Sunday, June 22, 2008

How do you go on?

When I take risks and succeed, everyone is happy about it, me greatest of all. When I take risks and they fail, everyone walks away, silent. I cannot walk away.

The time it will take you to read this post will be 1/30th of the time I spent in full body seizures yesterday. It is less than 1/100th of the time I spent in pain, incapable of converting enough oxygen, unstable, perhaps unlivable in the body that had those seizures. It is less than 1/100th of the time today I spent as the cost, recovering for what I hoped was to be 8 hours yesterday as a fun sentient human being with friends, but ended up as only 4 hours of time.

That is what is on the table, rationality, the ability to speak, to be understood, and to live without medical intervention or at all. It started with muscle spasms. Independent spasms in my right quad which I was later to find out were indicative of a lack of oxygen. And then, up on a ridge with a temperature close to zero, with snow on the ground and gusts up to 40 miles per hour, I began to burn. I was a de-compensating body; unable to convert oxygen in my lungs, unable to stabilize my heart and my heat. Every comment, joke and story I told in the car on the way down took me further away from humanity, falling down the blue well, as my nails and then lips turned blue. The pain in my bones, in my thigh increased. By the time we got to a house, it felt that there was a cancer in my thigh bone, burning with acid. I would have willingly broken that bone with the muscles in my leg, which were starting to spasm as well, if it would stop the pain. It was too much to sit, I had to lie down.

As the muscles in my body lost oxygen and nerve conduction, they weakened. My soft palette fell across my throat blocking my airway, so when I opened my eyes from my daze, while I might now have the desire to breath, I could not. It was like someone holding their hands forcibly closing my nose and mouth. As each second went by, I could not communicate, I could not breath, I could only feel the tension in my throat as the frenzy to breath grew stronger. My arms, what movement they could make, flailed as they tired to catch or find something to pull myself upward, a task that was too difficult for my weakened muscles. I think I managed to hook Cheryl’s face and as each second of burning in my chest, in my heart, screaming for oxygen, she understood, and lifted my head enough that I could suck in air.

This was to be one of the milder incidents that day. Or that hour or more spent on the floor. I screamed during that time, more than once, I believe. But most of the time I wasn’t there (I was away in the darkness) and when I was. There is no horror film that scares me because I was surrounded by three people who cared for me, who were TRYING to understand me, and couldn’t understand the universal message I was saying over and over again; I said it until I couldn’t speak, I begged it with my eyes and even tried to write it and yet, they just looked on with friendly puzzlement, while I tried yet again to say: “Help!”, “Help me!”, “Help!”

I was helpless, in agony and though people were there, completely alone. They were a foot or more away and yet no one could hear my cry, my whisper, my BEGGING: ‘Help’

It went on and on, my only relief was passing out, from which I was brought back time and again because I had stopped breathing and if I didn’t breath I wouldn’t live. If I didn’t live I wouldn’t hurt. I was fatigued from attempting to live. But then the rigor started.

I didn’t know what it was but just that “something” was happening, from my dead feet up, my muscles were seizing, locked in rigor, not slow, but not quick either. I don’t know if the rigor was done over minutes or seconds, I just remember feeling it hit my quads and then my lower abdomen. I remember Maggie saying something like, “Try to move her legs, try to bend them” and someone saying, “It’s already here, they’re totally locked.” And I couldn’t feel my hands, only as it crept upward and I lay there wondering what happens when it his my diaphragm? My ribs? Am I going to drown, to suffocate in a body that has become my casket. Linda said that it went all the way up to my neck. I couldn’t move anything but my head a little.

I started to cry and say no, no. They could understand me now. What was wrong? I couldn’t bring myself to say it, because like the creeping of the rigor I was feeling the same creeping over my bladder control. I was going to pee, piss through my clothes, on the carpet, everywhere, in someone else’s house. I was a guest, and I was going to lose bladder control. And now I had to say it out loud. It was, to me, the ultimate act of loss of control and humiliation, to lay there, feeling the urgency rise, as the barriers slipped away, unable to move, trapped in my body. Even after I left, I felt ashamed to talk to the people there, the person who owned the house.

