be interested to find out, though. I have been through lengthy periods without electricity, though it has been many years ago. I coped, then. Would I cope just as well today?

When the air conditioner is in use, we set the thermostat to 78 degrees. We set it at 68 degrees when we turn on the heat. So today’s 66 degrees is only two degrees cooler than “normal.” I should recall, though, that even at 68 degrees we often wear layers or comfortable lounging clothes around the house. And we occasionally turn up the thermostat a degree or two for a short while for the sake of comfort. And we sometimes rely on the fireplace for radiant heat. Obviously the ability to control the temperature in one’s home simply by adjusting a thermostat is a luxury. We should contemplate that more often than we do. We should recognize how incredibly fortunate we are to live in a time and place that such luxuries exist for us.

I think my decision to keep my hands off the thermostat, in spite of wishing I felt warmer, is responsible for this post. I’ve forced myself to acknowledge my reliance on modern technology for comfort. Perhaps I rely on modern technology to define what constitutes a comfortable temperature; would comfort be defined differently if I did not have access to the thermostat? I don’t know. But it’s worth thinking about.

The southeastern sky is a remarkable vision this morning. Purple and pink and grey and deep blue peek through spaces between leaves and branches as yet unlit by the morning sun. Where the sky is not partially hidden by the forest, white and violet and grey compete for prominence.  The absence of clouds to soak up and refract the light lets the sunlight dissolve the darkness without interruption.

It is quite cool this morning—37 degrees outside and 67 degrees inside, according to my thermometer. I have yet to turn on the heat, knowing it would fill only a temporary need. Today’s forecast high of 70 degrees and clear skies will allow the windows in the house to amplify the sun’s heat, making artificial warmth unnecessary.

My first task of the day, aside from the regular routine of showering, shaving, and coffee, will be to join a group of church members and friends as we collectively clean a roadway of trash and litter.  That should take no more than an hour or so, given the number of us working separately and the relatively short length of roadway we have been assigned to clean. Next, I will travel to the Garland County Fairgrounds, where a hazardous household waste collection event will take place. After almost seven years in our house, I am finally getting rid of all the gallon and quart buckets (many almost full) of paint the former owner of the house left here: seventeen gallons and 7 quarts. I have more that I should take, but I have no more room in the trunk. I can take the remainder the next time such an event is held.

After I take care of that task, I will do some odds and ends around the house, make shopping lists for groceries, hardware, and related needs, and have lunch. Sometime after lunch, I will go visit my wife. She has been moved to  a room with a window facing the parking lot, just off a sidewalk. I can go stand at the window and we can talk on the phone while physically seeing one another. It’s not the same as being in the same room, but it has to do for now. Her sister and I went to see her yesterday; she seemed to be in good spirits; we talked for almost an hour. Then, last night around 9:30 I was pleasantly surprised to get a call from her; we talked for almost half an hour.

A couple of nights ago, after another very pleasant afternoon visit that last about 45 minutes, I got a call telling me her blood pressure was extremely low and that her nurses were going to give her intravenous fluids and they had been directed to stop several medications that can cause blood pressure to drop. I called her immediately and she said they had already started the IV. Of course I worried about it all night. The next morning, her blood pressure had rallied to low normal levels.  I find myself constantly on edge about her state of health, wondering whether she is getting sufficient fluids, proper nutrition, adequate therapy and stretching exercises, etc. I have to be available whenever she might need me, though I don’t know just why that would be, given that she is under the care of medical and healthcare professionals.

On edge. Edging into the day. Always tense, as if the day could spring an unwelcome surprise on me at any moment. Coffee probably doesn’t help much in that regard, but it tastes wonderful and holding a warm mug in my hand feels right. I suppose I could try caffeine-free hot tea for awhile (that’s what my wife drinks); I like it quite a lot, but I still prefer coffee. But sometimes, when I deviate from the norm and have a cup of hot tea, I feel a sense of comfort that coffee does not give me. I wonder why that is?  Hot tea and an orange-cranberry scone might do the trick for me this morning. The hot tea is easily accessible; the orange-cranberry scone, not so much. I used to buy orange-cranberry scones at a Starbucks in Dallas when I took my long morning walks. I bought one for myself and one for my wife, which I took back home to her. She likes them, too, but I think she might prefer blueberry scones. Why I’m reminiscing about scones is a mystery to me. So many things are mysterious. Shoes, for instance. Why do humans were shoes? Why did we not evolve like the rest of the animal kingdom, our feet protected by thick skin or protective pads or whatever? I wonder when the first shoes, or shoe-prototypes, were worn? Where were the people who wore them and what caused them to make them? We’ll never know, so the best we can do is to speculate. That’s a worthy thing to do on a moderately lazy Saturday morning: speculate about the first shoe-wearers.

It’s almost time for me to head to church, where we’ll gather, be given our assigned routes, and equipped with gloves and bags and vests and “pickers” to grab refuse from the roadside. One more sip of coffee should finish the cup. Then, I will step in the day, wearing comfortable (more or less) shoes.

