ducks

The midnight ducks flying to somewhere with an occasional quack symbolic of a headlight make me smile. Their timing has been almost like clock work, from the Southwest to the Northeast directly above, the precision of their flight makes me curious as I often wonder where to and often why.

h o p e

Another holiday has passed, one which I used to believe was quite the favorite of mine as it has always included good food, good people and fine spirits. This holiday my thought process was different as I spent time cooking in a kitchen that I could not claim as my own, for people whom I know only on a surface level. The fact that I was watched for 'too little this and too much of another' only frustrated me further. Seeing a place setting for five when six where to arrive angered me and made me feel a disgust and sense of not belonging that caused me to, with grace, make the most out a series of unpleasantries that wanted to amplify, but in the end, were controlled.

The fact that I am still processing the results of Monday's ultrasound and Wednesday's MRI left my plate full and my appetite far from over indulgence. I kept to myself, even while I entertained and wondered who might call next, from the blue, to question my continued existence rather than congratulate me on defeating a set of numbered months that were to indicate THE END of my life as I know it and others will remember.

And with confirmation from film that I have deteriorated physically and my insides where explained to look beyond anything perceived as normal in the medical community, gave me the ability to stop clinging to that which I have, hope. Instead I cling to something that is bigger than me and more powerful than me as medically it is hope-less, proved over and over and over again since the beginning of 2006. As mentioned to me, there is no error unless I want to think more irrationally than all the characters combined in One flew Over The Cookoo's Nest. All while I try to think of something sensible to say to family members and any others that have or may continue to speak their surprise at my continued existence. I choose to say nothing, outwardly laughing, internally spinning at the mere notion that my living is an expressed burden to an assumed powerful few.

When I learned first that I was terminal I had questions that led me, often not so directly and painfully, to hope. I now only cling knowing that hope is a false emotion, to say miraculous congers feelings of arrogance and to live feels uncomfortable, as if I have embellished. It is obvious more than one around me , distance aside, awaits my assumed and expected death.

Like a warrior, I will continue to fight. I have more scars and although battle tested and victorious to a certain point, I know it is simply a matter of when I will see the end I have envisioned and not whether the end exists. I am borrowed time and alright with the concept, not overtly comfortable, only alright.

Simple distractions feel right and loneliness is an answer as I approach the day, not so different as before, but more wise, more afraid and most definitely less confident than I did with all that is gone with yesterday.

raining in Baltimore

It has and continues to be a week of testing, not for my knowledge or those assisting me. It is for the pencil pushers in Baltimore that decide what constitutes terminal and who is terminal. So although my condition has seen a decline and I puff on morphine to open up a passage to breathe,
some jackass continues to want more paper on my illness to re-qualify me as terminal. And although the team of physicians have documented visible changes in my well being or lack there of, someone is thinking only in terms of statistics and I DC9 codes in determining my medical state or to put it blunt, my readiness to die.

I have always joked about big brother watching and politicians playing G-D, and now I experience their lack of knowledge, unwillingness to know the difference and their pathetic set of rules that put those suffering in an eternal state of hell until death does approach. I am tired, mind body and spirit and when I feel my weakest, I watch the Government shake its stick and I report for that which is scheduled, that which has been duplicated and triplicated and that which makes being terminal an unkind and unwanted full time job.

numb

The insects that once sang at this hour have stopped, lending the crisp air to be more apparent as it methodically whistles toward Louisiana. I look out and see light of a holiday upcoming and think of the food I once was inspired to cook that does not even sound palatable this season.

And as it is the season for giving I do give thanks for shelter and food consistently, worrying more about a future so uncertain and the lack of camaraderie I now have in Texas. I try to bury dates of significance that brought me to this point but as I try, there is a reminder that, fitting or not, is brought to my attention almost daily, sometimes routinely which causes me to think more inward, hold back tears and walk about uncomfortably numb...