What Next?

I have been sick for a week and fearing another hospital stay, so I put off seeing the doctor. Finally, yesterday I went. Looks like I will get some gastro relief, as it appears the hiatal hernia will get removed. A few weeks back I had a gastric emptying test and according to my doctor it was absolutely horrible, meaning something is causing the stomach not to empty, thus the constant vomiting. Now my internist has to convince the surgeons to do the surgery, as it looks as if it can not be performed Laparoscopicly, which makes it a bit more serious and means I will be under anesthesia longer, so it could have issues with my WPW. And speaking of that, seems my doctor says it is undercontrol, yet I still suffer tachycardias and arrythmias, so how does that mean it is under control??? Geesh! I am not sure my doctors are happy or miserable that I have donated this body to medical research when it dies LOL.

Today we recover from the nor’easter. We received 15 inches of snow. Today was the first time in my life I was not able to go out and help my husband clean up. I felt useless and it hurt my spirit. I keep wondering why me? and then I get angry, as who would I wish this illness on? No one. No one deserves this and so it is my burden. How will I handle it? Will I give up? Will I fight back, and if so, why both , as it seems so useless to the beast. I am so frustrated and I feel so lonely and alone (yes, there is a difference). I know tons of people care…but still, there is a loneliness, a dark beckoning hole – will I sidestep it or jump in……?

Day at the Doctors

Today, I am so angry. I went to see my EP/Cardiologist and he does not know what to do anymore. He believes the WPW is under control, but I still have arrythmias and tachycardias, and apparently have had two aFib’s. How am I better. I can’t do an dang thing without struggling for breath because my heart is beating so fast, so I am forced to be a lazy slug – I feel as if I am witness to the ebbing of my life. I guess I am angry with myself, as I can not stop what is happening. The doctors seem to be doing all they know, so I can hardly blame them. I just want to scream until my breath strangles in its own silence. Depression 101 perhaps, or maybe it is an advanced course and I just forgot to take the prerequisites.

Writings on WPW

I have Wolff-Parkinson-White Syndrome. It is usually a heart condition many never know they have. Unfortunately I am not one of them – I have it and I know I have it. I never have a moment’s peace from it, and I fear I will be one who will die from it. I plan to use this section, as a place to log my days and personal feelings. If you plan to follow me on this journey, please take the time and visit the link I have posted and learn about it. It will make my journey more meaningful. Peace to all who read.

Poetry Unedited Parts

Tears can not convey love separated –
torn by necessity, ownership to another –
love can meld with the wind,
transcending voids
the whispering
of molecular wisps,
passionate memories rebirthing
emotional craves –
air bubbles prismed
through rived tears of love.

Sin – encouraging total
self-appeasement
gorging
waist deep
inch by inch
sin creeping,
encircling
widening the arc
from a once lean oval –
amazingly so easily matured,
wideness, sin encased in baggy clothes.

Time like a hungry survivor eats me;
time, a rodent
destined to hunger,
cherishing its kill –
victim for surviving,
nibbled and well chewed,
merciful yet merciless,
time, destined to survive.

Reflection on early daffodil

little petals struggling
to grow as cold nips their fringes,
curling their tender skins.
1/14/03

Reflections walking through the empty music room and classrooms

Wandering through hall-like corridors –
some active, some empty –
avoidance of cognitive
thaw, obedience of choice;
rows, rules – a music
of yesteryear – a symphony’s
negotiation of empty chairs.

The voices gather,
a rumble of words
dissonance of friendly anger
no thoughts of tomorrow
giggles of the moment
words lost – floating away,
air – crowded, bumping traffic
gathering at unlighted traffic corners.

A sorrow deep within skin –
a heart whose vessels
contract with pain,
losses of loving friendship
a feeling gorging hunger,
a beating hear contracting
mourning its loss, a vital organ
a limping pump attempting
self-healing, no surgery goes here,
no bandages, just hemorrhaging
loneliness, a pump divided
severed at its artery of love.
January 19, 2003

frigid survival –
nature’s peak test,
food a scarcity,
food a necessity,
food a risk
against the white
earth’s melding peaks
screaming individuality –
forces stark
ever watchfull,
the hunter,
the final exterminator -
death sentence appealed,
but hunger winds
death immediately imposed.

I crawl,
I walk,
I run
to where?
where is there?
run run run
never catch me
never find me
but…
I am the seeker
so…
I crawl,
I walk,
I run
out there – to where?