You wake up one morning, still a little sleepy but ready to tackle the day before you. After a cup of coffee, you choose the clothes you will wear. You get dressed and prepare to leave the house on your first errand of the day, a trip to the hardware store to buy a replacement for a worn exterior door knob. The knob works, but you want a lockset with a lever instead of a knob. Just before you get to the door into the garage, you decide to take one last look at the worn knob; not because you need to, but because you have an odd feeling about it. You suddenly feel guilty about planning to discard the knob for a lever. Ach! You brush away the feeling, go to your car, and make the trip to the hardware store.

The door hardware aisle is densely packed with options of all kind. You study all the options long and hard and select a brushed nickel set with levers on both sides; no round knobs. But when you set your choice of lockset on the counter, an image of the old worn doorknob pops up in your head.

[EDIT: POSTED UNINTENTIONALLY. I WILL COMPLETE THIS POST ONE DAY.]

Materialism creeps into our lives without our knowledge or consent. We see something interesting or hear about an item that appeals to a longing we think is within us. Or we watch an advertisement designed to trigger that longing, even though the longing may be a product of marketing minds whose job it is to create desire where none existed before. However, it happens, we acquire material things. Occasionally, we recognize the pointlessness of accumulation for the sake of accumulation, but only rarely do we react by taking control of our tendency toward instant—or only modestly delayed—gratification.

I cannot begin to recall all the conversations I have had with people who recognized, when they prepared for a household move, the enormous burden of over-accumulation. They were shocked at the sheer volume of “stuff” they had collected. Often, they vowed to discard all the excess, keeping only the necessities, and to never again allow materialism to control their lives. Many of them have expressed thoughts similar to these: “I realized that accumulating material goods had no appreciable impact on my happiness. In fact, when I discovered that I had collected enormous amounts of what amounted to useless garbage, I was stunned. I vow to never again permit myself to buy for the sake of short-term gratification.” Or words to that effect.  Most of those words, though, were hollow. As mine have been.

Recently, I have played with the idea of imagining a life without all the individual pieces of clutter in my life. I try to imagine how different my life might be if an item around the house were to simply disappear. Thus far, I have decided my life would be impacted to almost no extent if all the knickknacks on display on shelves were gone; the empty shelf would look slightly different. My clothes closet would be roomier if most of the clothes I seldom or never wear were to escape. The drawers in the kitchen would have fewer items in them if the kitchen tools I never use were to disappear. Of course, it’s easy to imagine life without the items that don’t really matter. But what of the ones that do?

I regularly glance at clocks throughout the house. When I imagine a life without them, I cannot foresee any insurmountable obstacles. And if the cordless phones in rooms around the house were to disappear, I would get by without undue hardship. I have discovered, in thought at least, that I could live comfortably without staplers, pots and pans of multiple sizes and shapes, most of the chairs in the house, all the tables (provided I could sit at the counter), and dozens upon dozens of other things.

I could live without the gadgets I have allowed to enter my life: the Echo Dot that serves as home to Alexa, whose weather forecasts and jokes both are unreliable; the electric kitchen timer that allows me to ignore time until reminded; the remotes for two televisions (and the two televisions); the ceiling fans; etc., etc, Of course, some of these items, and many more, seem to add convenience to my life, but they also rob me of presence. I do not seem to pay close attention to the really important things around me because my attention is diverted or made unnecessary by “things.”

This recent imaging life without is not new. For as far back as I can remember, I have occasional bouts of dissatisfaction with myself for what I consider superficiality. I regularly rediscover I either am too attached to material things or insufficiently appreciative of the material things that really matter. I have aspired to minimalism since I was in college; I have not yet succeeded. I’ve had fantasies of living in a single room cabin, far from civilization, outfitted with a bed, a single-burner stove, a plate, a knife, a fork, a skillet, a coffee pot, and a refrigerator (the cabin has electric power; my imagination is not prepared for full-on asceticism). In my cabin, I would write a manifesto for life on planet Earth. Yeah.

Of course these thoughts of excessive materialism lead to, or are accompanied by, questions of whether the same superficiality exists with regard to people. Do I take people for granted, failing to give sufficient dedicated thought to how important they are to me? Though I recognize their importance, I doubt I often allow myself (or require myself) to dedicate more than a few moments to allow my appreciation for them to fill me; to let it seep into every pore and to wash over me.  I think love requires that sort of dedicated attention. It requires a recognition that another person’s existence is key to your own and that without it you would be like an amputee forced to rebuild a life with a vital piece missing.

As usual, my mind wandered away from the road I was on. Minimalism. That’s what has been on my mind. I think life without the debris of materialistic urges might constitute a more pure existence. Without the detritus, I think we might experience more serenity, unencumbered by meaningless possessions. Maybe. But will I ever experience it? I doubt it. I still have too much “stuff,” even in my mind as I imagine life without it.

An brief excursion into Greek and Roman mythology this morning veered sharply into an interest in linguistic treatment of grammatical structures across languages. I have always abhorred explorations into the formalities of grammatical structures, perhaps because I found the explanations too complex and dry to be of any interest. Or, perhaps, I simply do not have sufficient intellectual firepower to understand them. In spite of my tendency to steer clear of grammar, when I encountered discussions of grammatical structure across languages (during an exploration of Greek god mythology), I was intrigued. (As for English grammar, I know what conforms to the “rules” of the language and what does not, I just cannot explain why.)

