Archive for the ‘life’ Category

22 May

In memory of a real friend

Posted by DOGKISSES in grief, life. Tagged: , , , .

remembering...

  Suddenly, it sounds like every bird around are each singing at once.  My mind feels empty but my heart is exploding with a deep sadness.  

I learned today that my dear friend passed on this morning. 

I don’t like death.  I just don’t.  I miss people who die.  And now, my dear friend, a man I considered my accidental adopted father, Sonny, has left this earth. 

Sonny was an amazing human being.  I’ve never known anyone who experienced as many losses in one lifetime as Sonny did and adding to that was a will to live like no other I’ve ever seen.  

I watched Sonny carry on after losing three sons, two of whom I knew and loved.  They each passed on at different times in life, the last one, Sonny’s oldest son, passed not too long ago, the loss of which did have a severe impact on my friend Sonny. 

The last time I saw him he said he wished he could come live with me and I wanted him to.  I really did.  Then I could see him I thought.  Even if he died I could be with him.  I considered it wondering if home health would come in.  I would have taken care of him if I had been able.  I would have until his last day. 

I wish it wasn’t so.  I wish I’d gone three days ago, two weeks ago, and I wish I’d done what he said when I talked to him several weeks ago. 

“Sugar, you should call me every day the rest of my life.” 

Sonny knew and so did I. 

I had gone to visit him not long ago,which was the last time I saw Sonny, and was so sad to see him in the shape he was in.  He recognized me though and he knew my son too. 

I took a picture of us with my cell phone and he could barely see it but he laughed and said, “Sugar you look about as bad as I do.”

I laughed too thinking how at least somebody could see my illness. 

Sonny saw my illness and it made him sad.  He missed too the way I was before but he loved me as I was.  Sonny called me when he saw something on television about fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue syndrome or mental illness.  God Sonny loved us! 

He sang me a song not long ago.  I was so sad I couldn’t think and now I can’t remember the name of it.  He sang the words — I’ve always got you on my mind —  his voice was fragile but he still managed to sing to me.  He didn’t care how it sounded.  He told me it was so.  He said I was always on his mind. 

Sonny was at the state hospital with me when my son was very ill and I didn’t know what was wrong.  He was there all the way through it and sat beside of me when the doctors told me words that took me down, literally, and Sonny held me while I cried tears that felt like they came from the bottom of the ocean. 

Sonny was a mechanic and loved old Mustangs.  I was 26 years old when I first pulled my 1966  into the gas station’s parking lot.  The first man I met had the same name as my father and reminded me a bit of him.  My father had passed away shortly before.  Seeing my car the man called out to Sonny.  I couldn’t believe it.  He looked just like my dad only he had gray hair.  He sounded like my dad.  He moved like my dad.  I felt nearly haunted. 

He had a small cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth.  He loved my car and made some pretty common remarks you might hear at a gas station in reference to the looks of the driver, if the driver is female that is.  From that day forward, Sonny became my adopted father.I never  told Sonny certain things my dad had always done for me, such as fixing my car problems and buying my son and I a coat every Christmas.  These were things my dad did for me, no matter what.  My dad didn’t have much money but what he had he handled it well.   Oddly, when I met Sonny and told him how much he was like my dad, he began doing these exact things. 

Now I cry.  I knew Sonny leaving would make me miss my dad more too. 

I don’t like death.  It is too sad.  People leave forever.  

Sonny always told me I changed his life.  He became a bachelor after he met me and he lived happily ever after, calling his ex-wives by numbers.  “Wife number two called today,” or “number three.”  They were always calling and he enjoyed telling folks about how so many women wanted him. 

“I feel like a nineteen year-old in an old man’s body,” he’d say enthusiastically.  

I cry again.  His first wife died, the mother of their sons who have died. 

Sonny carried on.  Sonny always carried on… 

Sonny was a funny man.  He and my mother got along great because of their joke-telling abilities.  The first time my oldest sister met Sonny she cried.  She was very close to our dad and when she saw Sonny’s blue eyes, she cried.  They looked exactly like our dad’s. 

