The needles are turning my once perfect arm into a freakish, deformed, bumpy scar. The constant increased blood flow to that part of my body is hurting blood flow to my brain and other important organs. After a treatment my thinking is fuzzy. Then a puff of the medicinal and I don’t care anymore until morning.
Yoga, meditation, and acupuncture didn’t do much for me. Deep breathing did give me a short dizzy buzz. For the last eight months, fatigue, both physical and mental, has put a dark cloud of doom over me. It just so happens that eight months ago I quit smoking marijuana too. I experimented again and found myself dancing in the kitchen. I was really shaking my booty. The dark cloud blew away. I found myself laughing at something stupid. I thought about sex and how being alone never stopped me.
I have relied on an old friend. I’m so happy it helped me.
Tired black men and senior citizens in wheelchairs all looking very drained. These are my Dialysis clinic buddies.
“Mr. Lebherz, I’m going to stick you today.” The technician is ready to go. She pushes two needles into my arm. They are the size of small nails with tubes attached. The cleaning process has started. I sit for the next four hours. Four hours of reading, television, and looking around the room at my buddies who look like they are ready to pass out or kick the bucket.
My niece/web editor asks me almost everyday, how’s the writing going, got anything good to post?
But, I haven’t felt like writing lately–I sit and stare at my pens and tablets, and then I go see what my new roommate is up to.
From going vegetarian, I’ve lost so much weight that my scale doesn’t know what to say. When I step on, it used to tell me “One at a time, please,” but now it asks, “Stephen? Is that you?” I never thought I would miss its fat jokes.
What do you do to keep writing when you don’t feel like you have anything good to say? How do you get back into writing when you’ve gotten out of your routine?
One winter many years ago, I put a noose around my neck and stepped off a chair.
My weight snapped the thin rope almost immediately, but not before the pipe it was tied to pulled out of the ceiling and sprung a leak. Somehow I had scraped my wrist. A bead of blood came out of the scratch, and I put a Band-Aid on it–with antiseptic.
Boy! Did that sting!
As winter approaches, my good mood deteriorates and here I am again thinking, get the rope out.
But, I know from experience– I can’t do it.
I’m chicken, and I can’t afford the plumbing bill.
Spring will return. Carry on.
Ready for a relaxing Sunday, my brother called to say Dad’s going to to the emergency room because his digestion isn’t working right. That’s when I realized that I had fixed him his favorite salmon dinner just two nights earlier. He had consumed enough for three people. He also mentioned that night that he was taking extra mineral oils for his digestion. I don’t always listen closely to his comments like that at the dinner table. When he ended up at the hospital I knew this could be information which the team of crack nurses and doctors at the emergency room would need to know. I grabbed the dog and headed in town. He will be ninety-four in September. Just like the rest of us, he is afraid of kicking the bucket. It all came out OK in the end. When you help someone it makes you feel good sometimes.