After two grueling months of incessant never-ending agonizing pain, I finally switched into a new phase of relative painlessness. I'm not sure how that happened, but I am internally thankful.
The infection I've had seems to be under control (if that's what the problem actually was in the first place). Either way, my feeding tube area appears to be less traumatized.
Sure, I’m experiencing pangs of harsh reality every now and again (as do we all), but there's definitely been an upshift of sorts. This is Day 7. I almost don't know what to do with myself, now that I can more readily incorporate physical movement into my daily routine.
Here's hoping this phase continues, and also, that your current phase (whatever that may be) is pleasant and improving as well.
Sometimes I'm a Terrible Person
OR
Out of the Blues and into the Black
Kitchen Girl (from back at the nursing home) sends me a text message asking me how I'm doing. Joy of joys, right? So I offer her an extremely brief response, mainly mentioning the purchase of my new guitar, and asking her how things are going in her world. Yes, I constantly need to remind myself that texting is meant to be brief and is meant to be an insubstantial means of communication, not presented in the form of a 17,000 word dissertation - nor is texting meant to be a no holds barred social playground (unless of course, engaging in an endless series of cutesy abbreviations and emoticons is your thing - a dumbed down shorthand for authentic written language).
Well, in respect to my just declared standing, one exception does exist. I have a friend (with whom I infrequently text) that happens to be a witty wordsmith by default, capable of creatively deploying actual words off the cuff and without provocation. So cheers to her and her kind!
In any case, Kitchen Girl responds in none of those manners mentioned, instead, telling me that her mother unexpectedly passed away. Ughhh. So of course, I offer my condolences in a brief and succinct fashion. Yes, I can sometimes read the room, even if I'm the only person occupying the room (which is often the case).
Back when Kitchen Girl was working at the nursing home, her mother lived two doors down the hallway from my living quarters. Her mother had been suffering from tardive dyskinesia, basically, having experienced the ultimate bad result from having taken a prescribed psych medication two decades prior.
As a result of having done so, she was wheelchair bound and barely audible, barely able to form coherent words out loud - but she would often smile and laugh heartily in response to my attempts at humor, which made me feel as though I was having a positive impact on her otherwise difficult existence. And having a positive impact on others was one of my most important past times while I was locked into that nursing home environment, a worthwhile escape from my mentally obtuse inner workings.
So Kitchen Girl went on to explain that she wants me to attend her mother's memorial service at the nursing home. But instead of feeling saddened (and instead of feeling empathy for her), I couldn't help but feel wanted (above all else). Inappropriately strange, right? In essence, I felt troubled that my emotional state wasn't quite matching the situation, but couldn't curb my enthusiasm in regards to my having been contacted by a real person in the real world, and additionally, having been presented the opportunity to engage my former nursing home friend directly and in person. I hadn't seen her in a few months, not since I’d been roaming around the village in my power chair (just prior to the onset of the murderously incessant summer heat). Back then, she spied me rolling down the boulevard, and subsequently pulled over in order to directly interact.
So I'm feeling notably guilty, because I really shouldn't be focusing on my social and personal wellness needs while my friend is in the midst of suffering. And sure, my wrong headed ego needs are the main culprit, indicating I have a long way to go in regards to becoming a better human overall. Social deprivation is no excuse.
In the least, my circumstances (and mindset) should change once the weather cools. By October, I should be able to resume my more typical outdoor explorations, perhaps engaging real world humans every now and then. I truly hope each of you gets to meet your daily quota, in that regard - if being around people is what you actually want, are capable of tolerating, and truly crave.
Obstacles
Next, I've got three days to figure out how to orchestrate my escape plan. I've got to put the moving mechanisms into place. Not only do I have to brave the stairlift, I also have to figure out how I'm going to transfer from the manual wheelchair upstairs, to the stairlift chair, then from the stairlift chair to another manual chair downstairs, and then transfer to my power chair.
My regularly scheduled caregiver said she would help me with this. I have it in my mind how this operation is going to work, but I need to do a dry run, or perhaps several. And now that the pain has generally subsided, I'm fairly certain I can execute the plan without much fanfare. It's all a matter of logistics, and my caregivers' dedication to the cause.
