Journal entry for March 31, 2018

One of the last things she said to me when she was lying on her side, toward the end was, "I'm really sick, aren't I?"

"Now you tell me?" I feigned incredulity, but I knew it was dawning on her that this was serious.

"What do I do?" she asked.

I told her, "You need to get fluids, antibiotics and nourishment."

"OK."

But it was too little, too late. She'd gone a whole day with no water. Even a tiny syringe full would make her choke. She had two doses of antibiotics in two days, but started way too late.

All I could do was lay there with her, watching her breathing get slower and slower. She never regained her ability to speak. It was like she was asleep, but maybe she could still hear me. I wanted it to be some mystical experience where she would show some indication that her spirit was intact somehow.

But all there was, was breathing. And then a gasp. And then a little more breathing. And then one more gasp. And then no more breathing. No miraculous apparitions or signs from heaven. Just life and then death. Like a switch. On, then off, never to turn back on.

I didn't cry so much then as I do nowadays. I can only think of things that make me sad, such as her asking me, "I'm really sick, aren't I?" Oh, honey....

Journal entry for March 30, 2018

I can make myself cry 20 times a day. I can't make myself laugh even once.

It has been since March 15, 7:44 AM that Boopie, Sharon, my wife, died. I can never forget those horrible last days, hours, minutes. I held her hand and watched her slip away. I watched her struggle to breathe, and I watched her struggle less and less. I can't forget her lifeless face when it was done. Just empty.

Even when she was sick, she was alive. She was a radiant human being with energy and feelings and opinions, hopes, thoughts, likes and dislikes. I can never forget all those things. The bad parts, the anger with what was her situation has passed like a bad dream. Now all that's left is sadness and sentimentality.

Everything is connected to her. Only everything. I felt angry when she was alive. Angry that she stole my identity or freedom. My hopes for a carefree life. Now I don't know who I am anymore, without her to care for, to shop for, to complain to, to bounce my stupid ideas off of.

I can only feel sadness and regret. It only takes a thought of anything that ties itself to her, and the next thought is: "and she is not here, she's really gone and is never coming back."

One of the last things that she said, maybe a couple of weeks before she got really sick was, "Let's smoke a lot of weed and listen to music and just laugh." 

I told her, "Oh, honey, I miss those days, too." It made her cry.

A lot of things I said could have made her cry, but she rarely did. She would cry at the drop of a hat over some animal story on TV or a silly commercial or Disney movie. If it had animals, she'd be bawling. I never understood how she could seem so indifferent to her own situation and then get so emotional over some sappy moment in a movie.

I only get that way now with every single thing that I see, because it all relates, in some way, to her.

The horses are back today, grazing the new grown grass. The horses she could barely ever see, the grass that she had me photograph because she hadn't been outside for years.

It's time to do some planting. Tomato plants, like she had me do last year, which she was so happy to hear about and to get to eat from occasionally.

If I open the freezer there's the food that I made or bought for her. I think, "The food lasted longer than she did." If I clean up a mess or mow the lawn it's like, "This was done last when she was still alive."

I'm going through her old emails, deleting the spam and the old bills, not reading everything, but watching writing abilities go from worse to better as I get to the older emails. I'm seeing birthday wishes from Hannelore go year by year. There was a lot of pain and sadness back then, too. I can't process it all.

I have a lifetime of things accumulated in this house, all of them tied directly or indirectly to her. I can only make it through the day if I don't even think about all of them. Maybe pick one or two things a day, make a small effort and try to pass the time. I'm trying to not be to inactive because I am feeling the effects of not working, and now not having any real thing to focus on.

I thought I would live for this day, this so-called freedom to reclaim "my identity," but my soul has had a hole in it for years. Most of it has leaked out a long time ago. What is left of the person I became, the caregiver, sufferer of woes?

I can't think of anything that even seems the least bit like it's going to make a difference. Why do this vs. that? Anything vs. nothing? I guess I don't want to make myself any worse off than I already am, so I keep up a minimal routine of eating, exercise and chores. But who am I kidding?

If I could lay down and sleep for a month, I would. Or even longer. I have the cats and dogs to think about. And who will inherit this place when I'm gone too? I know it will happen eventually, but now with Sharon gone, it seems so much closer. And I don't mind.

I just don't want to suffer the long process of deterioration. I could never endure what she did. God, how did she stay alive so long in such a condition? And do it with so little complaining?

