Meds Note

Just a quick note on meds ...

I have mentioned earlier my discovery of Xanax as an effective medication for the neuropathic pain I have been suffering for more than a year. But the trouble has always been that Xanax puts you to sleep right quick, and so one must take it at night. There is no feeling of drowsiness in the morning (for me, anyway), but it does wear off during the day. Happily, however, I have discovered that Neurontin during the day is rather helpful. It provides the desired relief (to some extent) and it doesn't put you to sleep. I have had this on order from my pharmacist for some time now, but she has continually said that her supplier is out of the medication. Thus, I went to big name pharmacy here, Kimia, and bought a strip of 10 tablets. This cost me 180.000 Rupiah. This seemed excessive to me, so I contacted my local pharmacist, who said that indeed it is excessive. So, although her supplier is still 'out of' Neurontin, she will search for other suppliers for a better price. Live and learn.  

Christmas Movies

Whilst 'enjoying' the flu this week, I have been watching old Christmas movies every day, from a list that purports to contain '50 of the best Christmas movies ever'. Some of these are actually pretty good, some pretty bad -- but what I note in almost all is the memories they bring back, for I remember the periods during which they first appeared, or during which I first watched them. Some are from the 70's, and I remember being in college, or just out of college and with my first wife. And then some are from the 80's, and I remember watching them with my little boy. There are a few that I have not seen, nor ever heard of. One of these is a trilogy featuring Peter Falk, whom the reader may remember as Columbo in the TV detective series. In this trilogy, he plays a rather unlikely angel, a 'field agent' from heaven who is tasked each Christmas season with helping one or a number of people in challenging situations. The first in the series is rather inventive, the second rather not, but in the third we have a truly classic sequence wherein Falk plays a female character! One can hardly think of anything more unlikely than Peter Falk as a female, but the amazing thing is that he pulls it off beautifully. Dustin Hoffman has nothing on old Peter. The gestures and inflections are perfect, and hilarious. It is just a short scene, but worth watching the whole movie to see the one scene. (Or perhaps in my weakened, bleary condition, I am easily amused?). Ah well ... this hobby brings some Christmas cheer, which is so far in short supply this year. 

Flooo

Boy have I been miserable the last few days. I have had a flu and thought that I was nearly at the end of the thing, but then it came back full force, with a sore throat added in. I am told by a friend, also currently suffering this flu, that this is actually one infection on top of another and that many people have been so stricken. These things seem at their worst in the 'winter' weather here, a stifling, oppressive, airless humidity which seems a perfect vehicle for the conveyance of such viruses. Nor does it help with the symptoms once you have them. So I spent most of yesterday in the air-conditioned bedroom of my little house. This morning, I have made it over to Starbucks, so I guess I must be feeling a little better. The music from A Charlie Brown Christmas helps too!

Peace on Earth

Tis the Season for denials of the man of the season - Christ the Lord. So here come the memes and the comics, accusations and insults falling on those who 'believe in fairy tales'. Here, the child is crucified while still in the manger, for, you see, he never lived. Or so we are told by the memes, and by the champions of the memes. And I wonder why, especially at Christmas time -- why is this denial so urgent for some? Why does it matter, when silence would be so much more respectful and graceful. Is it so hard to see that, for those of us who love the Lord, these judgements and disparagements are akin to assaults on a beloved mother or wife? Why have you bothered, if not to introduce hate into the season of love? If you are called to disbelief, then disbelieve, and go in peace, while allowing those who believe to believe in peace as well.

Please on earth. Goodwill toward men.

One Night

I do not remember what month it was. I remember rain, and that it was night, and that it was cold.

There are some things that happen whereof memory records but a vague impression, for the mind commits itself in those moments to an urgent need to move forward, believes in some deep and unreasoning way that if one moves quickly enough, one may actually move backward in time, undo what has been done, precede rather than proceed. We believe in those first emergent moments that wholeness may be restored, just as we believe that the suddenly severed arm may be pressed back into place and all will be well, as long as the repair is accomplished quickly enough, and thus essentially erased, as if it had never happened.

I will call the one person in this story ‘the man’ and the other ‘the woman’. I will say that they had argued that night and fought. They may have fought about money, or infidelity, or both. I do not remember. They may have fought about everything. They may have spoken of divorce. I do know that the man had said he was leaving the woman. I know that even then he wished that the right words could somehow undo painful events, could bring back what had been taken away – and he thought of it that way: that it had been taken rather than gone.

For a short time, the man left the bedroom. He wandered the house in the dead of night, entered each room as if to stabilize the crumbling structure with his presence, and then he went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom to take a Vicodin tablet to calm his nerves.

And found the entire bottle, the prescription he had filled just this day, empty.

In the bedroom, the woman lay, already unconscious. 

The man touches the woman. No response. He shakes her.  

“What did you do?” he says loudly. “Did you take these pills?” He shakes the empty, silent bottle.

“Leave me alone,” she mutters.

He searches the bedcovers, the tabletop, the floor.

“Did you take this entire bottle? Did you swallow these pills?”

She shakes her head, turns her face to the pillow. “Just let me sleep” she says. “It doesn’t matter.”

Now the man’s heart is pounding like a drum. His breath is short. He feels as if he himself has swallowed an entire bottle of pills. And he moves, racing to catch up with his heart. He lifts the woman to a sitting position, and she struggles against him lazily. “Just leave me,” she says. He puts his shoulder to her stomach, rises to his feet.

“Stay awake!” he demands, rushing with his burden through the darkened house, thumping against walls and doors along the way. “Stay awake. Help me! We’ve got to go right now!”

“My coat,” she says, catching the doorknob to the closet, sliding down to her feet. She’s standing, swaying. The man helps her with the coat, holding her erect beneath his arm. “I think I’m okay,” she says. “I just need to lie down.”