And now for something else…
Caregivers and Takeaways
Yesterday I had another caregiver who smoked weed and vaped tobacco. “Please don't judge me,” she requested, as she puffed away. And just why would I be judging her? Well, after all, she was 34 weeks pregnant.
Besides that particular tidbit being notable, she also shared that her always temporarily unemployed boyfriend happens to be a super possessive stalker type who becomes insanely jealous whenever she interacts with a random pile of unencumbered terracotta colored gravel. Or, perhaps even a disabled male (overheard on speakerphone) whose voice sounds much younger than his age.
Yep, she briefly had me on the speaker phone in order to attain my gate code upon her unceremonious arrival (her children screaming in the background all the while, as her boyfriend deftly navigated his way through the complex). Apparently her boyfriend was taken aback, and I suspect she was incessantly grilled when he picked her up afterwards.
But before she endured all kinds of needless scrutiny on her way back home, the pregnant girl insisted on giving me a gentle back massage as part of her duties - which was super nice, needed, and very much appreciated. I simply could not believe someone offered (and really, I probably should have refused the offer, but …).
Generally speaking, real life people don't go out of their way to do things like that.
An hour after she left I was still floating on Cloud 9, 10 and 11 (YES, I really like cloud metaphors!).
Perhaps better than all of that, I am now able to tolerate hands-on physical touch these days. There was a time when even the slightest physical touch exhausted me. Muscle activation. Any form of stimuli. Heck, even breathing was difficult for months at a time. So in some regards, there is definitely progress on my end.
I discovered my increased tolerance level on accident (no, it had nothing to do with a vehicular crash). It's just that my regularly scheduled caregiver applies lotion to my feet after my twice weekly bed baths (and she does so rather rigorously).
At first, I told her to be more gentle in doing so, much due to the sensitivity down there. But she kept forgetting about the gentleness aspect, so I stopped reminding her, letting her roughly massage my toes, arches and heals, etc. And eventually, the pain and discomfort in my feet greatly decreased. I attribute this to better blood flow and circulation, if nothing else.
Then eventually, when washing my back (I wash the rest of myself), she would do much the same, applying a fair amount of rigorous pressure. Admittedly, the hands on approach felt good, but initially I was concerned about the inevitable crash afterwards - the crash that never came.
Caregiver Dos
The week prior to this one, there was Anna the Caregiver, caught up in the midst of an emotional breakup crisis. According to her, she finally dumped the guy who would track her physical movements through a phone application he covertly installed. Yes, he always had to know where she was at all times, even insisting she drive his souped up Mercedes whenever she temporarily escaped his evil clutches (instead of her own car). Why? He also had a tracker installed on his vehicle.
Throughout her visit, she mentioned the Mercedes time and time again, noting that it was a $90,000 vehicle. Clearly, having that status symbol in her possession was of the utmost importance to her (above and beyond dating a stalker).
Yes, I have more fun than I should, being an armchair psychologist. But in the least, there's no way I would be an armchair psychiatrist. Why exactly? Well, I would abhor prescribing anybody the ‘almost always unnecessary’ medications necessary to hold that title. My belief is that somewhere upwards of 90% of the people prescribed such medications are taking them unnecessarily - big pharma and the insurance conglomerates being what they are, and what they need to be in the name of profit margins for their investors. Heck, almost everyone I meet these days confides and me, expressing how they suffer from anxiety (to a greater degree), thus making these mind numbing psych meds wholly necessary in their minds.
It's a horribly corrupt industry, wherein guided self-work (revolving and evolving through mindfulness) is the more potent long-term solution across the board. In our modern times, constant anxiety is a symptom of our for-profit universe, directly fed by unresolvable mass media addiction and the related concerns and attributions they incite. Corporate America wants us this way, wanting us helpless (and distracted) to the extent that we need to be medicated from start to finish.
Oops, back to the caregiver roll call —- I mean, who exactly wants to hear Howard spout off about this and that, feigning expertise in a multitude of unsung areas of the psyche … ?
