Blogtopia
Phlegm, Just phlegm
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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.
Peace.
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