In the end, I didn’t wash the floor with pee, or my only jeans, and panties. It stopped, though I don’t know why, and the rigidity started to loosen. The seizures weren’t over, but that one was.

When it was done, and I was done, broken but still conscious, I was put to bed. Put to bed while the rest of world kept spinning. Linda, Maggie and Cheryl talked, chatted; the very simple act that I wanted, the sitting around talking that I risked it all for. It went on without me. I had been the creature on the floor, and now I was asleep and life rolled on. I was woken in time to be driven to the boat.

I took a motion sickness pill. A porter pushed me up the ramps. I talked to the couple next to us. The crossing was rough, and though I had plans of writing the blog there, whatever small reserves I had created were gone, and I had to lie down again. Linda was elsewhere and the Purser asked if there anything he could do; I said that my oxygen was now empty, did the ship have any? He needed to get the EMT trained person, who happened to be the helmsman, second in command, who put me on oxygen without questions after seeing the blue of my lips. I guess another hour passed, I know I lost my speech after another seizure, and finger-spelled to Linda, who had returned. Then there was another seizure. The helmsman who was also a volunteer firefighter wrote so just Linda could see, did she want the EMT’s/Ambulance called to meet the ship at dock? Linda told him our car was across the street and we had another oxygen bottle in it. They wanted to give us the oxygen bottle. Linda assured him we could make it to the car.

I was able to be moved into the wheelchair by the porter and the helmsman came with us all the way down to customs, and Linda helped me to the van, which I could not transfer into unassisted.

This afternoon, I slept a long time and woke, again, with my right side paralyzed, having to knock and wait until Linda came. She was able to lift my legs over the bed, something I can no longer do, and with the one arm around her shoulder, I was lifted clear of the bed.

This is the real cost of trying to go and see friends for a day, only it wasn’t a day, as more than twice the time that day and three times the time today already spent in peril or recovery than I spent being a upright human being. This is what my hand looks like, my “good hand”, the one that isn’t paralyzed as I write this, I call it my zombie hand because, would YOU want this coming through the mailbox in your house with the groans and moans which cannot be understood as human speech? Because that is often how I sound in seizure, or afterwards. I am the THING of which horror films are made of.

So THAT was what the last two days were like. And yes there were a couple good hours and I have pictures of that, but I have no intention of cutting the good bits out to construct a story, like taking usable organs from a corpse. THIS is the story; that I took the same precautions I take normally and more and it failed, and now I am in pain. I am humiliated, I am alone. There is no look of defiance, there is fatigue, there is looking ahead and realizing that this is what “life” looks like, most likely from now on.

Linda and I talked about pupil checks during seizures and TIA’s and I told her that if one of my pupils is blown, or rigid, to not take me to the hospital. Because that would mean that there was enough blood on the brain for major brain damage and that the chances I would survive, and then pass the time of rehab to allow me to speak to her again before dying is slim.

But I am not dead. I mean, yesterday either enough oxygen wasn’t getting to my fingers or enough blood had pooled during the rigidity that I had black tips. My palm is a giant bruise. So while I may not have ALL my digits or limbs working, I am not dead. Which means that I go on, whether I desire it or not.

I just don’t know how. How do I apply for a job after yesterday? I am either having or recovering from a seizure every day now. The fact is that there may NEVER be a better, that this IS the better.

I am sure I am supposed say or it will be said to me, “Don’t give up!” Give up on what? There is no cure, there is no remission, there is just tomorrow. Even the helmsman on the ship knew that. I cannot go from point A to point B without medical assistance: to transport, to move, to eat, to breathe. Soon, I guess to excrete.

And maybe that wasn’t the “adventure” you came here to read about, but I can assure you, it is riveting watching EACH day another thing you thought was part of the automatic control in being human burned off, taken away.

Will I try again? I honestly don’t know. I used to go wheeling long distances but after being taken to hospital from here and there and having to have Linda pick me up from different places I learned that it just wasn’t worth it anymore. That wheeling down to the mall to get a Orange Julius by myself isn’t worth dying or worse, the 8 hours in the hospital before you are released to spend three days recovering at home.