Single calorie underwear,
thongs, one size fits all,
would someone please tell me,
where did the back strap go?

alone, crowded
an unsecured world
dragged by external forces
like air
toying with a fallen leaf,
landing tossing,
till the wind has tired –
sudden death.

sweet swingings
a cool breeze
blue gingham bonnets
a great ponderance
bout the swinging soul –
tomorrow, a week,
maybe a month,
a year –
blue gingham bonnet
lifeless on the ground.

nerveless, a roadless road
no one breathing,
just lubs and dubs,
meaningless ants
lost in carpet
sprayed to death
walking the roadless
road to nervelessness.

Ground Zero

Blinding round light
burning ice into a deeper freeze,
shivers molded in time,
chilling bones to brittleness,
breath left dangling
awaiting a sounding-thaw.

Waterless floating
a clear mirror –
sun so cold
a frozen sky –
brittle clouds
flacking,
cracked skin,
life in an ice cube.

Endless Names

As her egg shaped abdomen begins to swell,
she knows she is sharing in an age old ritual
and she tenderly massages her new image.

Names are very important, she thinks,
A name introduces a person, a forever
image linking one’s life to the world.

Emily Anne?
Lisa Marie?

Inside her emerging self, rhythmic movements
begin to pattern our a new spirit. Hiccups and kicks,
gentle and loving reminders of developing life.

A living nursery designed for appeal and comfort:
Winnie the Pooh surrounded by a pale peach world,
cotton soft blankets and a worn cherry rocking chair.

Christopher Robin?
Robert Edward?

It’s time and nine months of anticipation culminates
in a labor of love; a countdown of contractions
to one last deep breath for the final push.

Her father’s miniaturized skislope nose,
her grandmother’s tightly curled cold-black hair,
and her mother’s sea-gray eyes, no closed with sleep.

Victoria Rose?
Cassandra Lee?

Counting one by one ten fingers, ten toes;
holding her baby one day old,
she lays her daughter in the tiny white coffin.
1994

Cologne de Rose

In Memory of Lena DuBois

I remember the fragrance of Cologne de Rose,
a breath of sweetness surrounding
me on those hot summer days, as I’d
walk the long rose-lined driveway
to the backdoor of my Grandmother’s house.

I’d walk through Grandma’s door
and there she would be, smiling and dribbling
love wherever a sad face dwelled. To me,
Grandma always smelled of wild roses,
their scent lingering, filling my senses,
like sweet sugar candy canes, a teasing
pleasure for a small child’s heart.

The memory of those roses still ripple
through my senses, echoing of yesterday,
even though Grandma’s timely gone.
When I am sad, filled with the ache
of missing her, I have only to close
my eyes and picture her smiling face.

Suddenly, like a yesterday never having passed
me by, my nose perks to the scent
of Cologne de Rose, spreading a tender,
loving hug of aroma across my heart. I
know then that Grandma is only a sniff
away, and I smile in spite of myself.

Nature’s Revival

Hungering with unquenched thirst,
burnt with dehydration’s fever,
arm-like branches wildly thrash
against a darkened illusionary sky.

Beggars of a heartless drought,
praisingly thankful as torrents of water
rain down on their homeless
roots, drifter of vacant spaces.

The suffering thrive, and revived
they don their seasonal best,
decorating space with their
multi-colored coats of rhythmically
swaying with the wind’s beatless breath.

My Friend the Mouse

white, not gray or shades thereof,
but white, with a whip long tail,
perhaps a rat in disguise.
No mouth for speech;
Mouse’s communication skills limited,
a Pavlovian experiment unfinished,
no eyes to see with,
a head without a nose,
its sense of direction
encourage by a gentle caress.
Legless, no escaping my companionship.
Mouse, a pad for a house,
webbing internets of friendship,
a mouse of worldwide experiences
within a life of facelessness.

Metamorphosis

An altered life form emerges
like a butterfly from a cocoon
ripping through its womblike atmosphere,
shedding its outer layer of skin,
swelling and stretching
fitting its form to new perimeters,
screaming its birthed moment of liberty.

Nostrils gapping a wide with first breath
eyes darting for a familiar form,
her emerging life lingers in another’s hands,
while fragments of her old life’s story
are erased by warm hands caressing softly.

One soul’s awaited embrace bridges
a spaceless and eternal moments,
as a daughter nurses her mother’s love
and a mother embraces her child’s life.