“No,” the man says. “You’re not okay. You just took an entire bottle of Vicodin. Good Christ! The entire bottle! We’ve got to get to the hospital now!”

She is walking, after a fashion. They are walking together after a fashion, like a couple in a potato sack race. On the porch, he turns to lock the door, and she falls to her knees. The man kneels, leaving the door open. There is no time. He throws her over his shoulder once more, carries her through the pelting rain. He has forgotten his glasses. He has no coat. The woman manages to stand again by the car, and then slide into the passenger side seat. It is night. It is raining. The park way is muddy. The hospital is just a short distance away. He knows this well, because he works there. He goes there almost every day. But he has never been there on a day like this.

It takes perhaps 7 minutes, at perhaps 70 miles per hour, never mind the traffic lights. By the time he pulls up to the Emergency Department entrance, she is more conscious than she had been earlier. She has begun to understand what she has done. In a practical way. She understands that she is in trouble. “I’m nauseous,” she says. She walks beside him, needing only one arm around her waist, trying to hurry. She struggles to make a certain appearance, because here they are, with people looking on, facing sober clerks, business-like, professional.

As for the man, he cannot believe that they want names, insurance cards, needless things. What is needful is that somebody do something now!

“There she goes,” the admitting clerk says, rising from her chair as the woman falls to the floor.

A stretcher is brought. People begin to move more quickly. The man is enormously grateful. People waiting less urgently in the waiting room rise to their feet to see what is happening.

In the ER, a team of doctors and aides goes to work, gracing the man’s own panic with a calming sense of purposeful sobriety. He knows most of the doctors on duty, and for this reason they allow him to stay in the room. He stands in the corner, pinned in, trapped by the motion. IV lines are established, injections are administered. The woman vomits. She begins to cry, revived by fear. She looks at the man in the corner, so far away. He thinks that he may never see her eyes again. May never see them again. And he too begins to cry, and immediately dashes the tears away with the back of his hand.

And the man makes a solemn promise that moment to himself, to his God, to all gods; to the sky and to the earth; upon his heart and upon his soul – regardless of pleasure and regardless of pain; regardless of person or want or hardship or pride -- I will never, in any way, nor forevermore, allow any harm to come to this woman. I will lay down my life, I will make of my heart an altar, I will fashion of my soul a shield and strong tower, and I will never forsake nor forget my cause.

And so did the man. So did he until done. And when all was done and accomplished, he rested.

The Gifted

My father had a special talent for purchasing the perfectly inappropriate or unwanted Christmas gift. For us boys - my brother and I - this could work out quite nicely on occasion. BB guns, for instance, were as perfectly inappropriate as a thing could possibly be -- and it was my mother, I think, who had originally coined the now common warning, 'You'll shoot your eye out". Yet, we both received one, thanks to dad, who had obviously, and probably purposefully, not checked his list against my mother's desires. Less fortunate were some of the gifts he proferred upon her. Certain dresses, for instance -- strange, gaudy, unusually colorful things which would take my mother's breath away, though not in a good way. And these he would give with great pride and flair, for he honestly believed them to be great treasures (and gotten at such a low price on sale!). I will say for my mother, angel that she was, that she did her best to 'stifle her lack of enthusiasm', so to speak. She might possibly ponder out loud, though with a polite sort of grace, 'But where would I possibly wear a dress like this?', and then place the thing admiringly back into its box, moving on swiftly to the next unopened gift.

I like to think that my dad passed some dim shade of this talent on to me; and I will say for myself that I have been the sponsor of several much hated gifts. I cannot say, however, that the beneficiaries of my efforts were quite so humble as dear old mom. I remember, specifically, a billowy red blouse that I wrapped up for my second wife; nor can I forget the horror on her face upon first (and last) inspection of the thing. One might have thought I had strangled a kitten before her eyes. "What the hell is this?" she said. "It looks like something a Texas whore would wear! Do I look like a Texas whore to you?"

I could not say, of course, for I had never been to Texas, and had never seen the particular sort of whore that the State apparently specializes in. I did understand, however, that she did not like this gift at all -- though I would have much preferred it had she asked, like my mother, where she might possibly wear such a lavish garment, and then silently tucked it away into history

Well, there were other insults awaiting other Christmases, though little by little, I learned the value of more neutral efforts, or, indeed, strict adherence to a specific list. And yet, I would forward one piece of advice this Christmas for those who find themselves faced with the un-asked for, unwanted, unseemly offering: Remember that to the giver of the gift, this looked something like the love that inspired him. You may never be able to wear that love in public, but it is a worthy clothing for the heart that receives it with knowledge of the intent in kind.

Laughing and Weeping

PBA, or PseudoBulbar Affect, is one of the stranger symptoms associated with multiple sclerosis and other neurologic maladies (such as Parkinson's and Alzheimer's).This is the inclination, sometimes without reason, sometimes with little reason, to suddenly burst into laughter or tears. I do not say that I have PBA. I do say, however, that I am much more inclined to laugh or to cry than I used to be, though I think this is more a symptom of older age and a softer heart.

In my life, it may be said that I have tended to be rather reserved or guarded (the fault of my father, I'm sure). There was a day when I could not understand people who would cry during a movie, for instance. It is a surprise, therefore, to find myself in tears nowadays while viewing a sad scene in a movie. Last night, for instance, I was watching A Christmas Carol (the '80s version with George C. Scott), and found myself weeping over poor Tiny Tim, over the ownerless crutch in the chimney corner, over the Spirit's pointed scolding of Scrooge for his hard-heartedness and lack of charity.

"Man," said the ghost, "if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!"

Yup, that made me cry.

Perhaps it has something to do, as well, with the callous, unkind times in which we live. It seems that the Ghost may as well have been talking to a certain American president.