Dying doesn’t scare me. Living scares me. Because everyone, even Linda, is very far away, on the other side, watching me break and scream instead of doing it. And then putting me to bed as she gets on with her life, her future, her job, her career, the excitement she has over a project that will be coming to pass in two years.

I am cared for, so that she can live, so that life goes on, while more and more, I am behind the glass, next to the air conditioner which keeps me conscious, and breathing. I see the blue sky but not the sun from where I live. Not the sun.

I guess now I’m not playing at being a goth, I’m living it. But people reach this part, and they go on, some have futures and some do not. I don’t know how to do that, to go on.

I have always hated that saying, “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Which was said by a guy who lived with his mother. “Whatever doesn’t kill you leaves you with scars.” Lots of scars.

So how do I go on? There is no plan, no adventure up ahead. That was it: a month in the planning, and 36 hours of pain.

I don’t know. I think I am in what they call “recovery.” And if that doesn’t make interesting reading, or that isn’t the Elizabeth you have come to think you know, I have no apologies. If I am human, allowed in the classification of human, then I weep, I sob, I suffer, I mourn, I grieve. Don’t take that away from me, or walk away because I do it publicly.

My helplessness leaves you helpless too, I suffer and you can do nothing. I scream and you can do nothing. I cry for help and you do not understand. So it is not what you wanted. Witness it for me. Witness it and when you don’t know what to say, say that. If I can bear it, you can bear to watch it. Or you can leave, for a host of reasons. I wish I had that option. Believe me, I want off this ride more than anyone.

I’m asking, if I am a human, then as one human to another. Stay with me. Stop running and look. Maybe I will get up, maybe I will try again, maybe I will keep falling. I don’t know how to go on from here. I know what tomorrow brings, statistically, a TIA, pain, brain fog, fear, confusion. There is no hope here.

But still, stay and witness.


cheryl g said...

How do you go on? I wish I had the answer for you. I wish I could do SOMETHING to help, to ease the agony and fear.

I know slipping into the darkness brings relief and peace to you. Yet, I selfishly want to bring you back, keep you breathing and keep you in my life.

I SWEAR to you that I will stay and witness. I will not leave you and Linda to go through this alone.

yanub said...

Elizabeth, I will not leave. If sometimes I haven't post a comment, it is because I too am exhausted, and can't think fast enough or type well enough to get a comment out. But I will make a point from now on to always post something just so you know I am here.

I know you can't feel that you are a part of the world spinning on. I know that you feel that life is going on without you. But it is so strange. I never knew of you when you were healthy, when you were passing for able. And back then, you had no impact on me. Now, you touch my everyday. How peculiar that you touch my everyday when you are unable to rise, unable to speak, unable to breathe. You touch my everyday, and I am better for it, and will miss you so much when you are gone.

Victor Kellar said...

You are in a darkness. I can't reach you in there, its a lack of light and colour that I don't understand. But I peer into it. I sense that you are there. Perhpas I cannot make out your features, your sound does not reach me but I know that you are there. So I stay where I am, peering in. I am patient. I am not going anywhere. I will wait for you; perhaps you will come out of the darkness. Maybe you will not. But I will be here, knowing where you are. And if I see anything, any kind of light, I will reach inside

shiva said...

Oh God, Elizabeth. I don't know what to say, because i know that whatever i say is useless.

I was listening to "Protection" by Massive Attack while reading this post, and it made me cry. I want to send you protection. But i know there is none.

Other stuff i want to say but too jumbled in my head now. Maybe i'll email you later...

SharonMV said...

Dear Beth,
I will not leave. If you can write it, I will read. If you can live it, I'll be here. Though I can do nothing for you, I'll be here. I won't walk away. Even though I cry, sob & want to scream for you, I won't look away.

I haven't gone through all the pain, all this sickness & become this strong for nothing. I will not leave you.


Olivia said...

Hi Elizabeth. Put me in the don't know what to say camp. But I'm staying and witnessing.

Carapace said...