His daughter told me today that he went outside yesterday.  He got dressed.  He wanted to sit in the sun.   He was just like my dad.  Even in the end they wanted to wear nice clothes.  They liked being neat and clean.  They wanted to look handsome.  And they did.  

I was driving home at dusk yesterday.  I felt that feeling of being in between.  Not quite dark but no longer day.  I thought of my dog’s nearby gravesite.  Sonny.  I thought of him right then.  I had been thinking the past few days — call Sonny, no go see him, but I didn’t.  So for that too, I cry.  I wish so much I could have said good-bye. 

Sonny gave me a Subaru once.  The greatest little car I’ve ever had.  Sonny helped my son once and I don’t know what we would have done otherwise. 

Sonny listened when I cried.  He listened when I spoke.  He heard me.  

 He completely loved my son.  He said he saw him the same as his own grandson.  

Sonny always told me I was a good mother.  If I said I felt otherwise, he had a never-ending list of reminders for me of all that he remembered while I was raising my son.  My son was about seven or eight when we met Sonny. 

Sonny was my dear and good friend.

 

10 Apr

Just in time.

Posted by DOGKISSES in invisible illnesses, life, mental and emotional health. Tagged: , , , , , .

“Ms. Dogkisses,”  the woman said, “Why do you wait until the very last minute to pay your bill each month?”

I looked at the clock on her wall.   In my world, 4:45pm was early.  Her office closed at 5:00.  It wasn’t only the time of day,  it was also the last day of the month that I could pay my bill without my auto insurance being canceled, so I was just in time.

I didn’t know what to say.  I guess I looked bewildered because her level of irritation immediately lessened.  She sat down at her computer and asked me to have a seat.  So I did.

I work under pressure.  Sometimes within minutes of a deadline.  It probably has a lot to do with chronic fatigue.  Maybe the pressure of a deadline gets my heart pumping and my adrenaline flowing and that’s the only way I can work!

She had a bowl of candy on her desk — with the good candy in it, like chocolate Kisses.  It was not your average office candy bowl with the hard peppermint candy or artificially flavored suckers.  I politely asked if I could partake and her warm smile made me feel like I could have the entire bowl if I wanted it.

Enjoying the chocolate I began to talk.  Sometimes, when I’m upset or nervous and must interact with people I talk too much.  I tend to tell the truth about what’s going on in my life.  I just start telling.  I usually manage to get a few laughs as I try and wrap my pain in humor.  Sometimes  it backfires and someone cries.

It takes energy for me to pretend I’m okay when I’m not.  Since my energy is endangered and possibly on the brink of extinction, I don’t try as hard anymore to make others feel better about how I feel.  I try to follow the social norms as much as I can, and manage pretty well most of the time.  Sometimes things get me, little things such as the normal greeting we are use to in America, “Hello, how are you?”

We are supposed to say fine and move on.  It’s easy to say fine to someone like the clerk at the register in the grocery store, but other times it’s harder.  The other day I was checking in for occupational therapy for my hand.  The clerk asked me how I was doing.  Well, I was very sick.  I was dizzy and thought it possible I might pass out before I could get upstairs.

“I’m fair,” I said, and I even gave a hint at a smile.  She was disappointed.  I get that a lot.  Fair is simply not good enough for many people.  I’m amazed at the responses I get from complete strangers because I said I was fair.

So, there I am paying my bill, feeling nervous that I interrupted this woman’s day by arriving just in time and I start talking and telling.  I tell the woman a few things about my life.  I tell her about my time.  I tell her that I have a son dealing with some hard things in life.  I tell her I’m overwhelmed.  I eat some more chocolate.  I don’t know exactly what it was I said that she most related to but she suddenly stopped typing.

She turned to me and asked if I would tell her more.  Her eyes had teared up.  I told her a little more.  Then she tells me.

She tells me how odd it is that I came in when I did and said what I said.  She tells me how she is completely moved by the things I said.

“I’ve never heard someone talk about these kinds of…” she paused, “problems or illnesses, whatever they are, the way you just did.”