I doubt my interest this morning in the accusative case, the genitive, the dative, the vocative, etc. will be long-lasting. But I found it interesting to be exposed to concepts that illustrate, at least to some extent, the ways in which various languages are structured in similar ways or, at least, can be compared and contrasted.  My interest in linguistics is neither new nor encyclopedic. My oldest brother pursued graduate study in linguistics before ultimately stopping the process at ABD (all but dissertation). Partly because of my admiration for him, I explored the possibility of going for an undergraduate degree in linguistics, but got sidetracked by other interests. But my interest in linguistics never waned (nor did it ever blossom into a full-blown diversion). For some reason, I remember learning, in a linguistics class, about the term ‘glottal stop.’ My recollection relies more on the experience of duplicating the instructor’s pronunciation of the word bottle, as spoken in some versions of regional London English. In place of the sound of the “t,” there is a brief pause (which is produced by closing the space between the vocal folds).

At any rate, I found myself wandering through grammatical structures and down linguistic pathways unrelated to Greek mythology. I spent a good hour reading about the evolution of grammatical elements of spoken languages. I learned about (maybe re-learned?) the ways in which certain sounds of spoken language (like the glottal stop) are symbolized in written form (symbolized in the International Phonetic Alphabet as ⟨ʔ⟩). And I discovered that the language used to define certain terms is almost unintelligible without serious investigative research, like this from Wikipedia‘s definition of fusional languages:

Fusional languages or inflected languages are a type of synthetic language, distinguished from agglutinative languages by their tendency to use a single inflectional morpheme to denote multiple grammatical, syntactic, or semantic features.

I need this kind of diversion at the moment. Something that will both take my mind off the fact that the world is collapsing around us and that will briefly deepen my shallow intellectual store of useless knowledge. I still need to return to Greek and Roman mythology, though, inasmuch as I was unsuccessful at learning much today. I cannot keep writing this, for now, because I have other obligations. Or other inquisitions. That’s it, I should re-read Jorge Luis Borges’ Other Inquisitions. I remember being enamored of the essays contained in the book, but it has been so long ago that I recall almost nothing else. I hope I still have a copy; I’m afraid I may have gotten rid of it, though, in the massive book purge before our move to Hot Springs Village.  Perhaps I should try something new; some more modern. But no, not until I re-acquaint myself with the brilliance of Borges.

Enough. I have obligations to fulfill this morning. And I haven’t even showered and shaved yet. Ach. So much to do.

My new primary care doctor spent an hour and fifteen minutes with me yesterday, the longest “in-office” visit I can recall. Surgeons have spent more time with me, but I’ve been unaware of their presence as they sliced into my flesh and removed pieces of me so the remainder might survive. Yesterday, though, the doctor actually spoke with me and asked me a lot of questions. He scheduled me for a return visit in a month, as well, when he will burn off some skin blemishes on my hands and excise a particularly bothersome growth on my right hand. He explored my state of mind, as well, recommending some tactics to improve it. I am grateful for his time, but I am afraid his words and even his time have not yet spurred me to emerge from this cloud of harsh, hot, suffocating dust. But I must give it time. I haven’t even begun the new regimen of consuming an ever-increasing assortment of pharmaceutical wizardry in pill form.  And I have not inquired, yet, of Walgreen’s as to whether I can get injected with doses of Shingrix two months apart.

I wonder how my body might react if I simply stopped taking all the damn pills that have been prescribed for me? Atorvastatin, metoprolol, gabapentin, tamsulosin, losartan…and on and on. Would I wither? Would I crash and burn? Would I weaken gradually until my muscles and bones could no longer hold me erect? Would my heart simply stop beating? I do not plan to find out by experience, though I think it would be fascinating to know. One day, science and medicine may be capable of duplicating patients (but eliminating sentience from the copies, thereby eliminating some of the concerns about the morality of human experiments) and testing the effects of drugs and the lack thereof and so forth. How would I react to seeing an exact replica of me react to having drug treatments withheld? Would it have bothered me, for example, to have watched my doppelgänger’s body respond to untreated lung cancer? I will never know the answer to my hypothetical query, but thinking about the question arouses my innate interest in the philosophies that give rise to morals and their foes.

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I tried to speak to my wife yesterday to no avail. Her phone was either switched off or the battery was in need of charging. And the room telephone in the facility where she temporarily resides was not answered; either it was out of reach or she chose not to answer it when I called. She does not seem to understand how much it bothers me to have the only tether of communication shut off. But, then, I cannot possibly understand how the experience of being confined to a single room for the better part of three months, with no visitors, is impacting her perspectives and her perception of the world. I want nothing more than to embrace her and protect her from the world.  Yet she may not want that at all; she may prefer the more reliable retreat into herself. My attempts to communicate frequently may be precisely what she does not need and, in fact, those attempts could be annoying to her in ways I cannot understand.  It’s maddening to me to realize that it is possible I am largely to blame for her withdrawal.

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Mornings no longer appeal to me. The quiet hours before sunrise no longer provide respite from the chaos of daily life. I’m losing my interest in watching sunrise unfold into a thousand muted shades of pink and orange and violet and blue, ultimately cascading into brilliant oranges and pinks. That majesty, recently so awe-inspiring that it almost brought tears, is now simply a matter-of-fact process. Sunrise and its companion, sunset, do not  hold the power over me they once did. It’s as if a sheet of grey gauze, intended to filter out color and light, has been placed over my eyes.