You won't believe me, maybe, if I say I do understand. I've been where you were, yesterday. The outrage of having bought a ticket, with planning and prep time, to have a little thing, ONE day of real life, and finding out there's still more to pay, and pay, and hey that last check bounced, so there are fees.
And the loneliness of that little room, while the world goes on around you.Sometimes it's a room, sometimes it's a whole house, sometimes just a couch in a crowd. It doesn't matter. It's ghost time, haunting the world without touching it.
It is a bit of crap, you ask me.
I've been there before, I know I'll be there again. I don't want it, but there you go. I can't tell you how to go on; you aren't me. When my tide's been at its worst ebb, I bravely and decisively made someone bring me ice cream, I didn't defy the forces of nature and tour Japan. I've never been a contender, so I can't say how to make peace with that part of yourself.
So this is my brilliant Magical Cripple wisdom: live for that next scoop of ice cream, the smiles from Linda, the next pair of earrings. Share whatever joy you can find, even if it's in internet links and bad, bad puns about "freak accidents". Live while you can, because sometimes you can't.
Yeah, it's lame. So am I. So there ya go.
Also, I think your hand in that photo is lovely, like a bird about to fly. May I draw it?

Lene Andersen said...

I am here. I will witness.

Penny L. Richards said...

I'm staying *because* you don't spare your readers the details, the pain, the truth. These experiences need to be shared, and told, and remembered. I'm here to witness.

Gaina said...

Don't apply for jobs. If 'the powers that be' don't like that, they can get stuffed.

Do what you want to do with the reserves you've got on that day. It's okay to give up and hide for a while, just step back if you want to and re-engage when it feels right - not because you're pushing yourself to meet someone else's expectations of how you 'should' be handling this, or even your own expectations how you think you should handle it. Take the pressure off yourself.

Of course that means re-inventing 'Elizabeth Fucking McClung', but that's just what needs to be done if you're going to have a better quality of life. It's horrendous to see the person you were supposed to be disappearing off into the distance, I really do understand that (without the knowledge of a limited life span of course, but it doesn't make the grief you feel while adjusting any less painful). But you find a way to redefine yourself, what is meaningful to you.
The external life by which we judge each other - the material, physical bullshit - loses it's meaning and in time your internal life becomes the place where you gauge weather it's been a 'good day'. It's not 'I had a good day because I pushed up that hill' more 'I had a good day because I did something simple that fulfilled my soul'.

What you say about having a 'witness' is very true - sometimes you want to express yourself to someone you trust without having them try to fix it, fail and then react to their own sense of helplessness which makes you feel bad for speaking your truth (which is always necessary). Sometimes it's enough for someone to say 'I hear you' and do no more.

There are some people you won't be able to talk to about this, simply because they can't be a witness, they get too upset or try and fix you. Much as you love them, this is one area where you just cannot communicate. That's ok, just recognise who you can say these things to and let them be your outlet.

As for leaving? Sorry mate, you've got me for the long haul, I'm going nowhere!


P.S. Can you send me your snail mail address?

Tom P. said...

I am here Elizabeth. I will stay as long as you want me to.

Neil said...

I'm here, dear Beth. I'm reading and learning, and crying. I'm here, damn it, and not there with you, to hold your hand for a while if nothing else. I'm here for you until the end, whenever that happens.

I AM here.

I think I understand how you feel when you lying in bed and everyone around you just carries on living, and sounding so bloody NORMAL. It's very frustrating and lonely, isn't it?

As for you being goth, I'm sorry, dear, but goths only wear black. They're not supposed to turn black themselves; they make themselves pale. This may make you a bad goth; I wouldn't know, since I really don't know any goths girls personally. Sorry; a poor attempt at dark humour...

Linda loves you, Beth. I know you realize she has to keep living so she can afford to help you. And I know you love her. You're allowed to be selfish, dear, but remind yourself that you are loved. By all of us.

I'm not turning away; I'm not frightened off. I'm here and I'm staying with you. Figuratively, I suppose. But I'm here, Beth.


Neil said...

With a slow internet connection, I can post a reply while loading the videos you put up. Now that I've watched it, I'm curious; is it a mashup of three anime movies?

