Note to Myself

The dark clouds have descended again, obscuring my ability to navigate the chummy waters of my life. I try to keep my despair at bay, thinking of how my depression impacts my children, trying to maintain an atmosphere of normalcy for their sake, but today, I find I cannot care enough about anyone or anything to resist the allure of the darkness. I considered calling my husband at work, to tell him I'm slipping into the dark water, to ask for help, but I didn't make the call, because I know he won't really be able to help me, much less even hear me, surrounded by the stress and pressures of his job. My friends are too busy as well, and my family is non-existent. I tried to paint, hoping it would bring a little pleasure to counter balance this tidal wave of morbid longing, but even that felt distant and trite, and not worth the effort.

It is always the way with depression, that once it rolls over you, encircles you, encompasses you, there is no real way out, only trying to hang on and ride the tide back to the shore of rational thought. There are no life boats to rescue you from the deep, because they never heard the cry for help. There is only yourself, treading water in the icy deep, thinking how peaceful it would be, to just stop fighting, to succumb to the darkness and float down into it's peaceful depths. I cannot decide which is more courageous: to continue the daily plodding or to acquiesce to the finality of the dark.

Kinda Eyore-ish

Okay so you're not in my head (and wouldn't a therapist love to scrutinize that!) so you wouldn't know that the reason I haven't been writing is pure depression. I did feel like I was getting kind of hackneyed in the blogosphere, but that was just the tip of the iceberg that I slid off into the arctic sea of Fuckitall.

The kids are both in middle school now, so I have my mornings to myself again, which kind of makes me feel like I'm not pulling my weight, and of course I'm not feeling any inspiration to paint, which adds to that feeling of uselessness, though I have kicked up the home-made goodness as a result, which nobody is complaining about, except maybe my ever-expanding gut.

I find myself still mourning Mrs. Puff, probably because it was so unexpected and horrific, the way she died. I know there was nothing we could have done in the face of an avalanche of hemorrhagic strokes, and maybe that's what haunts me - that sense of complete futility.

I'm having the old recurring issue with living in this part of the world; being a yankee by birth (I have lived in the south for over 40 years, but I'm still a yankee - how about that shit?) and not christian (and I refuse to capitalize such a travesty of a word) is two humongously indelible marks against me in this small, backward-thinking town. Apparently all you have to do for social acceptance is give lip service to being the same religion as everyone else and talk through a mouth full of marbles. I kid you not. It doesn't matter if you're committing adultery, are an abusive parent or abusive spouse, or a dead-beat parent who leaves their kids to fend for themselves - if you profess your faith loudly enough, no one will care what you do behind closed doors (and these aren't stereotypes; every example I listed is someone I know, in all their sanctimonious hypocrisy, who treats me and my family like lepers). Being a kind and decent human being doesn't count for doodly without that "got jesus" lobotomized seal of approval. (Please note: I have nothing against Jesus himself, or what he had to say. My problem is with the trash that insists on using his name to legitimize their petty fear and hatred of anything that doesn't fit into their limited awareness.) I know there are people who are truly good christians - I know 2 personally, but there are so many of the other kind. Aren't they calling themselves the "Tea Party" these days?

So, on top of those delectable tidbits from the fantastic pile of shit that is permeating my existence on a daily basis, I have a trip to make, starting tomorrow. I'm headed up to Buffalo, with my dad. He's going to see his sister and an old friend, both of whom are in very frail health. He hates death, is even kind of phobic about it, so this isn't going to be a pleasure jaunt. I'm a little amazed that he's even going. I have to confess, I'm not sure I'm up to this myself, treading water in my own murky sea of personal bullshit, but I said I'd go. I'm going to take a composition book and try to do some journalling - angst is good for writing, right? I'm also going to try and carpe diem; to take it one day at a time and try, TRY to find some good in there amongst the craptastic chaff.

And at the least there will be apples - lovely crisp New York apples and cider to look forward to, right?