The Semi-regular Irregular Suzie
Although I like and appreciate her efforts, and her pleasant personality, I do not wish to be stuck with her (or anybody else) on a permanent Monday basis. Why? In this instance, Suzie operates very similarly to the wife person. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but I already have one of those points of reference readily available when the need arises. And while in Suzie's presence, I mostly find myself answering question after question, incessantly explaining things (about me) to her ad nauseam, the mechanics of my existence and my forever illness. For certain, I'd rather ask Suzie questions detailing her life experiences instead. Failing that, I already know what I know about my life history, what I’ve gone through, and where I've been (as do many of you). To me, that type of engaging is boring, boring, boring. Sure, I'll detail the ins and outs, ups and downs, and so on, one time, when I first meet somebody (per their request). But that's not how matters typically pan out.
What I'm truly seeking out are spontaneously playful people, the few who actually and truly exist in that realm. If not that, I'm looking for and seeking out new angles and conversational approaches outside of my comfort zone.
Subject matter isn't necessarily the most important thing, it's that I find the differing varieties of presentation fascinating.
In addition to that, I need people in my life who can be entertained. As an example, I enjoy practicing improvisational routines on others. But engaging people who fail to react in any way, shape, and form is somehow exhausting (then also, leaving me feeling defeated).
So that's why I'm nixing the “Permanent Caregiver Mondays with Suzie” offer… this despite her enthusiasm to assist me at the drop of a hat. Or a drop of any number of things that I happen to spill or knock over accidentally during her visits.
Of course, the caregiving outfit doesn't understand where I am coming from, no matter how many times I try to explain myself. Clearly, it's easier for them to lock a caregiver into place, not concerning themselves with assigning someone new week to week. But I hereby choose to exercise my inalienable right for variety. I'm desperately hungry for real life experiences, which I'm somewhat certain, most of you can easily relate to.
End Times
Well, I've covered lots of terrain. And I'm not exactly sure why I'm posting all of this, but I guess, that's what I do, for a lack of anything else better to do. Self-assessment is a vital practice, and I've got the entire livelong day to go there, whether I want to or not.
Take care,
Howard
Three's a Cloud
The infection I've had seems to be under control (if that's what the problem actually was in the first place). Either way, my feeding tube area appears to be less traumatized.
Sure, I’m experiencing pangs of harsh reality every now and again (as do we all), but there's definitely been an upshift of sorts. This is Day 7. I almost don't know what to do with myself, now that I can more readily incorporate physical movement into my daily routine.
Here's hoping this phase continues, and also, that your current phase (whatever that may be) is pleasant and improving as well.
Sometimes I'm a Terrible Person
OR
Out of the Blues and into the Black
Kitchen Girl (from back at the nursing home) sends me a text message asking me how I'm doing. Joy of joys, right? So I offer her an extremely brief response, mainly mentioning the purchase of my new guitar, and asking her how things are going in her world. Yes, I constantly need to remind myself that texting is meant to be brief and is meant to be an insubstantial means of communication, not presented in the form of a 17,000 word dissertation - nor is texting meant to be a no holds barred social playground (unless of course, engaging in an endless series of cutesy abbreviations and emoticons is your thing - a dumbed down shorthand for authentic written language).
Well, in respect to my just declared standing, one exception does exist. I have a friend (with whom I infrequently text) that happens to be a witty wordsmith by default, capable of creatively deploying actual words off the cuff and without provocation. So cheers to her and her kind!
In any case, Kitchen Girl responds in none of those manners mentioned, instead, telling me that her mother unexpectedly passed away. Ughhh. So of course, I offer my condolences in a brief and succinct fashion. Yes, I can sometimes read the room, even if I'm the only person occupying the room (which is often the case).
Back when Kitchen Girl was working at the nursing home, her mother lived two doors down the hallway from my living quarters. Her mother had been suffering from tardive dyskinesia, basically, having experienced the ultimate bad result from having taken a prescribed psych medication two decades prior.