It's interesting, though not nearly as powerful as your writing. But I would like to see the rest of the movies now.

More hugs,

abi said...

The thing is, when you succeed it's great to say "Well done - I am glad that your success happened and I am happy that you shared it with me." When things go wrong, my words feel/are inadequate. It seems easier not to impose in a trite manner.

I have spent all day failing to come up with anything worth saying, other than to agree that you are having a really crap time at the moment, and that I wish it could be better for you, in so many ways.

Your blog is not particularly easy reading at the moment. I'm still not going anywhere, though. It's a privilege to be able to read what you have to say.

Joan K said...

I wish I could do something to help but all I can say is that I will not leave. I will stay and read your blog.

Your life matters; your pain matters. You are influencing people with your writing and your words. You are helping people think which is not easily done.

You make me think about pain and tenacity and perseverance. You challenge me to try and keep going.

No one chooses the pain they have in this life. I have spent far too much time raging against the pains of my life (incest survivor, intractable pain, etc) but the times when I could use this pain and share with others have at least brought some benefit out of a miserable thing.

Your life matters; you matter. I don't think anyone who reads your blog will leave unchanged or forget your words.

Judith said...

Still here. And you're right - I don't know what to say. I want you to be ok. I want you to be well and unafraid.
I'm sorry I can't do anything except this.

Wendryn said...

I am here. I will keep reading.

I can't help, can't take the pain or the seizures or any of it, much as I wish I could, but I will not go away.

Veralidaine said...

I'm here. I don't know what to say at times like this. But I know that I should say something.

I sometimes don't have internet access on the weekends, but please don't think because it takes me until Monday to get back and respond that I'm not reading each entry when I do get to a computer to read.

Being a writer, I hope to some infinitesimally small degree you are comforted by the fact that your words here will remain as your voice as long as there is an internet to view them on, and that there is nobody who can get into the sanctity of your blog to change them and pretty them up for the movies like "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly."

You are doing something here that is more profound than anything in a museum or on a high school reading list. That you come here every day and tell us what happens next in your horror movie every day is a masterpiece. It's not the masterpiece anybody wants to live. You remind me in ways of Anne Frank and the other people who experienced the Holocaust and recorded it-- they didn't want to be remembered as great writers and artists if it meant the Holocaust happening, but the Holocaust was thrust on them and they did what seemed the thing to do, they recorded it and created from it.

Tayi said...

I won't tell you not to give up. I will tell you not to forget that there are people who love you. We do, you know, even in your lowest moments. We know who you are, and we love you.

Dawn Allenbach said...

I wish I knew what the motivation for going on is, that I could explain it.

I for one am not going anywhere. I'm staying with you for the long haul, because 1) it's what friends/sisters do, and 2) I'll want someone to stay with me when I start falling.

I love you.

Tammy said...

I will be here and I will witness. I will cry when the days are bad, like this one, I will celebrate and cheer when they are good. I will be here.
I don't have any words that feel adequate. I don't have your gift of expressing so much feeling in words, but know that I care, so very much. I think we all wish we could take your feelings of aloness away and wrap you in the love of all those around you. I really do.

Lisa Corriveau said...

I'm here.

Elizabeth McClung said...

Thank you. For every end, there is a beginning. I cannot type as my hands are shaking too much. The pain. Oh, the pain. I will sleep and write then. When I can hold my hands steady, I hope. I think I got another chance. I'm not sure at what yet, maybe to take a risk again. Maybe this time, the result will be different. I hope so.

Michelle said...

I am still here. I am still listening.

Maggie said...

I love you, and I'm not going anywhere. You've got me for the good and the bad, the ups and the downs, and one heck of a bossy little sister!

tom p. said...

You make me wish I believed in god so I could pray to her for you. I hope tomorrow brings a better day.

FridaWrites said...

I'm still here. Still witnessing, still reading.

You've made my journey easier. I wish I could make yours easier.


Elizabeth McClung said...