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Last night, I went to bed very early, around 9:30. I did not fall asleep right away and I woke up several times during the night. My SleepNumber app claims I was in bed for seven hours and fifty-nine minutes; six hours and fifty-seven minutes of which were “restful,” the app claims.  I do not believe the app. For one thing, being in bed for almost eight hours is radically out of the ordinary for me; I do not like to be in bed that long. For another, I recall getting up to pee at least four times; the app claims I was up only twice. The app claims my heart rate was forty-eight, considerably lower than the normal fifty-eight. And it claims my “sleep” was restless for only an hour or so. I have grown suspicious that the app is making stuff up. Alexa, perhaps, is communicating with it, recommending it tell me lies (in retaliation for my unreasonable hounding of and cursing at Alexa for her intrusive flaws). I simply must stop believing the app. Just stop looking at what it claims to report.

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WordPress continues to refuse to display comments. Later today, I will contact my web host (that also provides me with WordPress) to ask for assistance. If that does not work, I will contact a consultant who knows WordPress far better than I in an attempt to get help. I rarely get comments, so the problem is not especially troubling, but when those few people who leave comments see that the comments they left are not displayed, I suspect it is upsetting to them. I know it is upsetting to me. Is this just another example of how I am allowing technology to manipulate my emotions? Am I permitting software glitches to control centers in my brain that regulate my heart-rate? Am I allowing the human-machine interface to cause my serotonin levels to plummet, thereby sparking anger and, ultimately, rage? I think those are possibilities. I must attempt to gain control again; it’s my brain, after all, isn’t it? Or is it? Has technology already snatched my self-control from me, swallowing it and releasing it into the internet as the technological equivalent of marijuana? That’s a question of interest: might it be possible for software and hardware to be influenced by mood-altering interference? Is that what hackers are doing, in fact? So many questions, so few answers.

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I must be back at the medical clinic in less than an hour to have more lab work done: hemoglobin A1C, vitamin B12 level, and vitamin D25 hydroxy. So, I’d better finish my coffee, take a quick shower, and eat something. And, then, face the rest of the day.

WordPress is being utterly uncooperative. Yesterday, with no warning and no discernable reason, it refused to show comments left on blog posts; not just new comments on new posts, but all comments on all posts. I can see that one or four or three comments were left, but those comments do not show up on the posts. I can read the comments if I log into my account, but they do not show up on the public area of my site. I’ve been wrestling with that problem since yesterday, to no avail. Then, today, as I was attempting to backup the site with a new plug-in, WordPress (or the plugin) put me in a perpetual loop, refusing to acknowledge the legitimacy of my Dropbox account. My patience is growing thin; it is now a fragile membrane a single cell thick. A stranger’s errant thought or glance from two miles away may be enough to rupture that microscopically thin film, releasing a torrent of pent-up rage in me that could incinerate Western civilization and severely damage the rest.

The proper reaction to the anger growing inside me is to make breakfast, shave, shower, and ready myself for my doctor’s appointment; my annual physical with a new physician (because the physician who previously served as my primary care doctor abandoned me and the rest of his patients in the Village, as I’ve mentioned before). All right, I will attempt to corral my burning fury with a quick bite to eat. I’m afraid, though, I might toast bread with the fire in my eyes, alone. Perhaps I should stick with water, which will turn to steam as I swallow it. Enough. I need patience right away. And the doctor needs patients to be calm, more or less.

Already, today is emerging as one of those days that challenge my on-again, off-again insistence the universe is essentially random. As I poured fresh water from a container into my coffee maker’s reservoir, I was surprised by the beauty of the shape of the stream of water. A blue light hidden in the bowels of the reservoir accentuated the stream of water as it flowed, but even without the blue cast, the constantly changing shape of that water would have been exquisite. It offered me a splendid example of the methodical connections between components of the universe.

I realize, of course, how silly the preceding paragraph may sound. The reason for its seeming absurdity rests with my inability to articulate the emotions I felt as I watched the water flow from the glass into the reservoir. It occurs to me that, if we let ourselves experience the awe of being, we cannot help but think the universe is not random; not in the least. I am not suggesting it is governed by a God, but that every aspect of existence is intricately connected to every other facet. That labyrinthine web of interconnectedness, I think, evolved over billions of years and continues evolving today. There is no randomness. There is, though, an inexplicably complex orderliness. It is inexplicable simply because its order is so exceptionally complex as to appear chaotic.

That leads me to the idea of balance. In a universe so remarkably complicated, chaos and randomness would erupt in the absence of a natural tendency toward balance. I think the universe seeks balance. I say “seeks” not in the sense of intent but in the sense of natural affinity; the way water on planet Earth, thanks to gravity, seeks to flow downward.  The concepts of good and bad, happy and sad, night and day, light and darkness, heat and cold, etc., are expressions of balance. Each pairing is enormously complex in its own right—and in some cases the “pairing” is virtually impossible to understand or even to see. Taken collectively, though, opposites represent the universe seeking balance.