As a result of having done so, she was wheelchair bound and barely audible, barely able to form coherent words out loud - but she would often smile and laugh heartily in response to my attempts at humor, which made me feel as though I was having a positive impact on her otherwise difficult existence. And having a positive impact on others was one of my most important past times while I was locked into that nursing home environment, a worthwhile escape from my mentally obtuse inner workings.
So Kitchen Girl went on to explain that she wants me to attend her mother's memorial service at the nursing home. But instead of feeling saddened (and instead of feeling empathy for her), I couldn't help but feel wanted (above all else). Inappropriately strange, right? In essence, I felt troubled that my emotional state wasn't quite matching the situation, but couldn't curb my enthusiasm in regards to my having been contacted by a real person in the real world, and additionally, having been presented the opportunity to engage my former nursing home friend directly and in person. I hadn't seen her in a few months, not since I’d been roaming around the village in my power chair (just prior to the onset of the murderously incessant summer heat). Back then, she spied me rolling down the boulevard, and subsequently pulled over in order to directly interact.
So I'm feeling notably guilty, because I really shouldn't be focusing on my social and personal wellness needs while my friend is in the midst of suffering. And sure, my wrong headed ego needs are the main culprit, indicating I have a long way to go in regards to becoming a better human overall. Social deprivation is no excuse.
In the least, my circumstances (and mindset) should change once the weather cools. By October, I should be able to resume my more typical outdoor explorations, perhaps engaging real world humans every now and then. I truly hope each of you gets to meet your daily quota, in that regard - if being around people is what you actually want, are capable of tolerating, and truly crave.
Obstacles
Next, I've got three days to figure out how to orchestrate my escape plan. I've got to put the moving mechanisms into place. Not only do I have to brave the stairlift, I also have to figure out how I'm going to transfer from the manual wheelchair upstairs, to the stairlift chair, then from the stairlift chair to another manual chair downstairs, and then transfer to my power chair.
My regularly scheduled caregiver said she would help me with this. I have it in my mind how this operation is going to work, but I need to do a dry run, or perhaps several. And now that the pain has generally subsided, I'm fairly certain I can execute the plan without much fanfare. It's all a matter of logistics, and my caregivers' dedication to the cause.
And now for something else…
Caregivers and Takeaways
Yesterday I had another caregiver who smoked weed and vaped tobacco. “Please don't judge me,” she requested, as she puffed away. And just why would I be judging her? Well, after all, she was 34 weeks pregnant.
Besides that particular tidbit being notable, she also shared that her always temporarily unemployed boyfriend happens to be a super possessive stalker type who becomes insanely jealous whenever she interacts with a random pile of unencumbered terracotta colored gravel. Or, perhaps even a disabled male (overheard on speakerphone) whose voice sounds much younger than his age.
Yep, she briefly had me on the speaker phone in order to attain my gate code upon her unceremonious arrival (her children screaming in the background all the while, as her boyfriend deftly navigated his way through the complex). Apparently her boyfriend was taken aback, and I suspect she was incessantly grilled when he picked her up afterwards.
But before she endured all kinds of needless scrutiny on her way back home, the pregnant girl insisted on giving me a gentle back massage as part of her duties - which was super nice, needed, and very much appreciated. I simply could not believe someone offered (and really, I probably should have refused the offer, but …).
Generally speaking, real life people don't go out of their way to do things like that.
An hour after she left I was still floating on Cloud 9, 10 and 11 (YES, I really like cloud metaphors!).
Perhaps better than all of that, I am now able to tolerate hands-on physical touch these days. There was a time when even the slightest physical touch exhausted me. Muscle activation. Any form of stimuli. Heck, even breathing was difficult for months at a time. So in some regards, there is definitely progress on my end.
I discovered my increased tolerance level on accident (no, it had nothing to do with a vehicular crash). It's just that my regularly scheduled caregiver applies lotion to my feet after my twice weekly bed baths (and she does so rather rigorously).
At first, I told her to be more gentle in doing so, much due to the sensitivity down there. But she kept forgetting about the gentleness aspect, so I stopped reminding her, letting her roughly massage my toes, arches and heals, etc. And eventually, the pain and discomfort in my feet greatly decreased. I attribute this to better blood flow and circulation, if nothing else.
