I've been thinking about this journal a bit, and wondering if it's a bit arrogant of me to presume that anyone would be interested in my meanderings.
I realized though, that it takes a bit of arrogance to be a writer, and although "writer" is not the only thing I've ever aspired to become, it is the most consistent. I have grown fond of saying that like "Scout", from To Kill A Mockingbird, I was born reading. It sure seems that way. I belonged to a book club since I was three--and that was a luxury my parents really couldn't afford. It was a gift my mother gave to me, and it was a gift of comradery. To this day, her bedroom is a cozy mess of paperbacks and notebooks - a small mountain of testimony to her love of the written word.
Okay. Now that was flowery. I can't read that "garbage" my mother reads. *chuckle* She's into detective stories and thrillers, and I try, I truly do, to read her weekly offerings:
"This one is really good!"
grins and a shake of head here...
Then I try, and find myself outlining the plot in my head, trying to turn the page that seems suddenly heavy without tossing it against the wall while screaming inwardly (and tsk...sometimes OUTWARDLY) "PREDICTABLE!!!"
(I was once threatened with eviction from the student library at the University of New Orleans for book-tossing.)
Perhaps I should have taken that suggested seminar in anger management.
But anyhoo, I was worried that I was boring people with my journal.
Then I realized that reading is a choice.
So feel free to toss this thread at will, good poets. If I've learned nothing else in life, I know how to duck.
* * *
I'm morosely preoccupied with death these days. I went to the "wake" of Mr. Gibbs tonight, and no, I'm not exactly all weepy.
I am regretful tho, that his last birthday, I was too ill to go sing happy birthday to him as per his request. I knew it would be his last party too--and I tried, but when I stood, the floor swept up to confuse me and I honestly didn't know which end up was up.
"Tell him I'm sorry..." I told his daughter, and I stayed home on couch patrol, frustrated with myself that I couldn't RAGE myself well.
I was seriously ill those months, and that is an extremely lonely place to be.
I didn't have a lot of help, but to be fair, I am a horrible patient, and I can make "helping" me damned near impossible. My sister compared me to a dog when I'm ill, in that I am more apt to go crawl under the house to die than I am to go weeping to a doctor.
"I'm fine." Dammit. "REALLY."
But as I type, I've a pork roast marinating, which I'll bring to the family tomorrow evening.
My husband saw it and said, "oh boy".
I guess I'll bake two.
He's a stingy sort, and doesn't understand the niceties and mores of custom. He doesn't understand I have a need do to this sort of thing, either. He calls me stupid for doing stuff like that. He'll be looking for that roast for dinner. I'll just have to fake him out with a substitute, huh?
He's always been a jerk like that, but now he is a SICK jerk. He's scared too.
"Quit drinking or die."
That is what the doc told him.
So he quit drinking.
The biopsy on his liver did not detect cancer, but did show a level 3 stage of cirrhosis (sp.?) of the liver. That was on a scale of 1-4.
He now faces 48 weeks of self injection of interferon.
There's an apt irony that the treatment for Hepatitis C involves self injection, doncha think?
Self injection, and more than a little bit of pain. The very thing we both fled through self-medication all of these years, we're now supposed to administer to ourselves.
Karma is a bitch.
* * *
Yet in the spirit of honesty in which I started this journal, I feel like I need to confess my total resentment.
Now, now he needs me.
And yes, there is the part of Karen that wants to be able to do this joyfully, and with a good heart, but there is also the me that he left on the couch to die alone.
This man stood over me and said, "I know you're dying."
Then he walked out of the door.
And I wish, I really wish I could forget that he did that. And I can't.
And the fact that I can't makes me feel ugly inside--and I wish I knew some way to remove that from me.
I never liked me much anyway, but this part of me is just intolerable to look at. It's so much like the parts of him I always condemned.
I wish I had a drink. Or ten.
* * *
I did keep the card of that psychologist though. The edges are worn now from me pulling it out of my wallet, then stuffing it back, hidden behind my library card.
It might be a good time to ask for help.
* * *
I'll think about it.
Until then, I have two pork roasts marinating, and I'll cook them up Hawaian style.
Sleep will be enough.
* * *
Thanks for listening to me whine...