I complain even when there's nothing wrong. I just find something and make it the focus of my attention until I can't even see the beautiful sunny day, the green grass or the horses, just the "problem." She could barely talk, eat or move, but when she felt a breeze on her skin, she managed to tell me, "That feels nice." If I grow to be half as gracious a human being as that, I will consider it a win.

I think about her every day, but am I being selfish and self-indulgent in crying about every little thing? She'd probably say that I was. That I need to get to doing something productive and stop with all the moping. But you can't clean up from the flood until the rains are over. And it's still pouring.

Journal entry for March 13, 2018

Today might be the day. My heart is breaking again. I am in the room with her and she is breathing rapidly. Shallow breaths. She's been asleep 12 hours. At least she's not groaning. But she is struggling. She's so brave, she declined all morphine. She doesn't want to die, but her body is so weak.

I'm not saying the meaningful things I intended when I picked up this journal. I wanted to say how meaningful it all is. And meaningless. I mean, everything seems so meaningless right now and so meaningful. Everything is meaningless, and everything is so unbearably meaningful.

I don't know how I will face the world alone. I've been alone in my head for years, always. But she's been there in my back pocket, always dependable to keep me from straying too far. She brought a level of beauty to my life that I would never have found in my undisciplined flailing.

She was a gift to me, a sacrifice of a life, to show me how to be a human. I'm not a very good one, a pathetic baby duck.

Oh, honey, you'll be in my heart forever. I'll never get over you, and that's OK. Some scars are beautiful relics to treasure. But I'll miss you. The cats, too. Everything will have a filter of the love and sadness of you over it.

Looking through my photos on the computer, the slideshow is going along with some soothing Enya music. So many memories, some long ago, some recent, that I shared with her. Pictures from my bike rides. I would look for things to photograph for her.

Cows were her favorite. And horses. And green fields. And barns. Or was that me? But she liked it when I would show her pictures of where I'd gone. It took her places. I took her with me in my head. When I decided to photograph this or that, I always thought, "What would Boopie think of this? What would Boopie do here?"

Journal entry for March 8, 2018

I guess I'm indulging, then. I'm taking some time out of my Friday, in between feeding Sharon breakfast while watching "The Price is Right" (not my favorite show, but she really hates to miss it) and then punishing myself afterward for my shitty attitude by working on the tax spread sheet. We account for all of our expenses so we can deduct just about everything (not legally, of course). Now there's a few minutes before Gina gets here to help with Sharon's bathing.

Let's recap the week so far. For Monday I have a win--I went for a bike ride and explored new territory. The top of a hill in the Daughtery Wildlife area. I wore my goggles for a bit but didn't need them, mostly. My eye didn't bother me as much.

I have this theory that I can cure myself of just about anything. If I get enough cardio and activity in, consistently, to distract myself and I circulate my blood enough, I can remove my toxic invaders. I'm convinced that my eye problem stems from exposure to toxic mold or household allergens. Why else would I feel better after extended times away from home? FUCK this whole eye shit.

I finished taking Sharon's amoxicillan, which she declined to take although the nurse really thought she had pneumonia a couple of weeks ago. It has since relented, but maybe it's just under the radar. Now she's just her usual: weak, dehydrated, unable to speak clearly and weeping at everything.

Anyway, let's stay with the timeline. Tuesday Gina was not well, so she didn't make it for the Tuesday shaving. I cooked oil instead and we watched a movie, "Flash Gordon," which put Sharon to sleep. I liked it, but only because it was incredibly corny and easy to watch without paying too much attention.

My eye was worse that day and it felt like a sinus swelling kind of thing. It doesn't look super bad, but I feel it. And then Wednesday was Gina's visit and I picked up Sharon's meds at the Medicine Shoppe. Not a lot of excitement, but trying to stay positive. Eye not better and not worse. Hope for the antibiotics making a difference is kind of fading at this point.

Thursday--Sharon's dad came to visit. We washed her hair and she pooped. And by that I mean that I manually extracted 2 weeks worth of fecal matter from her rectum with a gloved hand. She is used to this and it doesn't make her cry anymore. It seems to be interminable, because there is always more.

That brings us to Friday, today. I finished the ABX and am getting bummed about the lack of results. At least it didn't mess up my gut too bad. I took probiotics and quit eating dairy for the time. Now I'm drinking a Borax and baking soda recipe for fighting fungal infections. I have little faith in this, but am on the ropes, so I guess I'm just flailing.

I think too much about myself and my problems. Even Sharon and all her problems are still viewed through my own self-centered lens.

