Thursday, March 9, 2006
The persistent fever I've been running...
...finally, two days ago, developed into a full fledged, severe cold; sore throat, clogged sinuses, body aches, etc. I held off taking drugs until yesterday. They alleviated some of the symptoms but I continue to feel as though I've been put through the wringer several times. No drugs today, so far. The symptoms are settling back, although without the ibuprofen today I notice I'm running a fever, again, arterial-temporal: 102.9°. Not fun. I might give in, later, and take some ibuprofen, depending. I headed out to do errands this morning that have been stacking up. Felt like shit when I returned but, you know, that's a cold for you.
Mom remains cold free, thank the gods. She's feeling pretty good, actually, although it's been cold here, rain and snow expected tomorrow, so she's not moving much. She has absolutely no sympathy for my own physical trials since she can't remember from moment to moment that I'm sick. It's kind of funny, really. Every hour or so she'll say, "My goodness, you're coughing a lot," or "You're using an awful lot of Kleenex, you usually don't use any," or, "You look tired, don't you feel good?" or, "You look awful, what have you been doing?!?"
The first couple of times she asked I answered her, repeating that the fever I've been having (which she doesn't remember) finally developed into a cold. After that I started answering, "I'm fine," because, well, it makes no difference to her routine whether or not I'm fine and I feel too bad to continually repeat everything.
Late nights and late mornings continue. I've managed one nap since this whole illness debacle started but, for the most part, I don't bother because I'm never sure whether I'll hear her awaken from her nap when I take a nap. Thus, the upshot is that I am now, "too tired to yawn, too tired to sleep."
She hasn't noticed that my humor is short, although we had an interesting incident two days ago. When she awoke from her nap she asked me if we'd heard "anything more" from her brother. I answered that I was feeling too bad to play "The Alive Dead" and told her, simply, that her brother's been dead for a long time. She became immediately agitated and informed me that she'd received a letter from him "a few days ago".
"Mom, maybe you did in a dream but I can assure you, your brother has not sent us a letter for decades because they don't have a postal service in heaven. He's dead, Mom. Dead as a door nail, and has been for a long time."
She huffed and puffed and finally gave up, I thought.
That night, after she retired, while her light was still on, I heard movement in her bedroom. I checked in on her. She was furiously sorting through everything on and in her dresser.
I immediately understood what she was doing. "You're looking for that letter from your brother, aren't you, Mom?"
"Yes. I'm sure it's here someplace."
I gave up. "Okay, Mom, come on out and have a seat. We'll go through everyone in The Dead Zone and catch you up again on who has access to a postal service and who doesn't."
As usual, once we'd gone through the entire Dead Zone family, their dates and circumstances of death, and bemoaned their "untimely" passings (she didn't remember anyone's death that night and while she was confused as to why she can't remember who's dead, she was accepting of the information).
I don't know if I've mentioned this before but, although I don't take any positions on what happens to the essence of people after they die, whether it continues or stops, so I'll go along with anyone on anything because I figure, who knows, and, anyway, it certainly helps fill a meaning void when one does this, I sometimes wonder if her dead relatives are regularly contacting her when she sleeps and that all the instances of contact that are fresh with her at any particular time are legitimate. At any rate, this is one of the quirky ways I sometimes use to explain to her why it is that she is in constant contact with people who are dead. She likes contemplating this explanation. On her behalf, so do I.
My own truth, which involves regularly talking to my dead, including my father, my mother's sister, and a few other dead people, is that whether anything of them is left to participate in my contact, regardless of their deaths I continue to carry on relationships with them. These relationships even include the possibility of my feelings for them changing over time as I contemplate and gain a greater understanding of their lives as they affected mine. This, I believe, is the most important kind of Dead Zone Contact. People may die, but relationships don't. I even often feel as though I receive "messages" of one type or another from people in The Dead Zone, even though my intellectuality tells me that this is impossible. When, for instance, I need a gorgeous sunset my dad provides one; we used to share sunsets, even when we were separated by impossible distances. When I need to be reminded to take a lighter view of life, my mother's sister provides a starkly ironic incident; MDL provides an example of absurdity. When I need help in cooking, my dead uncle on my father's side stands beside me and suggests possibilities. When I hit the depths and I feel like I'm not interested in doing this anymore I receive backhanded encouragement to continue from MDL, who assures me, by providing an unusual, serendipitous, surprisingly embracing experience, that quitting is fine, it's neither a sin nor something one "pays for", but, you know, wait until I'm sure I'm not going to miss something I would have wanted to experience.