Language may be a consequence of humans’ need to understand—or attempt to understand—the universe and to experience it in a way that maximizes balance. I wonder whether human emotions followed or preceded language? If we consider a baby’s cries and laughs, we might assert emotion came first. But if we consider compassion and love and hatred, we might say language must have come first, serving as a tool to shape and mold emotion. Perhaps emotions and language are among the intricate pairings that bring balance to that tiny piece of the universe that resides inside our brains.  As I imagine the inexpressible beauty of brilliant orange and pink and grey and white streaks of sky during sunrises and sunsets against massive banks of puffy clouds, I search for the balance that counters them.

Aching sadness and sharp emotional pain as fierce and penetrating as lightning bolts contravene joy. Balance. One moment, we rejoice in the overwhelming beauty of love and Nature; the next we mourn, in grief over the agony of seeing someone in pain.  Balance is not necessarily the lovely sense of harmony the term brings to mind; rather, it can be a sharp rebuke for neglecting to recognize the natural pairing of ecstasy and pain.

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That did not go where I expected it to go. My cheeks are wet as I contemplate the beauty of the shape of flowing water (I wish the film had not usurped my term) and the awful pain of clinical depression (the latter something I have never experienced).  I wonder whether balance is responsible for the tears, or whether the world simply is becoming too much.  Perhaps it’s the guilt I cannot help but feel when I allow myself respite that is unavailable to my wife. Last night, I had dinner with some couples from the now-defunct “world tour of wines group.” I was unable to talk to my wife. I wonder whether I might have been able to reach her had I stayed home and called the nurse’s station. I will try later this morning.

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During my Internet wanderings this morning, I came across an article concerning a new film about the 1995 slaughter at Srebrenica. The film, entitled Quo Vadis, Aida? premiered at the Venice Film Festival last month. I hope the film eventually finds its way to a screen near me, whether Netflix or otherwise.  Our visit last year to Bosnia-Herzegovina introduced me to quite a lot about the horrendous 1992-1995 war that included genocide. The woman who made the film (Jasmila Zbanic) is quoted in the Associated Press article as saying: “When I watch films and find patriotic things about war, I cannot identify with that. I hoped people will identify with Aida, the film’s main protagonist, because wars are banal and evil and there is nothing good in them.”  [Emphasis mine.]

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The dissolution of national territorial borders should be a global priority. Erase borders entirely. Allow everyone free access to everywhere on Earth. Of course, the preparation for that eventuality will require a guaranteed minimum income for everyone, everywhere. Existing governments will have to eliminate their parochial claims to “their” money and be willing to share or, rather, relinquish their resources to a central pool which would then distribute them as needed for maximum benefit to the largest number of people. I’m not talking here about a country or a region becoming “communist.” I’m talking about citizens of Earth being treated equally by all other citizens and by whatever global government might be permitted by the people to administer the functions of government. It’s the biggest idea that will never be implemented because it will never be given even a shred of serious consideration. Idealism should be valued more highly and given more opportunity to correct the flaws and blemishes of humankind.

The competition between days with too many things demanding my attention and days requiring nothing of me is intense. I want both, but for different reasons. When obligations consume every waking second, my mind has little opportunity to dwell on things I would rather not think about. When I am under no pressure to fulfill commitments, I am free to let tightly-wound tensions ease. Both appeal to me, but both carry with them unpleasant side-effects.

Busy days tire me and spin me in increasingly inflexible coils, all the while washing me in guilt for permitting my mind to stray from things I should think about, no matter how unpleasant. Lazy days drown me in regret for having an undeserved luxury, something unavailable to my wife for far too long.

I feel brittle; breakable, as if I were a long sheet of glass with both ends on top of two distant supports. The weight of a feather pillow half-way between could cause the glass to crack. The weight of a second pillow could cause it to shatter. I am, by nature, emotionally fragile and weak, but I cannot afford to shatter. As I consider this attribute, my anger at myself grows for failing to take whatever steps might have been necessary to strengthen that weakness in years past. Building strength requires repetitive exercise and time. I suppose I was satisfied to be soft and feeble; if not satisfied, then tolerant of the state into which I grew.

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It is impossible to know what is in another person’s head. What we might consider irrational and unwise behavior may be based, in fact, on solid reasoning; just reasoning we cannot understand or accept. That is not to say that we ought to change our mind about the erroneous nature of the behavior, only that we ought to attempt to understand what could be driving it.

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BBC.com sometimes reshapes my day from unbearable to tolerable. Today, for instance, I awoke depressed (and I remain so), but an article on BBC.com gave me a brief respite with a couple of articles relating to India. The first one related the experience earlier this week of the owners of Baba ka dhaba, a street food stand in south Delhi’s Malviya Nagar.  One of the owners, an 80-year-old man, during an interview by a video blogger broke down when explaining how his business had dwindled during the pandemic. The video went viral, resulting in an enormous boost to his business (and some significant donations) during the last few days. The second article involved a British academic’s tweet that called idlis “the most boring things in the world.” The south Indian diaspora responded with stunned indignation (and humor) to the assertion, some pointing out the irony of the pronouncement. The academic is quoted as saying “…a lot of people have made the very valid point that it is a bit rich for a Britisher to criticise Indian food as being bland!”

Aside from temporarily lifting the veil of sadness this morning, skimming BBC.com aroused my desire to have Indian food sometime soon.