Cheryl: I think that when you are in pain and it goes on and on, that is not a time when you are making rational decisions. If the time comes for me to sleep and not wake up, I will want to make that decision with Linda not just becuase I hurt and am too fatigued to care anymore. So yes, thank you for bringing me back.

I am cruel aren't I, I know it hurts others to witness, but I am so scared and feel alone. I should not ask these things, but I do. I guess that means I am human because I am weak.

Yanub: It is okay, you do what is best for you and your family. I know you read and this will likely (hopefully) drag out for some time. It is enough that I can be part of your life and vice versa.

I think of you too, though in disability time it is hard to know if that is every day or not. Sometimes days get away from me. I hope that when I go, it will be known that I went as I lived, and that I have made my peace with everyone and everything, that I have just gone off to put the FEAR of ELIZABETH into whatever adventure there is after this. But believe me, I will be trying every trick to keep my system functioning. It is just, something things like Saturday, seem beyond tricks. Not a lot of people carry oxygen AND an ambi-bag (to force breathing) around with them.

Victor: I know. I am sorry this isn't how I would want it to be, a friendship built over time, over a couple years, letters and maybe a visit. Nope, just WHAMMO, straight to the deep end. Thank you for staying. This has become, sometimes, like today, more than just a disability blog, or rather, the parts of disability no one wants to talk about.

Shiva: It is okay, you talk when you are ready. I had my day of "The world has changed, what do I do?" and so some processing time is expected, I think. Oddly, I would love to take many of the readers troubles on to me, to offer them protection, when here I am asking that they try to hear my cry for help. It is hard being human some days.

SharonMV: I think, like you know, it is not the living it which is the choice; my choice is to write it, to form it in a fashion to be understood, I hope. I am glad you affirmed your strength. You are strong. Sometimes I am too. You can come to me when you are weak you know?

I thought there was no greater cruelty than what I was putting Linda through six months ago. I fear what is coming, not simply for me, but for her.

Olivia: Thank you, thank you. I find myself reaching out and thank you for saying you will stay (now, more important, have you sent your address for a postcard!). See, what difference a day makes.....with the right day (see today's post).

Carapace: Please, draw the hand, not a lot of people love blue/purple bruised hands with weird vein patterns on them. I don't get hungry so ice cream isn't a thing for me (part of the autonomic failure) but I get what you mean, I have to find something that matters when nothing is left that matters. I guess that is the hard part. I mean, my father made me take cold showers so I would learn "to do something hard every day" (did I mention my family is a little wacko as in WACO, TX - wacko!). I will look for the things that cheer me or which I can find comfort in when nothing else does.

Lene: Ditto. Degenerative crap is a bitch, ain't it?

Penny: thank you...I think. Yeah, as long as I can write, Dragon Speak, dictate, fingerspell or blink, I will keep narrating. This isn't going to be on the bestseller list, as there is no happy ending, no return to AB world and no profound life lesson except that many of the most emphatetic, compassionate and generous people I have met, I have met in the disability community. Which indicates I missed meeting people who mattered for much of my life.

Gaina: Well, I'll apply, just to piss them off. The advice to take the pressure off is good advice. I just wish I could figure out where that switch or valve was in me (see todays post for classic example of overcompensating!)

Thanks for sticking. I will send you my snail mail. I am doing my bit to revive the postal system!

When asked a few years ago what I wanted more than anything else, I said, "To be at peace." Meaning, to know internal peace. I think that is something for the next life, so I am not sure if I can do something better for my soul but doing 2 postcards or pushing a wheelchair up a hill DOES make me feel better inside (but a whole lot worse outside!).

Yeah, thanks for getting the witnessing stuff.

Tom P: I WANT you to stay, I see you as a friend. And I want to be there when you need me.

Neil: yeah, it is very lonely to wait for sleep while chatting and laughter and plan and life goes on without you.

Thank you for staying. It can't be easy. It likely won't be easy. I'm not exactly the "stiff upper lip" poster gal! And yes, I was being selfish, and thank you for allowing that. I hope I can be there for you when you need a moment or a day or week of someone to listen.