It seems perfectly reasonable to me that my mother continues her relationships with those in The Dead Zone exactly as do I with one slight aberration: There is no longer a disconnect in her brain between fantasy and reality. Truthfully, I'm not sure that I'm better off than she. What, after all, is reality?
Mom remains cold free, thank the gods. She's feeling pretty good, actually, although it's been cold here, rain and snow expected tomorrow, so she's not moving much. She has absolutely no sympathy for my own physical trials since she can't remember from moment to moment that I'm sick. It's kind of funny, really. Every hour or so she'll say, "My goodness, you're coughing a lot," or "You're using an awful lot of Kleenex, you usually don't use any," or, "You look tired, don't you feel good?" or, "You look awful, what have you been doing?!?"
The first couple of times she asked I answered her, repeating that the fever I've been having (which she doesn't remember) finally developed into a cold. After that I started answering, "I'm fine," because, well, it makes no difference to her routine whether or not I'm fine and I feel too bad to continually repeat everything.
Late nights and late mornings continue. I've managed one nap since this whole illness debacle started but, for the most part, I don't bother because I'm never sure whether I'll hear her awaken from her nap when I take a nap. Thus, the upshot is that I am now, "too tired to yawn, too tired to sleep."
She hasn't noticed that my humor is short, although we had an interesting incident two days ago. When she awoke from her nap she asked me if we'd heard "anything more" from her brother. I answered that I was feeling too bad to play "The Alive Dead" and told her, simply, that her brother's been dead for a long time. She became immediately agitated and informed me that she'd received a letter from him "a few days ago".
"Mom, maybe you did in a dream but I can assure you, your brother has not sent us a letter for decades because they don't have a postal service in heaven. He's dead, Mom. Dead as a door nail, and has been for a long time."
She huffed and puffed and finally gave up, I thought.
That night, after she retired, while her light was still on, I heard movement in her bedroom. I checked in on her. She was furiously sorting through everything on and in her dresser.
I immediately understood what she was doing. "You're looking for that letter from your brother, aren't you, Mom?"
"Yes. I'm sure it's here someplace."
I gave up. "Okay, Mom, come on out and have a seat. We'll go through everyone in The Dead Zone and catch you up again on who has access to a postal service and who doesn't."
As usual, once we'd gone through the entire Dead Zone family, their dates and circumstances of death, and bemoaned their "untimely" passings (she didn't remember anyone's death that night and while she was confused as to why she can't remember who's dead, she was accepting of the information).
I don't know if I've mentioned this before but, although I don't take any positions on what happens to the essence of people after they die, whether it continues or stops, so I'll go along with anyone on anything because I figure, who knows, and, anyway, it certainly helps fill a meaning void when one does this, I sometimes wonder if her dead relatives are regularly contacting her when she sleeps and that all the instances of contact that are fresh with her at any particular time are legitimate. At any rate, this is one of the quirky ways I sometimes use to explain to her why it is that she is in constant contact with people who are dead. She likes contemplating this explanation. On her behalf, so do I.
My own truth, which involves regularly talking to my dead, including my father, my mother's sister, and a few other dead people, is that whether anything of them is left to participate in my contact, regardless of their deaths I continue to carry on relationships with them. These relationships even include the possibility of my feelings for them changing over time as I contemplate and gain a greater understanding of their lives as they affected mine. This, I believe, is the most important kind of Dead Zone Contact. People may die, but relationships don't. I even often feel as though I receive "messages" of one type or another from people in The Dead Zone, even though my intellectuality tells me that this is impossible. When, for instance, I need a gorgeous sunset my dad provides one; we used to share sunsets, even when we were separated by impossible distances. When I need to be reminded to take a lighter view of life, my mother's sister provides a starkly ironic incident; MDL provides an example of absurdity. When I need help in cooking, my dead uncle on my father's side stands beside me and suggests possibilities. When I hit the depths and I feel like I'm not interested in doing this anymore I receive backhanded encouragement to continue from MDL, who assures me, by providing an unusual, serendipitous, surprisingly embracing experience, that quitting is fine, it's neither a sin nor something one "pays for", but, you know, wait until I'm sure I'm not going to miss something I would have wanted to experience.
It seems perfectly reasonable to me that my mother continues her relationships with those in The Dead Zone exactly as do I with one slight aberration: There is no longer a disconnect in her brain between fantasy and reality. Truthfully, I'm not sure that I'm better off than she. What, after all, is reality?