My affable, cordial, compassionate neighbors have become friends. We are not extremely close, but we are becoming closer. They have friends who have known them for nearly fifty years; understandably, they are closer to those friends than to me. But our six-plus-year acquaintance is deepening. I am very slow to open up to people, probably for fear that I will disappoint—or be disappointed. Though I can pretend to be relaxed around people with whom I am not especially close, my nature is to be cautious and reserved. As time goes by, I feel my comfort with my neighbors grow and my tensions in their presence ease.

My neighbors are the kind of people one hopes to stumble upon when moving into a new neighborhood, a place about which one knows virtually nothing. I think they view the role of neighbor as one that carries responsibilities. They define neighbor in this way, I think, the fourth-level definition of the word: a person who shows kindliness or helpfulness toward his or her fellow humans.

Last night, I had dinner with my neighbors. They have invited me over to have dinner on their deck several times in recent months. They offer wine and a satisfying meal and conversation. It helps, of course, that they are liberal/progressive. They label themselves Democrats; though I almost always vote Democrat, I do not attach that label to myself (for reasons too convoluted to go into at the moment). Often, we talk about and bemoan the fact that the current occupant of the White House is utterly inept, running the once-proud country we call home into the ground and causing people around the world to consider him, and us, a laughingstock. But I digress.

Though last night’s dinner had been on our respective calendars for a few weeks, I was not looking forward to it. My experiences during the last few days have left me worn and beaten and depressed; I did not feel like “being with people.” But I went anyway. And I am glad I did. Despite feeling the same guilt I have had every time I’ve enjoyed myself lately, last night peeled away a layer or two of the angst I’ve been feeling. Simply being in the presence of two extremely generous, kind, thoughtful people helped lift my mood.

Perhaps what most helped elevate my mood was the fact that our meal was both extravagant and extremely casual. We enjoyed snow crab clusters, requiring us to use shears to crack and cut the shells and deal with dripping juices and fragments of crab shells and sticky fingers. The only way to eat crabs presented in their shells is to be informal. You have to abandon any pretense of elegance. It’s a bit like a picnic on sand; it will be messy, no matter how hard you try to avoid messiness. I felt absolutely comfortable in the presence of two good people spraying themselves and one another with crab juice. I forgot, for a while, the stress and the worry I have been feeling. Though they are both back this morning, I think a brief break from my fractured mental state may have kept me sane for a little longer.

I returned home in time to turn on the Vice Presidential debate, which erased all evidence of serenity. But those few hours with friends and neighbors were like a lifeline. Today will be another battle with the world. It will start with my “fasting labs,” which required me to cease all food and drink at 8:00 p.m. last night, and then move on to my Thursday morning parking lot meeting at church. From there, I will try to communicate with my wife.

The stress I have been feeling will no doubt increase as I attempt to figure out how to care for her when she returns home, which apparently will be sooner than I thought. I will have to provide for a hospital bed, a Hoyer lift, and various other pieces of equipment. I will have to figure out what to do with our four-poster bed and what to put in our room for me to sleep on, next to the hospital bed. I need to arrange for professional home-health assistance and other general household help to assist me. Despite all this, though, I think I came to realize last night that an occasional break is what I will need to maintain my sanity. It may also drown me in guilt, but I might have to drown to survive. My neighbors’ compassion and generosity could well have kept me from the brink of madness. I will always appreciate them for that.

A journal, properly maintained, serves as an historical record. Regularly left unattended when entries should have been made, though, a journal’s value declines precipitously. In the latter case, it may as well comprise random shreds of information that not only fail to tell a story but, indeed, may mislead. My failure to keep and properly maintain a journal of my wife’s experience since being hospitalized in mid-July this year contributes to an incomplete recounting of what both she and I have been going through. Much of what we have gone through is personal and private and not the sort of thing one makes public; at least not for long after the fact. Yet I have failed even to record it privately. What I have written has been recorded on this blog. Looking back at my posts, I see that the story is utterly incomplete, yet it does reveal to some extent the degree to which our experiences have fallen and risen and dipped again…and again…and again.  But, still, the story has not been properly recorded. No yet. I intend to spend some time in the next few days—maybe much longer—trying to document what I have failed to document. I will not post it here; not in the immediate future, anyway. But I think I need to make an historical record of one of the most painful periods in my life thus far. I assume, but cannot be certain, that it is one of the most horrendous experiences my wife has ever had, as well. And it continues.

I’ve been advised to “take care of” myself during this extremely difficult time. Though I’ve gotten advice on how to do that from several people, I don’t know quite know how. Several people have offered to help me in any way they can; they are genuine in their concern, I am sure, but I do not know how they can help. They cannot remove the constant worry and fear. They can listen, but I am certain that no one can afford the time to listen long enough, because I don’t know long I might need to tell what I am feeling. Once they heard me, though, what could they possibly do to assuage the guilt and pain, I wonder? I do not want to ask someone for help, only to have them try and discover there’s nothing they can do. That would transfer guilt and disappointment to someone who was only trying to help.