I wasn’t sure how I had talked about anything other than being open about the way I felt.

She told me about what was happening in her life, which sounded a lot like what was happening in mine.  I listened.

Before I left her office she told me she had an epiphany, although I wasn’t sure what it was.  She said my timing had been personally important to her.    She was overwhelmed, as I was.  I don’t think she had a way to put that into words.  I guess that’s what she heard from me.  A way to talk about what is hard.

One thing that I think changes for those of us who live with chronic illness is time.    We are given time to reflect and think about life.   We also learn, as it seems we must,  how to talk about the difficult things in life.  This isn’t easy.  I believe that learning how to better talk about what is hard is part of our healing journey.

It’s hard talking about what is difficult to talk about.

I’ll probably continue to talk too much when I’m nervous.  I’ll probably continue being too honest at times.  I have tried to change this about myself,  but I can’t and I’m too tired to fight who I am.  I’ll most likely continue saying I’m fair when fine is just too far for me to grasp.

I’ve been told I wear my heart on my sleeve, that I cannot hide and that my eyes tell things about me.   I have in a way been forced by this part of who I am to learn how to talk about what people see; what I cannot hide and do not want to anyway.

Sometimes this part of being me works out alright.  My nervous honesty worked out alright paying my bill.  I think I’ve gotten myself out of a couple of tickets with sudden outbursts of utter truth.  I told the truth about why I was speeding (hard times!) and then another time about why I was driving — briefly without a seat belt — while tired in the middle of the night (hard times again!).   Both times the truth came out of my mouth faster than I could think.  Both times the truth was so bazaar the officers let me go.

Sometimes it’s good to talk about what is difficult to talk about.

The image of French Rose by, “The Graphics Fairy.”




18 Nov

Community and disability

Posted by DOGKISSES in family, life, mental and emotional health, Mental healthcare. Tagged: , , , , , , .

I’m Dogkisses and I’m mad!  Mad as in angry, more than a bit peeved, seething, and any other word that fits, besides insane, which I may be that too!

I’m mad that I simply don’t know what to do to help my son who has schizophrenia.   I’ve been working so hard for years and I’m tired!  I’m mad because all my ideas are hard to put into place unless he is on the same boat as I am and apparently, that is not the case, not at all.

Because he isn’t on the same boat as I am then when his illness gets worse, which at times it does, I must rely on psychiatrists.  It’s like eating beans and rice when you know good and well there are plenty other kinds of food, much tastier and much healthier right there for the eating, but you can’t get to them.

I’m mad about a lot of things and have been for a long time.  I don’t know which way to turn.  If I had money I’d get a dog sitter and go to some tropical island and consider things.  But alas, I do not,  so here I am, in my apartment wondering what the hell to do — besides write that is.

I’m  mad that this thing called fibromyalgia and maybe even worse, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, along with a virus I have bringing with it weakness and  days of nausea, all just keep on keeping on!

It is hard to help my son or anyone, including my dogs when I’m too tired to think!  I simply hate it.

My grandmother told me when I was a little girl that certain words were  not good to use.  Like the word hate.  First of all, she said it was a sin to hate.   She also said it would make you sick and would not do anything to the object of your hatred.

I used to be a new-ager in the 1980’s.  Perhaps I would have given my fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue a mental hug and embraced the great teachings I gain each day as a result of having pain and being exhausted all the time.

Well, it is 2009 and I’m not hugging either damn one!

My grandmother told me not to swear either but I can’t get everything right.  I did once swear in front of her, but only once.  I don’t know what kind of soap she used but believe me it really really tasted bad! It kind of got stuck on my tongue and she stood and watched while I,  “washed my mouth out because I said a dirty word.”

I wish she was alive now so I could go talk to her.  I don’t know what in the world she would say though.  I imagine she would tell me to turn to God.  She would probably tell me that it was out of my hands, all of it, and give it all to God, specifically to Jesus Christ, since she was a Baptist.

I wonder what would she would think about modern psychiatrists!  My grandmother didn’t get angry like I do.  She did know what hard decisions were though.

