#Sick and tired of being sick and tired update

We’d no sooner moved into our ‘starter home’ thirty years ago when Tim began this refrain, “I’d love to have a fireplace in that corner.”

The purchase was a long time coming which makes it all the more special to me. Of all of ‘our things’, the one I love most is our electric fireplace. From my perch, I can see the world outside my picture window, I can see all of the things Tim and I painstakingly chose for our humble abode: the bovine-placenta loveseat, the mission chair my mate adores, the pieces of furniture we moved from my writing room, and all of the little gatzies that hold special meaning - maybe because they were purchased on a vacation (like a beautiful painting we picked up on our honeymoon), or because they were given to us as gifts - the ‘why fors’ and ‘who froms’ matter not - the little lovelies matter tons. Given my predicament - the one that keeps me tethered to a leather contraption set in the busiest room of the house is an exercise of weirdness - to say the least. In my world, a bitch, a moan, or a groan just might sound like a clarion call that I’m done with this life. Putting a complaint into the universe about being lonely, or feeling helpless, or being a burden to my loved ones, or missing out on living life the way it's intended, or not being able to cook or clean, or or or, and and and, is difficult - but it’s SO NECESSARY for me to do.

What I do not share, with anyone, are things that are part and parcel of the long hours I sit on my ass - the internal struggle that comes from stepping near the abyss of self-pity which then sets the framework for silence. Not sure I’ve shared that with anyone other than Kathy, so there you have it. I do my part by sharing the minutiae of pain management, mobility issues, rodent chomping, and a rundown of headaches (rather frequent), and things that really bother me, like my teeth and a tumor thing that has taken residence inside one of my nostrils.

#Sick and tired of being sick and tired update

If Nurse M isn’t here asking her questions, then Tim and the girls are asking about this and that, especially if they see a twinge of pain move across my face or witness a tiny, unsteady sway on a walk to or from the bathroom - and then there’s the She Devil who calls everyday seeking an update on my vitals and the sharing of a good laugh or two about stupid shit I say - and then there’s Mom and Marchrie who patiently wait for me to fess up to this or that notable change - and then there’s Donna, Joyce, Jennifer, and Debbie, each of whom long-ago set their soft-peddled requests for truth and honesty - which I gladly give them. I use the ample time I’m given each day to run a laundry list of what’s going on with my physical state because that’s really the be all and end all of necessary information. In other words - in honest words - I’m afraid I’ll be marked for quick removal from my Earthly home just for the offense of bitching.

Whenever I have something to bitch about, I clamp my mouth shut out of fear I will be heard - judged - and accused of smiting this bonus time I’ve been given. The whole self-imposed constraint of ‘don’t complain about anything’ has become a silent mantra and a bit of a cross to bear. Why? Because I fear they could be seen as being a tad unappreciative, or maybe seen as, “Okay, I’m done with the trials and tribulations of cancer so, come and get me.” In fact, I am sooooo reticent to put those words out into the universe, that I push them back and swallow them hard. Why is there a push of angst? Because even though I feel ‘sick and tired of being sick and tired’ - it’s not something I’m comfortable saying, certainly not out loud for anyone else to hear. Because I typed those words my spine is all aflutter with nervous activity. Whenever that thought crosses my mind, it causes a push of the heebie-jeebies - the spine racing shivers that go up, down, and up again - simply because that thought pushes in.