And yes, I am not a very good goth girl any more - apparently looking ACTUALLY sick isn't the right look, you have to BE healthy, have a nice sexy rounded face and then powder it to be pale and such - having thin, wasting look and freaky conditions makes you a "scary goth" even to other goths.

The AMV is of four series - the one with the girl with glasses and paper is call Read or Die, available in North America as Read or Die OVA - it is considered better than James Bond (at least the opening) - 3 episodes of 22-30 minutes long. I think you would really enjoy it. The one with the blonde and the girl is called Noir, about a team of assassians, the group later did El Cazador which is really good but won't make it here for two or three years I think. Read or Die I can post to you if you can't find it (I lent my copy to Cheryl and SHE liked it).

Abi: your first paragraphs sums up a lot of our culture and how we have been brought up, even me.

I appreciate your honesty, that yeah, sometimes there isn't an easy answer and that yeah, right now it is now a fun read but actually it gets better tomorrow (and there was the S&M hello kitty post a week ago!). I am glad you are still reading, still here. There will be ups, trust me. But likely more downs as well. I will do my best to articulate them as well as I can.

Joan K: Actually I WISH you could do something too. I want to click my heels and go home, I want my wish to come true. I would make 1000 cranes. So yeah, it sucks.

Thank you for staying and reading. And maybe yes, pain can be used for good, I don't quite see how yet. But sometimes I was down a year before the up came. These made me stronger somehow. It is as if my whole life has brought me to this last year and a bit. Prepared me. But not enough.

If what you say is true and my words change how people think, then I will try to do my best to be honest in all things, and to not let myself be carried away too much, but let the life speak for itself.

Judith: Saying you are still here is enough. More than enough. I don't know what to say, though it took me five pages to figure that out. I don't want others to be scared or alone. I would do something to change that, if I could. I guess I write postcards. I hope that in reading someone out there knows that yes, it is horrible, but I survived that day, and I will likely survive the next and I am surrounded by friends who stay and care. That counts for a great deal.

Wendryn: Thank you for reading. It is my cry, my articulation, sometimes a little muddled, and to know that you will stay, will read, matters a great deal to me. Thank you. I wish I knew the secret to taking the pain away - there are so many friends I would use it on. No wait, that makes me sound like a mass murderer in planning doesn't it?

Verlidaine: Don't worry, I know a lot of people need to use thier workstations or libraries to read blogs, so that is okay. I don't make judgements that way and I am sorry if it came off that I did.

Well, I do have a nightmare of Canada making a Made for TV movie for CBC about my life from my blog, only having me go on to keep doing epee but somehow doing it while leaning on the wheelchair or something horrifically stupid.

Yeah. I record the day, or the story that day. Thanks for coming to read it. And to think I used to be SO ANQUISHED becuase as a 20 year old I had NO EXPERIENCE, none of those experiences and angst that REAL writers had - well be careful what you wish for.

Tayi: thank you, thanks for reminding me of what is most important. And what I am fortunate to have, people who care and people I CARE ABOUT! So remember that too!

Dawn: I know you know more than most. I guess I will find my own path and then when the question comes to me, what will I say? We go on.

I will stay with you.

Tammy: Thank you. I fear being all alone almost as much as the next wave of pain. I fear that people will go when they see the reality of what is going on. I hope that tomorrow's blog gives you something to cheer about. Thank you for being my friend and for being there for me.

Lisa: Thank you. Thank you.

Linda says I have to go, I will finish the comments in the morning!

Elizabeth McClung said...

Michelle: Thanks, I'll keep posting, the good and the bad. I'm glad your here to hear.

Maggie: Oh no! I mean, um, we should spend more time where you DON'T have your hands down my top and more when I am conscious too. Thanks. I still don't know what I did to deserve your love but I appreciate it.

Tom P.: Tomorrow WAS a better day, so your thoughts helped!

Fridawrites: Thanks, thanks for witnessing, I don't know how I made your journey easier but knowing you are here does make it better.

FridaWrites said...

Someone who once saw me do something I really shouldn't have just commented, "sometimes you have to do things you shouldn't do just to know you're alive." Or because that is living, to refuse or defy the limitations when you can.