Then eventually, when washing my back (I wash the rest of myself), she would do much the same, applying a fair amount of rigorous pressure. Admittedly, the hands on approach felt good, but initially I was concerned about the inevitable crash afterwards - the crash that never came.
Caregiver Dos
The week prior to this one, there was Anna the Caregiver, caught up in the midst of an emotional breakup crisis. According to her, she finally dumped the guy who would track her physical movements through a phone application he covertly installed. Yes, he always had to know where she was at all times, even insisting she drive his souped up Mercedes whenever she temporarily escaped his evil clutches (instead of her own car). Why? He also had a tracker installed on his vehicle.
Throughout her visit, she mentioned the Mercedes time and time again, noting that it was a $90,000 vehicle. Clearly, having that status symbol in her possession was of the utmost importance to her (above and beyond dating a stalker).
Yes, I have more fun than I should, being an armchair psychologist. But in the least, there's no way I would be an armchair psychiatrist. Why exactly? Well, I would abhor prescribing anybody the ‘almost always unnecessary’ medications necessary to hold that title. My belief is that somewhere upwards of 90% of the people prescribed such medications are taking them unnecessarily - big pharma and the insurance conglomerates being what they are, and what they need to be in the name of profit margins for their investors. Heck, almost everyone I meet these days confides and me, expressing how they suffer from anxiety (to a greater degree), thus making these mind numbing psych meds wholly necessary in their minds.
It's a horribly corrupt industry, wherein guided self-work (revolving and evolving through mindfulness) is the more potent long-term solution across the board. In our modern times, constant anxiety is a symptom of our for-profit universe, directly fed by unresolvable mass media addiction and the related concerns and attributions they incite. Corporate America wants us this way, wanting us helpless (and distracted) to the extent that we need to be medicated from start to finish.
Oops, back to the caregiver roll call —- I mean, who exactly wants to hear Howard spout off about this and that, feigning expertise in a multitude of unsung areas of the psyche … ?
The Semi-regular Irregular Suzie
Although I like and appreciate her efforts, and her pleasant personality, I do not wish to be stuck with her (or anybody else) on a permanent Monday basis. Why? In this instance, Suzie operates very similarly to the wife person. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but I already have one of those points of reference readily available when the need arises. And while in Suzie's presence, I mostly find myself answering question after question, incessantly explaining things (about me) to her ad nauseam, the mechanics of my existence and my forever illness. For certain, I'd rather ask Suzie questions detailing her life experiences instead. Failing that, I already know what I know about my life history, what I’ve gone through, and where I've been (as do many of you). To me, that type of engaging is boring, boring, boring. Sure, I'll detail the ins and outs, ups and downs, and so on, one time, when I first meet somebody (per their request). But that's not how matters typically pan out.
What I'm truly seeking out are spontaneously playful people, the few who actually and truly exist in that realm. If not that, I'm looking for and seeking out new angles and conversational approaches outside of my comfort zone.
Subject matter isn't necessarily the most important thing, it's that I find the differing varieties of presentation fascinating.
In addition to that, I need people in my life who can be entertained. As an example, I enjoy practicing improvisational routines on others. But engaging people who fail to react in any way, shape, and form is somehow exhausting (then also, leaving me feeling defeated).
So that's why I'm nixing the “Permanent Caregiver Mondays with Suzie” offer… this despite her enthusiasm to assist me at the drop of a hat. Or a drop of any number of things that I happen to spill or knock over accidentally during her visits.
Of course, the caregiving outfit doesn't understand where I am coming from, no matter how many times I try to explain myself. Clearly, it's easier for them to lock a caregiver into place, not concerning themselves with assigning someone new week to week. But I hereby choose to exercise my inalienable right for variety. I'm desperately hungry for real life experiences, which I'm somewhat certain, most of you can easily relate to.
End Times
Well, I've covered lots of terrain. And I'm not exactly sure why I'm posting all of this, but I guess, that's what I do, for a lack of anything else better to do. Self-assessment is a vital practice, and I've got the entire livelong day to go there, whether I want to or not.
Take care,
Howard
Three's a Cloud
