Better Off Skipping This

I may have to just forego photos on this blog until and if I can ever begin making them again.  I've nothing but old photos now, most of which would only bring me trouble.  So it seems.  

I may have to forego the writing on this blog until and if I can ever begin living again.  I've nothing but complaints and miseries now.  So it seems.  

I can always opine, though.  But I am weary of that, too.  

I am eschewing friends now.  There is nothing they can do for me.  

"I feel sorry for your mother."

"Tell your mother you are going to rehab."

"Your mother brought you into the world.  Now she is going to take you out of it."

I went to my house for a minute yesterday.  That just about undid me.  It is a mess.  I need to start cleaning and painting the reconstruction and putting all the things I've taken from the kitchen back in.  My house is small.  It doesn't take much of a mess for me to realize this.  The carpenter is supposedly coming today to work on the exterior.  He has his own problems, and his problems become my problems, too.  

My mother made a bad decision in not to go the rehab place.  There she would have had medical attention and physical therapy.  Here, she has me who can do neither of those things for her.  I can be and am a personal valet. I spent half of yesterday driving her around to banks and to pick up her new eyeglasses.  

I managed to get away for a minute.  I went to lunch at a Michelin noodle restaurant.  It did me no good, though.  I sat alone at a table and was ignored by the pretty Asian waitress who actually seemed disdainful.  

As I write, the carpenter sends me pictures of the work he is doing this morning.  It doesn't look good.  My mother is doing badly right now and I need to set up some medical appointments, so I can't get over to talk to him for a bit.  

My stress level is too high for me to be really functional.  Yes. . . that is it.  I am not really functional right now.  I'm in a simple existence mode.  Basic things are difficult.  My body aches.  Maybe I'm sick. . . or worse.  

My friend from Yosemite is in town just now.  He called and left a message.  He wants to get together, take a hike, have dinner.  I haven't the energy for that right now.  I don't have the energy to call him back.  

There was a time when I dreamed of sailing a boat alone around the world.  It's a good thing it was a dream.  At the first real trouble, I'd have gone catatonic.  

My mountain friend is different.  "The worse, the better," I use to say was his motto when we were climbing.  "You like doing this shit.  I like having done it."  

It's true.  I like the effect more than the process.  

Just as I write that, my phone rings.  It is him.  I don't answer.  I can't.  

Tennessee has called three times.  I've not returned them.  

Mr. Tree keeps texting me that he can come meet me.  Why?  I don't reply.  

Other's are full of questions.  I haven't the energy.  

My mother's phone is full of voicemails.  She doesn't know how to retrieve them any longer.  I play them.  Many are from the hospital following up on her care.  She doesn't wish to respond.  

I don't sleep.  I lie in bed and think about what I am dreaming.  It is the strangest thing.  I go under for a moment then rise back to the surface.  It isn't sleep.  I don't know what it is.  

Just now, I have invitations to go out.  Isn't that ironic?  I don't respond.  

There is a look in my mother's eyes that I am avoiding.  I want to say, "What makes you think you will die before me?"  And it is true.  The doctor said she is in good health otherwise.  Her major organs are strong.  She can't see or hear or think well now, but heart and liver and kidneys are still kicking. This painful existence could continue for another decade.  

I feel my own health failing.  My system is breaking down.  How long do I wait?  

That's it.  That's what I have this morning.  I won't bother you with this shit anymore, either.  There is nothing anyone can do at this point other than give platitudinous offerings.  It is wrong of me to put people in that position.  

And so. . . you'll hear from me when I have something other than this.  There are lots of good blog posts from the past.  I go back and read them sometimes.  I can be funny.  I can be wry.  Sometimes, I think, I am even insightful.  

But not today.  And so, as the saying goes. . . until then.