ARE DOLPHINS EVER TIRED?

 4 of 100

6 January

Tonight's full moon finds me rather drained. The cause of this exhaustion is currently unknown. Could it be a relapse of 1/6/21 malaise and shock. The Congressional clusterfuck of the week is a spectacle both rife with schadenfreude and terror. Seeing McCarthy's smug and jubilant face after the 15 ballot was purely disgusting. Well, perhaps he will be enough of a fuck-up to get some moderate Republicans to back Jeffries. To paraphrase a friend, a woman can dream, can't she?

I'll admit to some apprehension about the surgery which I think underlies everything. Avoiding to feeding into that fear is not easy. With the exception of an inguinal hernia surgery, I haven't had anything since I had my tonsils taken out when I was about five. I am not concerned that Dr. McShane won't do a good job, but I am terrified about losing more mobility. The primary motivation for doing this now is my "relative youth and good health," good health insurance, and I want to be able to practice yoga which is a dicey proposition at the moment. My pals in the Saturday class and I make fun of my left leg and say that it is there just for show. (The sciatica doesn't help.)

And then there is the daily despair of taking care of Janet. I need more help just to keep my sanity. If I had someone to come in in the mornings, get her dressed, fed, exercised, and ready for the Senior Center, I would probably feel better. Allegedly, there are senior services available but by the time I have gotten her up and out the door, my focus and will are very low. Inertia and despair are tough things to fight.

Janet has begun her before-bed hacking, so I have put on the water for honey and lemon. We were out to dinner with the usual Friday night crowd, which was delicious and entertaining. When we got home, I went straight into the bathtub so that I could begin my two-hour waiting period before disinfecting myself. 

It is so fucking terribly horrible to watch your parent decline. Janet needs physical therapy every day, even just getting her to practice getting in and out of chairs and picking up her feet. She is just collapsing in on herself due to inattention to herself and inability to focus. She fights and resists me in ways that she does not do with others. And the two of us are left to our unhappy duet far too much.

In other events (?), I checked out a big stack of delicious looking library books I hope to have the clarity and focus to power through while I recuperate. I managed to get my mother's bedding and her flotilla of nightgowns (?) washed. Patrick was kind enough to offer his dryer and I did find a place about five minutes from my house with enough dryers to get the job done quickly. In the undying spirit of doing non-essential things, I pulled quite a few weeds. The ground is so wet, pulling them out is relatively easy, although there is a surfeit of them. I gave some plants some breathing room.

I swear I had more profound thoughts earlier today, but getting them down usually eludes me and this is no exception. 

Tomorrow is my last yoga practice before the new knee. I am feeling stressed about getting a room ready for my brother who is the first caregiver, but I think it is important. Plus, I get a lot of encouragement from those folks, even if they do tease my about my leg. In the evening, I am going out to dinner in Laurel Canyon.

One of my New Years' Resolutions was to be in closer touch with my friends. I need to mitigate the isolation of caregiving and living in what feels to me a largely foreign land. So, I am inviting all of you to text or call me, too. 

Hot lemon and honey consumed. Coughing stopped.

A WELL-KNOWN ELIZABETHAN DOUBLE ENTENDRE

If we are dying, let’s do it slowly, together.

Are dolphins ever tired?

The way we have been leaping

about the steamship Intercourse and heaving

as if it ran on our hot breaths;

the way we have been yelling

as if our lungs were bellows for the furnace

of that gentle, violent vessel;

the way we gasp and clutch each other

like drowning sailors, then die to find

another life, ourselves transformed

and kissing easily as fish or playing

like dolphins over waves,

or tossing like the waves themselves

above the sea-bed after

having beaten around our respective and

respectable bushes

on dry land for so long —

I am turned around, not sure

if we are found or foundering.

There is a storm above the ways

and one below, but for all our

sweet struggle, the churning all around,

our sporting in the wake,

the ship appears to be more or less

on course. We sight a new world daily.

— Pamela Alexander, Navigable Waterways, Yale University Press, New Haven, 1985