TL Boehm - Writer

Written in my heart


Phlegm, Just phlegm

Posted by Tammy L Boehm on May 16, 2019 at 10:50 AM

So here I am after an interminable hiatus and you’d think I’d come


back poignant, eloquent and gracious as my advancing age would


suggest. About that. If you ever read me you know that’s an


expectation too lofty for THIS page. Although, I do have a heart and


it’s been on said heart to post something, anything for several


months. I’m a writer. I’m never at a loss for words, but I am at a


giant deficit for time. Again, if you ever read me – specifically my


intermittent screams into the void since December 2015, you know a bit


about my situation. If you are blissfully unaware, and you return to


this humble page, you’ll learn quickly.



I started my morning at two a.m. today. I’m female, 54 and have had


two bundles of joy/terror/love and the bladder – while I believe in


her – is ornery and has been disrupting my beauty sleep (and it shows)


for a few years but now she is engaging other parts of my digestive


tract which resulted in me rifling through my grown son’s stash of


bathroom goodies in a hunt for the Imodium. If the steadfastness of


the containment field around those blue gels is any indicator of their


ability to wrangle what’s gurgling in my gut – the bladder will be a


solo act for days.



Why the overshare? Well, at a time in my life when I and the HOH


should be falling asleep at nine whilst binging on Netflix and


Traverse City cherry Ice c ream in our empty nest – we are in fact


displaced, relegated to one bedroom and sharing the only toilet in the


house that is not ours with our offspring and a spouse, a grand


toddler and a 90+ year old who is struggling with dementia. Toilet


time is a precious commodity and those of us who can control our


innards MUST control our innards in deference to those who can’t. Yes,


we volunteered to take on the care of our matriarch. We expected


sacrifices. Toilet time though, well? It’s complicated.



And so here I am, aching to discuss the deeper things of life, the


philosophies and idiosyncrasies and all the other ies that make up


this thing called human life and I am reduced to potty talk. I just


want a moment with a bowl, without a knock on the door. Without having


to wear hazmat gear and sterilize every surface before I go. And a


burrito. I want a real burrito too. Not at the same time I’m indulging


in a bowl. I have my standards.



Anyway, I have determined that in order to preserve the last shred of


pre New Mexico expat me I must return to some form of regular writing


whether anyone reads or doesn’t. So here I am. There will be lots of


caveats and explanations over the next months and there probably won’t


be much brilliance but there will be truth. I’ve been largely silent


over the past years about dementia and what it really does to a soul –


to my detriment. Perhaps if I by my rambling help someone else – it


will ease the ache of knowing that while I’d love to be verbal elixir


– most days I’m just phlegm. Copious phlegm.






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