Time -- to Move On

My (rented) trailer is falling apart.
My furniture is falling apart.
My finances are falling apart.

Yes, my life is falling apart.

I don't know why.
I don't know how.
The how is kind of fuzzy, all wrapped in mystery and enigma.

But my life is falling apart.

Death seems a stalker.
Granted, I was not close to some of these people, but I knew they were there; that they were an added value in this crazy spiderweb of life, love, and relatives.

I won't mention names, because those who were close(r) may prefer privacy to mourn or even resent (perhaps rightfully)  my claim of a loss.
A dear friend before the end of the year.
Various acquaintances, because I and my peers are getting older.

Until summer hit and the family became involved.
An uncle on my dad's side.
A brother in law on my side.
A friend's beautiful young daughter. My heart breaks for this whole loving, living, and now broken family.
Another 16 year old in another car accident, driving her grandparents.  My heart breaks for them.
Another of my husband's brothers. There's one left.
Whoops, not anymore. They are all together now, these brothers. It's a strange place for them to be.
It's still so very strange, at times, that Rex just isn't.
And now they all just aren't.

Aren't in the other room.
Aren't down the hall.
Aren't down the street.
Are not just a phone call away.
Or a phone call to mutual kin.

Anyway, my life is falling apart in so many ways.
That means something needs to be changed, and the only things I can change are my own circumstances.

So, it is time to move on, however physically and financially impossible that seems to be.

I have already been added to waiting lists of 10, 6, 5, and 2 years.
I have left my name and number on many answering machines. (Only to have my phone go out of service due to the financial mishaps)
I circle ads in the papers and call.

And wait here and wait for Death's next strike at my already stricken heart.

No Rhyme, but a Faint Persistent Rhythm

No reason.
No Rhyme.
No sense.

But, through it all, a rhythm persists. The emotional equivalent of a heartbeat. It may be slow and troubled. It may be clamorous. It may be nothing more than there, but it persists.

I watched my husband die. He couldn't breathe anymore, not effectively. But that big ol' strong loving heart of his kept on beating, in spite of everything else in him shutting down.

What a waste that was, once death was inevitable, and of his choosing. (He could have been kept alive, by a machine breathing for him. But being alive and living are two different (too different) things, and if he couldn't live, why remain artificially alive?)

But his heart didn't get that message, and it continued on.

That is where I am, emotionally.
I am worn out,
I am tired.
The joy is gone.
The curiosity us gone.
The drive is gone.

What remains is a beating heart, prolonging the torture of a nonexistent existence.

There is no life support machine for my dying parts (although grandchildren come close) and I'm not so certain I would choose a tethered artificial life anyway. Probably not.

Perhaps there is hope for a cure, or a remission. Some part must think so.
Too bad it isn't a part that knows anything.
Perhaps it is just a reluctance to leave the known for the unknown. Or just wanting to remain where we know love.

Whatever it is, the beat goes on.
Even when there is no hope.

Fear of Phobia

I'm becoming, I'm afraid, a borderline agoraphobic.
No, I have become a borderline agoraphobic.
The becoming I'm worried about is the full blown phobia.

I don't think that will ever happen. I have too many chores and a granddaughter. That should be enough to keep me getting out on a fairly regular basis. And there are doctor's visits for my husband, and going to the pharmacy, and grocery shopping.

Those things should all keep me going, keep me out and about. I'm not so sure they will. Even if they do, I'm not sure that some of those things count. I don't enjoy them. I don't relish going to Walmart after prescriptions. I don't stop at this store or that and peek and poke and just enjoy myself, just enjoy getting out, even though God knows I rarely get alone time except in the car. Maybe alone time isn't really that important, anyway. I can always be alone inside myself. Inside my computer, or lost in a book. (That's not really alone, though. There are people in those books, and some of them are stupider than the ones in real life. Who'd've ever thought that was possible?)

In some ways, I feel I've been heading that way -- this way -- for all my life. I've never been able to easily or naturally speak to other people, sometimes not even those I know well. I have had my electricity and my water shut off because I was unable to make the telephone calls to make arrangements to pay. (Many years ago; not recently.)

But now I leave reluctantly. Not even my writers group holds the same interest for me, because my life has so changed. For a year I had limited contact with the real world.
I had no telephone and no internet. Because of Rex's hospitalization, and his doctor's and medicines, and having to pay other people gas money, the bills got way behind. So there was little talking with anyone, except when I needed something. That doesn't encourage socializing from either party involved. At least I didn't feel that it did. .

No car -- I had to get rides, or arrange rides, everywhere and anywhere. Few trips were worth the trouble. My writer friends were the ones with the most available help, but my sisters were always there also. The writers happen to live and work closer.
But even with their help, I was isolated and alone, and there's too much to handle alone, but I did it.



I did it all, from the safety net of my home.

I'm afraid, often. I'm afraid to leave because I worry about Rex getting sick or falling when I'm gone. Some nights I can't sleep, because I'm afraid I'll wake up and he won't be breathing. I'm afraid to drive anywhere, because what if I'm involved in an accident and get hurt? What will happen to Rex when someone else brings him that kind of news? Who will take care of him while I can't?
My God, what if I get crippled?
What will happen to Rex if I get killed?

Rex, bless his heart, encourages me to go to my group, and to go to family events, if he knows about them. I usually don't tell him, because he won't /can't go. And I don't want to leave him alone for hours at a time. All the what-ifs come alive when that happens.

I can't let this progress. It must not be allowed to get any worse. Even I cannot live that self-contained. There are chores that must be done, errands that must be run. And what kind of example am I setting for Hailey if I turn myself into the Hermit Grandmother? It's bad enough that Pappaw is already that way.

Thank goodness for summer, for the season of picnics and reunions and weddings. Thank God for sisters and friends and other family who will coax me or bully me out of my little blue hole. They, more than anything I can do, are what keeps me straight, keeps me trying. Keeps me on the sane side of the line,

I can thank none of them enough. Ever.