Day Three of My Karmic Payback

Thank you all for your support yesterday - I was really in a bad place and it helped to know you were holding my virtual hand.

Puff came home from the local vet yesterday, with a saline IV and a couple of cans of AD (high calorie wet food). We found the kids'old playpen and set it up in the living room for her, to keep her contained and safe, especially when we're not with her. She had a brief moment yesterday when she actually turned to the right, as opposed the the perpetual left she's been circling on, and walked straight across the room. She also is able to swallow food, which is a plus to keeping her strong.

It occurred to me today that the local vet didn't send home any medication for Puff, though she had been given a dose of some kind of steroid before she left. I was reading online today that many vets prescribe cortizone, antibiotics, and even baby aspirin as part of the supportive care for a cat who's suffered a stroke. Yeah, well they weren't the vet in my town, but don't let me get on that rant right now - I knew when I took Puff to them it would cost a lot and there would be no definitive diagnosis - that's how they roll every time I've been there. So I called Doc, who is my personal veterinary hero, and he also pegged Puff's condition as a stroke over the phone, based on the symptoms, so I asked if there was anything I could give her to help with her recovery. He recommended Decadron, the miracle steroid for cats, and children's Motrin if she seemed to be in pain. He also verified what I had thought; that the enlarged spleen was due to the stroke and was working to process the blood from the rupture in her brain.

Apparently there are two kinds of strokes in cats - Ischemic and Hemorrhagic (and I'm pretty sure I've misspelled at least one of those)- Ischemic is when the blood supply to the brain is cut off and the brain basically suffocates, Hemorrhagic is when there is a rupture of a blood vessel in the brain. Based on the blood found in her ear, and the presence of blood behind her eyes, I'm thinking it was the Hemorrhagic one.

She is ambulatory today, albeit still circling to the left; she is agitated, which is also to be expected, but she can eat, she does sleep and wake up, and sometimes she responds to our voices. Doc seemed to think she might well recover, but that she would need to be on Decadron permanently to avoid further strokes (it's no guarantee, but what in this is?)

Bea came over last night to see her beloved Mrs. Puff, and offer support. I told her, half-jokingly, I thought this might be my karmic payback for talking her into adopting Bella, a polydactyl Siamese with a cancer of the mouth tissue. It does seem sometimes like I've become the geriatric guru of cats.

Did this ramble much? So sorry, I just needed to purge. Thanks again to all of you for your support - it really did help.

Evening Addendum - I should have thought about what the hell hemorrhagic really means, because as I sit here this evening, knowing that Puff suffered yet another stroke this afternoon, she isn't going to make it out of this. It is my hope for her, and probably for myself as well, that at this point, she goes quickly. We're going to keep her hydrated and comfortable, and try to ease her out of this world in as loving a manner as possible. And now I'm going to go blow my nose again and eat some damn chocolate.

Perspective

I woke up today grumpy. The drip, drip, drizzle of rain and the gloomy dark of 7 am (now that we're on DST) made me want to call in, keep the kids home, go back to bed for an extra burrow.

But I got up, because it's Friday, and tomorrow will be time enough for sleeping in.

I drove the kids to school, listening to an old Jackson Browne album; never a good call if you're trying to cloudbust the mental thunderstorm, because that man is dark. But it fit my mood.

I came home, thought about writing, then thought better of it.

I surfed. I read.

Why was Maggie Dammit posting again so soon?
This was why:

Paul NZ said...
Dear friends of Braja, my name is Paul (Prananatha das) and I'm a close friend of Braja's from NZ. I'm currently staying in Mayapur. It is with great sadness that I must inform you all that Braja & her husband Jahnu had a serious car accident on the way to the airport. This is NOT a joke. Their taxi collided head on with a truck at high speed at aprox 6am yesterday morning. She and Jahnu are in the ICU at Kolkata Apollo hospital. Braja has suffered a broken arm, facial injuries and possible hip injuries. She had plastic surgery on her face yesterday. She is conscious. Jahnu has suffered broken ribs, punctured lungs, punctured liver, broken legs and arms and has a fractured skull. He has not regained consciousness since the accident. He has a 60% chance of survival. We all devotees here in Mayapur are very shocked and saddened by this event. We are praying for their swift and complete recovery and ask with folded palms that you all will add them to your prayers. I am here in Mayapur till Sunday 15th March and will follow this blog as much as possible and send through information as it comes to hand. Yours in service to Lord Krsna and His devotees, Prananatha das, Sri Dham Mayapur.