I just found out recently that she had to seek commitment papers on my father more than once.  He was an alcoholic and would drink until he would get so sick he would be nearly dead.  He would drink, “rubbing alcohol,” when family members poured his beer or liquor down the drain in the kitchen sink, the latter of which as a young child, I blamed on the former.  I thought it much better to leave the liquor because I’d seen what happened when he drank the, “rubbing alcohol,” that was kept in the bathroom.

Back then the only place for him to go to detox was the state’s mental institution.  I also learned he escaped from there, which today is unheard of.  My mom told me that my grandmother helped in his escape.

They had it all planned.  My dad had his suitcase outside of the place, hidden behind some trees.  My grandmother told my mom they were just going to visit him.  My mom was the driver.  The next thing my mom knew after pulling into the parking lot my dad was in the back seat of the car saying, “Hurry up, let’s get out of here.”

So she had to commit him and then help him escape afterward.  Sounds about like what I do.  Escaping looks a lot different these days but basically that is what you do when you get “discharged.”   You have successfully and legally escaped.

I get pretty worked up about commitment papers and trying to save someone from a disease that is treated more like an alien and the patient like a hostage under lock and key.

I am way more than frustrated with what is offered to him as, “treatment,” and a great deal of the time, what is taken away from him.

I’m mad because The Literacy Council in the town he lives in just dumped him.  They have a Basic Skills Development Center, which offers many different educational services and programs.  They set my son up with a tutor only a couple of months ago.

Getting him interested in something enough that he will actually make a commitment is challenging, but he absolutely loved going to see this tutor each week.

He usually sleeps late yet every tutoring day he would call me early, knowing that I rise early to write, to make sure he knew the right time.  He usually walked there because he doesn’t have a car.

I’m too mad to write about it!  I should ask for a letter from them as to why they dumped him.

“He has a problem with memory,” one of the staff members said when she called to tell me they had decided, on their own, without consulting anyone about it, to immediately stop offering my son services.

He has a thought disorder, causing disorganized thinking and YES, HE HAS A PROBLEM WITH HIS MEMORY!  Duh!

Anyone ever heard of the working memory at this institution for education?  Somehow I doubt it.

Didn’t they totally go against The American’s with Disabilities Act?”

I’m mad because I don’t know this law up and down.  I should.

I believe this organization gets money from our government, along with other private sponsors, so why are they immune to dismissing a student due to his or her disability, which is exactly what they told me they did?

I asked two people, one being the executive director, if I was clear about why they stopped serving my son and went as far as to ask if there was something I did not know, some other reason besides his memory problem, that had brought about this decision and she said no.

So I’m mad!

I’m mad at the people who think without knowing that this town’s reputation is in some ways a fairy tale.  It is a place reputable for being a progressive town, with all kinds of different community services and of course the best of the best when it comes to any type of medical care because there are two of the best medical schools in the country here.

Much of it is true but when people who are in positions of power assume a service is available just because well, because they think it is — drives me nuts!

As I was pleading with the Literacy Council not to dump my son telling her how much he loved it, how it stimulated his mind, how it gave him something to think about and talk about, how he was always there and excited to learn — she said, “Well, I’m sure there is a service around here offering…” and I cut her off.

“No.  There is not,” I said firmly.  I had told them when he started receiving their services that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t known about these services before.  We’ve been here six long and hard years and finally, finally he got somebody who would sit with him for an hour and a half!!!

Finally someone was going to spend some time with him.   Finally someone would treat him like a human being instead of a person who what?  A person who you cannot expect to learn?  A person who made A’s and B’s in school, who is intelligent, but because of  a thought disorder, a thinking disorder causing disorganized thinking — hello! — because of this — I nor anyone else should expect him to learn?

Unless of course he takes a fat dose of a mind body altering chemical!  Then, he probably won’t learn, but at least his behavior will be socially acceptable and freaaaaking pleasing!!!

Well, now it is night, which beckons me to relax.

I could trash this post but I think not.  I will instead click Publish.




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