I do not know what I need to get through what seems to be a never-ending crisis. One of the worst aspects of it, for me, is that the stress and strain and mental anguish I feel must be a tiny fraction of what my wife is going through. I feel intense guilt that I can even think of relieving my pain; hers is the pain that needs relief, far more so than mine. I cannot get that out of my mind. When I try to direct my attention to other things to get my mind off what my wife is experiencing, I am consumed with guilt for having the audacity to even attempt to give myself relief when I cannot give it to her.  Those brief moments of talking with friends or having a glass of wine with neighbors or taking on projects for the church give me momentary respite, but after that break I feel even worse for having taken it. People tell me I should not feel that way. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I cannot help it. I think I’m hard-wired to react that way and the only way to stop it is to cut the wires.

Writing about what I am thinking, even as disjointed and convoluted as it is, is probably healthy. That’s what I am doing here. I am not asking the unfortunate reader for help; this is for me, to preserve what’s left of my own personal sanity.

I mistyped a word in the paragraph above. I wrote “preserver” instead of “preserve.” Perhaps it was a Freudian slip of the finger, an acknowledgement of a need for a “preserver” to cling to, hoping to keep from sinking. This is hard. Too damn hard. Too hard for me to continue writing about it here.

I am fortunate in that, when the world around me is too harsh to tolerate,  often I can retreat into my imagination. I can manufacture another world, a place filled with odd characters and bizarre landscapes; a haven free of violence and fear and worry and hate. My good fortune rests with the fact that I have a loose affiliation with the stars and a kinship with the empty spaces between them.

Often, I can slip into a world void of all the strictly human emotions that demonstrate humankind is a deviant mistake of Nature.

But not always. Not often enough. Too frequently, a clawed hand reaches for me, dragging me out of my sanctuary into the oppressive darkness. While fighting to peel off the fingers of that clawed hand, my imagination sometimes takes me in a different direction, one in which all the horrors I try to escape are magnified a thousand-fold. That’s what madness is; being caught in a swirling pit of terror and hot, wet smoke so thick it wraps around one’s throat like a boa constrictor. A single breath of that fictile soot transforms the lungs into solid hunks of concrete.

How fortunate am I, then, to readily retreat into my imagination? When my asylum can be invaded by the demons from which I flee, where is my good fortune? Is a vivid imagination a protective shield or, instead, a bright guiding beacon for a rabid succubus intent on transforming every shred of serenity in me into strips of razor wire?

Too many questions have no valid answers. Too many “what if” scenarios consist of tainted assumptions wrapped in untold lies. Even in the bright light of this stunning blue-sky- morning, shadows behind tall trees form pockets of darkness. As I watch the morning unfold, it occurs to me that shadows always follow the light. There are no alternate realities; pretense and imaginary circumstances are like magnets for that clawed hand. Perhaps the best approach is one in which reality is faced head-on. Maybe hand-to-hand combat with hatchets and clubs is preferable to dreaming the enemy has magically vaporized into a sweet-smelling mist that spreads happiness with every inhalation.

We can no more control the future than we can control the past. We can influence the future, but we cannot control it. Using our influence is the best we can do to determine the outcome of the present. When my efforts do not achieve the desired results, a brief escape into my imagination is all I can afford. I have to return to reality, wipe the blood off my face, and pick up my hatchet and my club.

Try as I might, I cannot seem to find the path that assures me I will not fall from a high beam into a canyon on one side or a deep stream on the other. No matter how closely I try to pay attention to the strip of ground in front of me, it seems always to be hidden by fog and encroaching darkness. There was a time when the sound of a water in the brook next to the path guided me—or, at least, steered me away from the precipice. The water is frozen, now; a layer of ice too thin to hold my weight but too thick to hear sounds to warn me away from the danger of falling in. I cannot step forward or backward without the risk of falling through the ice or plunging into the canyon.

My safety is not my concern, though. The risk to me is of no consequence. Protection of the light that sustains me is what matters. The safe return to radiance of that brilliant glow is what counts; the only thing that counts.

It turned out to be less ominous than it felt, but it was sufficiently troubling that it disrupted my routines. Assuming I have routines these days; I am not sure I do.

Tuesday night, at around 9 pm, less than an hour after I spent half an hour on the telephone with my wife, I got a call from the rehab center where she temporarily resides. The call was from a nurse, who informed me that my wife’s blood work revealed a critical shortage of a necessary element in her bloodstream. The shortage was so critical that it was necessary for her to be sent, by ambulance, to the nearest hospital emergency room. I spoke to my wife after speaking with the nurse, telling her not to worry, that this was something they needed to do to ensure she remained healthy.

And then I waited. My wife called me sometime after midnight to tell me she had arrived at the ER; all was well. The rest of the night, until about 4:45 this morning, I spent in my recliner; never far from wakefulness, always distant from sleep. Finally, sometime before 5, I got up and decided I would try to go to bed. Around 5:20, my sister-in-law texted me, inquiring what I knew. Nothing new, I told her. Then, ten minutes later, my wife called me. She had just arrived back at the rehab center, after a night at the hospital.

A few hours later, I spoke to the nurse practitioner who oversees my wife’s care. She was impressed that my wife was doing so well. She smiled, the nurse told me, happy at the change in my wife’s behavior. I did not speak to my wife until several hours later, when I went to visit her during one of the “Window Talk” visits, where we see one another through the window and talk to one another via microphone. My wife did, indeed, look wonderful. And she sounded like her old self. I was almost delirious with happiness. But our visit ended after 30 minutes and I have not spoken to her since. My guess is that she has been sleeping, trying to make up for an entire night of sleeplessness. Regardless, though, I feel her absence like it is a knife in my chest. Not knowing whether she is experiencing depression or sleep deprivation or displeasure with me for some reason is painful. I have no reason to think any of the above, but I feel those sensations anyway.