Suddenly my gray skies and grumpy mood mean exactly zero in the bigger scheme of things. Please send her a good thought today, or go by and wish her well in person. And then hug all your loved ones today, because that sweetness we crave in this life? It's right there in front of you.

Braja at Lost and Found in India:
http://lostandfoundinindia.blogspot.com/

Hindsight Doesn't Amount to a Hill of Beans

They were the only litter of kittens we've ever had (well, their mother had them, but you know what I mean). I was there at their birth and loved them like they were my own children. I couldn't bear to part with any of them, so we kept them all and doubled the number of cats in this house.Yesterday I walked down to Bea's house to retrieve a ham from her refrigerator. One of the boys, Squeak (the one on the right, above), started to follow me down the street, miaowing. I stopped, turned around and scolded him: "Dammit Squeak! Get out of the street before you get hit by a car!" His mother, Feather, ran across the street and herded him to the side of the road, and I continued on towards Bea's house. I got the ham, stopped to scratch Zoe's head (she once was a cat in my temple to Bast, and I'm very fond of her), and headed back home.

From the street up at Bea's I could see there was something in the road, but I couldn't remember if there had been a pile of pinestraw there or not. As I got closer, I saw Feather standing at the side of the street, miaowing, and the heap in the street became the body of Squeak as I drew closer.

The wash of grief and guilt almost drowned me there in the street as I picked up his beautiful little body, hoping against hope for a breath of life, but he had left us all. It had taken me less than than 5 minutes to go to Bea's and back, and that was all the time it took for him to leave us.

Beautiful like a Maine Coon, sweet tempered and loving, Squeak had been one of our favorites. For the Professor, he was the only cat in the world.I went to school early and got the boys. We had family coming over later and the boys needed time to process what had happened. We buried him in the garden, near the catnip bush, so he could always be near us in a place he loved.And life goes on. In spite of our disbelief, in spite of our dwindling, irrational hope that he would be there to greet us this morning, he wasn't, and life, seemingly roughshod, continues on.

Anniversary of a Nightmare

I'm sure none of us need reminding that today is the 7th anniversary of the demise of the World Trade towers. Even from the distance of seven years later looking back makes my stomach hurt. It still makes me angry, makes me cry, sends me into a fresh wave of mourning. The horror of that day is etched so clearly on my mind, as I'm sure it is for you as well. I stood in front of the television, forgetful of my young children playing nearby, and watched, paralyzed in disbelief as that second plane really and truly flew into the towers, and the whole thing started to collapse. I cried helplessly, and impotently for the poor desperate people who jumped to their deaths, and the shattered remnants of families that were so abruptly left behind. I felt guilty relief in the knowledge that my loved ones were all safe, and abject terror at the thought of how quickly that illusion of safety can dissipate.

There is no happy ending to this tragedy, no sense or wisdom I can call upon. Only memories that have no resting place, that should never be laid to rest.

"For it is the doom of men that they forget."
-Merlin, "Excalibur"

Ain't No Sunshine

"You junk punch him in his man business, then when he's writhing on the floor, crying "Why?", you point your finger at him and say, "YOU know why!"
- What Happens in Vegas

I don't know what that quote has to do with anything I'm going to write, but ever since Ms. Q brought that movie over we've been saying it. It just makes me smile, and I need all the smiles I can muster right now.

The Professor is home sick this week - the usual fever/sore throat/runny nose crud found in the ever incubating petri dish that is public school. Yay.

