It's 2.30am, and I've awakened from a brief sleep. Strangely, I decided I needed to work on my faux tan, so I went into the bathroom and misted myself as the cats watched in dumbfounded amazement. I could almost imagine their conversation. "What the hell is SHE doing up this late?" "Why is she spraying that stinky stuff all over her?" "Wait, has she fed us?" Always the food. Speaking of food, taking Ambien can give you the munchies (LOL). My fave, Gardetto, is on the bedstand just in case. Instead, I went outside to look at the stars. The big dipper was beautifully hung in the western sky. Didn't see any moon, but my neck is so stiff from this physical therapy on crack, I couldn't really look around too easily.
Reading Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. A beautiful, intelligent memoir that is cutting me to the core. I can read only two or three pages at a time. What she describes reaches me on a deep level. It is my story, in some ways. It answers some of my behaviors in a clarity and honesty that all the "self-help" and professional psychology books have not. I've been missing my dad; it was at this time last year we were all getting ready to meet for our cruise, the "second vacation of a lifetime." The first was in 2008. I keep seeing Carnival Cruise ads on television, and additional promotions for one of the destinations we hit on the cruise. I panic a little, grab the remote, and change the channel.
Today I heard Reggae music on the radio and my stomach twisted, my eyes watered. My dad loved Reggae music, and on the cruise every day from 12-4 was live Reggae, on deck. At the time I remembered thinking it was the perfect music for the perfect place. Even though I knew my dad was sick, I didn't log in this potential crippling memory.
Contemplating a fitting memorial, I have had a tattoo designed for my back, based on the the gravestone; the flowers and the words "beloved parents." I feel something permanent is necessary. As part of my daily wandering, today I looked at sofas for our tv/media room. I went after yoga and before physical therapy. While I didn't buy one, the mini farmer's market in the store's parking lot had a baker's stall. He makes sourdough bread that is just divine. I shuffled back to my car, carrying the bread, smelling its inviting scent, hoping I'd feel like eating it.
I keep hoping to find things that stimulate my appetite. As I've said in the past: I am in no danger of winnowing away. I just don't want to eat, and I don't want to cook. My poor Karl. The full body pain I"m in now certainly contributes to my lack of desire. Tonight we had a simple green salad with strawberries, chevre, and sauteed chicken breast. That and a ginger beer was a satisfying dinner. This helped shore up the Vicodin I had to take. Still using ice to its fullest potential and doing twice daily exercises. Just sayin'
Speaking of pain related to grief, I am learning that fibromyalgia can be triggered by a traumatic event, be it physical or emotional. This makes me feel like a nervous nelly who lives in the Land of Hypochondria----except the pain is excrutiating! I hobbled around today, made it through yoga, and simply kept moving so I wouldn't crash and burn before PT at 2.30pm.
In Didion's book she relays useful studies about grief and physical status, to allay her own fears about what's happening to her after her husband dies suddenly. The human body can really take a beating as in the animal world: when dolphins lose their mates, they refuse to eat; when geese lose their mate, they honk and fly and leave the formation in search, often getting lot and disoriented. Hellooooooo. Sounds familiar. While I haven't lost my mate (and I am most grateful), I've lost someone who anchored my entire life from my earliest memories. Didion recalls being called a "cool customer" by various people with whom she interacts at this time; her brain protected her by putting her in a bubble so that she appeared to be fine, able to handle the tasks at hand. What happened behind the scenes was that she could not read a full sentence, she could not remember what her phone number was. She was afraid to leave her apartment without ID in case she became lost and couldn't remember who she was. These primal, mortal fears are swirling in our brains as we go about the business at hand: planning the funeral, making the phone calls to friends and family, writing the obituary, planning the luncheon after the service. All perfectly organized, rational decisions made with a sense of calm and "coolness." The amount of chaos going on underneath is the size of a supernova exploding within us.
I know within me I have four autoimmune diseases, and adding fibromyalgia, five. They began to emerge in my twenties, as I separated from my parents and every few years, a new one was added on to the previous, until I accumulated a stack of them. I'm working with a rheumatologist to see if they're physiologically connected. I have begun examining from within, to see if they are emotionally connected. Not looking for a blame, but a connection. If it's true that grief can spark fibromyalgia and flare it to near incapacitation, what can other traumas spur?
I try to keep positive, be inspired by simple, beautiful things, but I feel like I can't give back to the people I love. There is a block right now, of pain in the physical body, and pain in the emotional body. Eckhart Tolle has a lot to say about these two pain bodies. Were it not so late I'd check into it.
I wrote my sister a letter yesterday. I shared with her the examination of my feelings and actions toward her that spawned her "I just want you to act like a sister and not be such a bitch." And during this inventory, I found a few things, which I shared, and then said some other truths. Our father was the glue that kept us together. We are very different people, but different does not mean bad. It does not mean we must be antagonist toward one another. I was honest, and said that I often felt her anger toward me just below the surface and could not figure out why. I do what I think sisters do, especially from far away: send cards to say hello to her and the kids, emails and facebook messages to see how she's faring, regular summer visits, little gifts for no reason as well as birthdays and Christmas, and sharing my own feelings about our father's death. After looking at these statements, two questions begged to be asked: 1. What is HER definition of a good sister? 2. Has she examined her own actions, her own behavior with this in mind, and how does she think she's doing? She'll likely be furious. I told her I valued our differences, I wish we could be closer, but I've done everything I know to do from 1500 miles away. And I told her I loved her. I promised my father I wouldn't fight with her, and I'm not trying to pick a fight. I'm pulling my last ditch effort with a sibling that seems to want nothing to do with me but everything from me.
That's enough for now. It's now 3.38am, and my heart feels lighter. Hope I can get back to sleep.
Buona Notte, amici.
About Me
- Catherine
- In this blog I have created a haven, a place I allow my deepest emotions to go and sit. I can write easily about what I’ve accomplished. This biography I can recite in my sleep. But I’ve always written poetry and in diaries since I was a teenager. I continued to write poetry in my journals, and not until 2006 did I show them to anyone. I generally write every day, at the present in memoir form. I haven’t written poetry since my mother died in January, 2007. I didn’t write at all between her death and the death of my father three years later in January, 2010. On my father’s birthday in March, 2010, I began this blog, to honor my father and to help me grieve. But I also desperately needed to write, and this stream of conscious style emerged. I needed to find my organic voice.
wow. so much of what you wrote in the last few entries really resonate with me, although they apply to different situations in my life than the one(s) you are working through. i have had a weird day. this might sound strange, but reading your blog just made me feel a lot less alone today. thank you.
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