My pain, though, is nothing in comparison to what she must be feeling after more than two months of isolation in a tiny hospital room. I would trade places with her if I could. But I would not want her to feel the angst I feel at this moment, if we could trade experiences. I miss her so very, very much. Her experience, though, must be a thousand times worse. I am not sure whether this joint horror is worth the potential benefit of separation. I just do not know.

My blood pressure is not as high as I expected it might be, based on volume of the sounds in my head. 134/87 is, in fact, relatively close to the “normal” range, if memory serves me correctly.

I frequently hear my blood pumping through my body. The sound is enough to drive me mad. It is not really loud, but its volume is high enough that it intrudes on my thoughts to a degree sufficient to be upsetting to my serenity. As if I have experienced serenity these past many months. Would that I had.

My primary care doctor, the one who abandoned me and the rest of  his patients early this year, advised me to take my blood pressure every day and to make a record of the readings. The purpose, he said, was to capture shifts that could give me significant warnings about changes in my health. Dr. Sparkledogma was (and probably still is) a friendly, approachable, very young doctor. I am sure he’s still very young, even nine months after abandoning his patients. By the way, Sparkledogma is not the doctor’s name; I am using an alias to protect our respective privacies.

I do not feel abandoned when a grocery store clerk or a financial advisor or an attorney changes jobs; I might miss them when they go on to greener pastures, but I do not feel a sense of personal betrayal. But that is not so when someone in whom I place the security of my health and well-being moves on. When such people move on to new jobs, I feel let down; as if their assurance that my health is among their highest priorities was misleading, at best, or—more likely—an outright lie. How could they be lured away from tending to me in sickness and in health? How could more money, a less stressful schedule, an opportunity to work closer to home, or more friendly co-workers matter more to them than the health and well-being of someone who is, in the final analysis, a stranger? As I mull this over, it occurs to me that I am paying someone to care. Were those people in a different profession, I might not label them as doctors or nurses; I might label them as—to use a polite term—prostitutes. That is, of course, patently unfair. And it is simply untrue. Isn’t it?

Let’s remove judgment from the assessment. Both roles fill a professed need (the legitimacy of which can be called into question in either case, depending on circumstances). Both roles involve remuneration for service. So, are we all (or most of us, at least) guilty of applying different judgmental standards on the two professions? Social norms are fickle; they are rife with prejudice and bigotry.

This matter of feeling abandoned by a paid professional—who chooses to go in a different direction without the client—reminds me of an Australian series I recently watched on Netflix. The series, called Rake, features a n’er do well libertine barrister who, early on, is astounded when the gorgeous prostitute he has been paying for several years (and about whom he has fantasies that they are truly “in love”) decides to pursue another profession. The barrister is stunned to learn that, for her, the relationship was strictly transactional.  She tells him something to the effect that “you paid me to behave in a certain way in your presence and that ‘s what I did…apparently I did it well.” Good doctors behave as if they are caring confidants; their patients are the most important people in the world at the moment the patient is in their presence. Do not get me wrong. This is not a criticism; it is an acknowledgement of their professionalism. That’s what they should do; unless their patients feel a sense of absolute trust, the doctor cannot do everything within the doctor’s power to care for the patient.

Speaking of doctors, the doctor who abandoned me has been replaced. I got a call yesterday, letting me know that my annual physical, scheduled for next month, will be with the new doctor (unless, I was told, I wanted someone else). I chose to stick with the new doctor, Dr. Geezerfingle. I think Dr. Geezerfingle, whose first name I did not get during the call, recently moved here from a desolate small town in the midwest. If he is the one I found by searching Google, he has practiced medicine in the same little town for a very long time. I suspect he was lured to the Village by the promise of a slower pace, decent money, and a retirement “vibe.” Yes, I make a lot of assumptions. I could be wrong about Dr. Geezerfingle. He could be a strapping young physician, still wet-behind-the-ears, anxious to make his mark in general medicine with an undeclared specialty in gerontology. But, frankly, I doubt it.

The thumping or pumping sound in my ears has, thankfully, gone almost silent. Some mornings, it seems so loud I feel I might lose my mind. Seriously, some days it is so distracting I feel like stabbing myself in the hand with an icepick just to force my attention elsewhere so the noise will not be so all-consuming. Fortunately, I have been able to avoid icepicks by directly my attention to the keyboard and the screen, though this morning I feel a rather nasty, sharp pain in the middle of the top (opposite the palm) of my right hand. I felt it yesterday afternoon, too, as I was turning a screwdriver, with all the force I could muster, in an effort to remove a long screw from a board that forms the cap of my back deck railing. That’s another story that’s probably almost as interesting as this one. I’ll spare the unfortunates who stumble upon this blog; I won’t write about it.

The time is 7:16 and I am feeling breakfasty. Something simple, probably, but that could change when I see what ingredients beckon me when I enter the kitchen.