I have a genealogical consult on Thursday, that I've put off finishing the charts for, because the data for this one family branch went on for a week and a half in a tee-einy font. Turns out it looked that long because some of the same data was plugged into more than one spot, making one guy both 7th and 8th generation; uncle to himself. I spent my morning yesterday researching everybody in those two generations, in between nursing my pasty, hacking, snot machine of a child. Because that just enhances my ability to focus, see?

Can you tell I'm cranky? Yeah, maybe just a teensy bit. It wouldn't have anything to do with going to two grocery stores, buying just the basics and having 70.00 left for the next two weeks. The cost of eating real food is ridiculous anymore, and doesn't leave me any cushion for the necessary Runaway Mama Sushi Night Fund. That's bad people: mothers who don't get a break are far more likely to have their heads explode, causing trauma to their children and pain to their spouses (see above quote).

Brother can you spare some sushi?

On The Edge of Reason

It sounded like a good idea at the time:

With school out I haven't had any real need to have a car every day, and since the hub-man is still driving the Grandma-mobile (a 1987 Chrysler with only 50,000 miles on it - oh, and no AC.), it made sense to let him have my beloved Toyota Corolla ("Take you there, it will - cost you much, it won't" - Yoda). We could save on filling up two tanks with gas and he could ride in air conditioned comfort during the dog days of summer. We want to buy a new car, but where was the sense in making car payments all summer when we didn't have to? Oh yeah, we're some farty-smarties, being all frugal.

Reality Check:
I have two of the best behaved kids in the world - no really, they're good guys. They are kids though, so some days they bank off of the walls; some days they're evil as snakes, and fight with each other. Putting them to work calms them down like magic, and banning them from playing together for the rest of the day invariably makes it irresistable for them stay away from each other for long. They're easy, more or less - it's the fractious, antsy, twitchy mom I'm having problems with.

I feel like I'm trapped at home, drowning under an ocean of dirty clothes and monotony. While it's great to be able to stay up and sleep in, I miss my quiet time in the morning, after the guys are at school. I could think. There wasn't any chirping, "Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom,Mom..." ad nauseum. It hasn't helped that the hub-man has had to work longer hours lately, on a fairly important project at work, so there's no grown up besides me until 8 or 9 some nights. And when he's tired, he's not much better than a grumpy toddler, really. So yeah, I'm jonesing for some grown ups. Did I mention that Bea is leaving me next week? Psychotic break-time, anyone?

My oldest cat, Jasper, is on her last leg these days. She's become so incontinent we've had to keep her outside, the guilt of which impels me to feed her three times a day and change her water, replete with ice cubes. I also set up a bed for her arthritic old bones to lie upon, but come fall, if she hasn't just turned up her toes, I'm going to have to do the deed and gas her. This, of course, isn't much of a mood booster.

Just like the sun, when it goes behind a cloud, I know things will clear up, all will be resolved, and I will be back to my usual self. It's just in the meantime, "I'm looking down, Shrek!"

Wow, Over-react Much?

Hello reader. As you might have surmised, yesterday went straight into the shitter, on many different levels. Thank you to everyone was so kind and supportive; it meant a lot to me. Also, I need to send out a humble, shame-faced apology to Ray who just happened to leave a bad joke at the wrong time. I think its called Spousal Timing, but I've never experienced it with anyone but my husband before. I am sorry Ray, can we still be friends, even if I'm a nutcase broad sometimes?

I did manage to find the missing cat. Scrawny Joe McAllister turned up yesterday evening, after several frantic searches. He was thin, hungry and had a nasty open absess on the base of his tail. Luckily I am skilled in absesses, but unluckily, the husband let him out this morning, so now Scrawny Joe is AWOL again. Have I mentioned I'm not real happy with the husband-person? Yeah, not so much.

There is other flotsam in my life right now as well, jamming up my normally intact sense of humor, so its probably best if I just slink away for awhile and focus on canvases.

"I am a dribbling asshole." Kenneth Brannagh, "Peter's Friends"