Don’t seem to have one anymore, gracias a Dios.
I didn’t sleep a wink last night, though, out on the sofa in the saloon. The problem was, I got the idea I wasn’t getting enough air. I checked my pulse: 60 beats per minute, no sign of oxygen starvation. Aware that this was bullshit, I still couldn’t make it go away. I wanted to get outside and take a walk, but it was dark and 10 degrees. All I could do was stay up and read until I finally nodded off, just after dawn. (Whatever you do, don’t ever have the thought I just put into your mind.)
Our landlord is still in the hospital and wants to come home. He knows this can’t-breathe stuff from end to end: 74 years old, needs oxygen all the time, still smoking like a fiend. A friend went into his place to clean things up. I’ll spare you the details, but it wasn’t pretty, and God knows how (or whether) he got up to take a crap or make his meals. He can’t take care of himself but doesn’t know it and wants to come back anyway. The doctors don’t know what to do with him. My wife saw him in the hospital yesterday and he couldn’t even sit up in the bed. Come home?!
And Washtay is dead. Big gentle Washtay, the best dog in the world, who never failed to greet me when I ambled down the drive, who always howled while his master sang his prayers outside in the morning. My neighbor and her husband were off to California, happy that they’d found somewhere to board the beast, a place in Tres Piedras where all the dogs sleep at night together in the house. Sounds chummy, but Washtay was old and a couple of big ones ganged up on him. His owners flew back yesterday and said he probably wasn’t going to make it. He didn’t, and I’ll miss him very much.
Much more than “just” a dog
Slowed down by the weather and my illness, we actually watched TV two nights in a row. Tonight I hunted around and found “Brokeback Mountain” — beautiful scenery, but the story made me tense. I hadn’t seen the film, but I could feel the tire tools smashing the guy’s face from the opening scene, and that didn’t happen until the end. I thought about the wretched ranch house and the trailer in the final scenes while I washed the dishes afterwards in a not much better sink — the el Norte funkiness overlaid with movie pathos made me remember when I was here alone, standing over that same sink, facing the end and beginning of everything, with my lover in Dubuque and nothing planned to make us whole.
I cough hard and feel it in my hernia scar. Outside through the kitchen window, a few snowflakes drift past the the neighbors’ front door light.
Saturday night in medieval America. A thousand years and nothing’s changed except the toys. All structures are unstable (always!), the world tips into madness.
It’s later now.
The golden yellow light inside my chest that chased the fever pulses. The cat is sleeping by the stove. There’s plenty of air. One more night on the sofa, maybe two.
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{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
Sounds like a lot is on your plate. The landlord, the dog, the cold and snow – all contracting vibes. Because you’re a sensitive soul maybe you’re feeling the neighbor’s lack of oxygen too. Sometimes I feel a lack of oxygen and then get momentary anxiety. I hear that’s why we yawn, when we need more air than usual.
The guy wants to come home and be in his own space. I would too.
Does anyone bring him soup and hang out visiting? This may be his last round. A good opportunity to give the service Ram Dass talks about.
Imagine all the flowers we’ll get this summer. I’ve dug a path to the propane tank (for the delivery guy) a second time now. Yesterday’s wind drifted another 8″ onto the path and the drive as well. Onward.
p.s. Has anyone checked with Hospice for him? It’s free – they’ll come in and check on him for 6 months at time.
Hi Barb!
I certainly understand about “his own space.” Quite the little community here, yes, all is well on that score. We’re wondering if D. will really be released from the hospital or not. Even if he does get delivered home, it’ll be a cold day in hell before he admits he’s in need of hospice care, but yes, we’ve all looked into that for him. We’re all part of this story.
As for me, the damn congestion has moved into my ears. I remember this routine from the bad old days. Can’t hear much at all just now. And it hardly snowed at all here. Weathermen are the same, no matter where you go!
Wonderful! He’s very lucky to have a little community of gentle people around him at his transition time. Do you think you all made an agreement on some level to be here now for him? It would be in keeping with the spiritual homework you’re doing. And I was wondering the other day what my 70′s and 80′s will look like. I’ll set up a few tipis and yurts and invite the young hippies to live with me. I’ll live in a tipi too and we’ll use the house as the common space. Hey, fun!
Sounds like you have a PLAN. I like the sound of that one, all right.