So this is my indulgence. I get to sit here and bitch about stuff while sitting on the front porch waiting for Gina. And sucking on an orange flavored chewable vitamin C. And listening to the sound of Troy working on my neighbor's fence. He is still not 100% done with our fence. Just another thing to bitch about.

I don't care. I'm losing interest in stuff. I want to feel good but I'm going to have to get used to there being several problems with my human body at any given time.

I think about death constantly. Where does my life fit into the whole cosmic scheme of things? Am I just a little twinkle of light in between the darkness before and the darkness after? Will that be that when I finally fall apart beyond repair?

I do suspect that Sharon will go first, but I don't know what to do or think or feel other than be sad and be an aimless, ambling survivor. Until I become unhinged and also leave. Bill, then Gracie. Grandma, then Grandpa. Then Uncle Steve. Oh, and my high school girlfriend, Ilene. And recently Sharon's mom. I can't hold out forever. And why should I? Things are so much less enjoyable now.

Whatever happened to me? I was fine a few years back. I loved to party and get drunk and high. I kept myself entertained with stuff to look forward to. After work. Weekends. I was never so empty of meaning to my life as I am now. I don't know because I didn't write down my thoughts in a journal back then. I suspect it is because they were just happy visitors that didn't bother me all that much.

I guess I'm done indulging for now.

Journal entry for March 2, 2018

I don't know what the purpose is for writing down my thoughts. Am I just trying to wring out the mop so it can finally dry out? I don't guess these observations are very profound. I am just addicted to words. The constant describing of the state of things. The searching for the definitive description of what it is to be me at the moment. Obsession would describe it.

Right now I'm obsessed with the malady of my left eye. I want to not think about it, give it a chance to get better, but at the same time do something, anything, in the direction of making it better. So far this has involved: 2 trips to the Walmart optometrist, numerous OTC and prescription eye drops, cold compresses, warm compresses, honey eye drops, lid scrubs, facial cleansing with apple cider vinegar (ouch!), tea tree oil, castor oil, clothes and bedding washing (extra, I mean) and vacuuming (extra).

I am just too bothered by it to do anything in the realm of actual, living my life, let's call it. I feel like a ghost because I mostly just hang around the house pondering "what can I do?" And I find it's mostly nothing.

I wake up, take antibiotic (eye obsession again) wash my eyelids and assess what condition of the conjunctive layer is in after a night of dry-eyed sleep(less) sleep. Then I exercise for 15 minutes or so. The cold weather makes walking the dogs undesirable, so I skip it. I take a shower and spend an hour making breakfast.

I eat breakfast and feed Sharon. Oh, I forgot to include the minimum morning cleanup of Sharon in there before the exercise, but that's part of the routine, too. So, breakfast and the TV show of the day (or 2 or 3) while eating. It takes 45 minutes to 1-1/2 hours to feed Sharon a meal so that she won't choke (too much). We're all done by 11:45.

So having woken up at 7 AM, eaten breakfast and showered, the 15 min. exercise is about it for the morning. Now I go downstairs and brush my teeth and Sharon will most likely be asleep when I get back. What's next?

I may do a load of laundry, a part of my new obsession with removing allergens unsuccessfully. Or look on the computer...for what? I dunno, I may google eye disorders or just look Facebook and find satisfaction in neither. Nothing gets accomplished and soon it is 2 o'clock, Sharon's medication time.

I load her up with the meds and TV shows that she will watch/fall asleep to for the next few hours. Now I have another gap of time to find purposeful activity for. In the past it would be my outdoor activity time, but like I said, the weather either too cold, too windy or too many allergens. See?

I stay focused on anything to distract form my current misery. Play the cello for 5 minutes. I suck, so I give up quickly. Play guitar.  A little better, but I'm mostly rusty and uninspired. A big lot of "why bother?"

I feel guilty for the wastefulness of the time. The days and weeks with little or nothing to show. If I clean the sink in the bathroom that's an accomplishment, but I lack the follow through or the "give a shit" to clean the entire bathroom. That can wait, like everything else, until I feel better. Or until the level of filth gets critical and then I will do the least amount possible.

I guess I don't feel like anything is worth the effort right now. I want to get past this, to plant a garden, to mow my lawn, walk the dogs, ride the bike, but everything seems, I dunno, pointless. I won't enjoy it and therefore nothing will be gained by doing it. Sounds like depression, I guess, if we're naming and defining things.

But I'm too much of a philosopher to be so narrowly defined. My non-dual, non-existent world view leaves me with "nothing to do, nowhere to go." So I should "just be." Well, right now, that's about it. I'm just being. And it ain't really all that great.