Early to Bed, Early to Rise

 

Well a rise and shine, dear reader(s), I come to you a little before 6:00 a.m., after falling asleep at 7:30 p.m. last night. Gotta brush away the sleep from my eyes, wow, I really conked out hard last night. I’m listening to a little classical right now, but it’s making me very emotional—not sure I want to start today off in tears though, so I may have to switch to Q-FM shortly for a little relief. We are hanging in here at Hound Hall, though Michael has been severely angry with the way Med Vet handled Legs’ euthanasia and is toying with thoughts of legal action. He had a long talk with Dr. Sears which I was not privy to—I know deep down Michael just wants closure on Legs’ death, and I am praying Dr. Sears can gently help give that to him. If it were at all possible, we would have had Dr. Sears put Legs down, but no, fate did not have that in the cards. How I wish things had played out a different way, but God had something else in store for us. So be it, I say, let sleeping dogs lie, and all that.

So today Michael and I do our Covid tests to see if we picked up the virus from mom. Honestly readers I have no symptoms right now and I feel fine. To be safe, I went ahead and made arrangements with Fetter to do our therapy session on Zoom today, as I would never want to be responsible for getting him sick. He just had Covid over Christmas and I don’t want him to get it again. I’m looking forward to our zoom, I need to express my grief to him, hopefully he will have some advice as to how I heal from the loss of my beloved pet. I am enjoying the reprieve from Legs’ barking, which really was disruptive, so I can admit that to you without guilt. But damn, I miss that gorgeous, skinny boy so much. 

On the “when it rains it pours” front, our basement sewer drain is backed up, again, and we are waiting on Kevin Bartholomew, again, to come help us out of this mess. The dishes are piled up in the sink, my laundry can’t be run, toilets can’t be flushed. When will this problem ever be solved? Michael is trying to navigate us through it, but I think it’s way over his head (and budget). I’m resolved to try and stay cool as a cucumber, though I am slightly simmering that we are just a broke household of misfits in today’s capitalistic society in America. I’m embarrassed to be living this way, shamed, I feel unfit and awful about myself. I feel like I don’t belong in my toney neighborhood, filled with beautifully restored houses and well-manicured gardens. What am I doing here, I don’t know, I probably belong in the ghetto, amongst the trashy houses, and wandering the crime-ridden streets. I want to give up (even though I know I can’t). Dad, why aren’t you here to help? Mom, apparently, isn’t up to it right now.

Well, there is always the AA First Things First meeting this morning, perhaps there are some plumbers in attendance, or maybe someone from the media. Who knows who is remaining silent like me, and do you think there will be some masked disruptor like they had the other day? Who knows, I’ve got my coffee, and I’m in my recliner chair. My name is Melissa, I’m an alcoholic, this much is true.

***

The AA meeting was great, and YouTube had the awesome Backstreet Boys waiting for me in my morning queue. Oh, how I wish they would make a concert stop in Columbus, I’d be the first in line to buy tickets (fingers crossed they wouldn’t be too pricey). I just love that Boy Band, they give me the tingles, I don’t quite completely understand why I’ve latched on to them but so be it. Of course I love my husband, but mild flirtations with fantasy are entirely OK. At least I think so.

Michael is now up, he’s not sick, I think we are in the clear from catching Covid. He’s called Eco Plumbers, they are coming tomorrow, I guess Bartholomew isn’t an option anymore? Michael told me Lily was up barking at 2:00 a.m., gratefully I slept through that, though I heard her crying at 4:30 a.m. I’m for the time being gonna pop a whole Simply Sleep at night, so I can try to get my rest. I feel good right now, slept well last night, don’t remember any dreams, though I’m sure I had some. Gratefully, I don’t think I had much exposure to the news yesterday, and that’s probably why I slept well. I will continue on my path of trying to protect myself from it, collecting pieces of refuse for my art, praying that Michael doesn’t dump our sewage into the neighbor’s yard, oh, just working on turning things over. Gratefully, Eco  Plumbers is on the phone, maybe they can come today? Fingers crossed.

Oh it’s not a beautiful day in the neighborhood, rain is falling, I’m cold here in my hospital room. Time to call mom, see how she is doing, and take my Covid test. Happy Thursday, all. Welcome to the jungle.

Enter The Sandman?

 

So an aching, early good morning dear reader(s), it’s my 3rd day in a row of an early wake up call—at 1:45 a.m. this morning, not sure yet if I can fall back asleep, like yesterday. May have to alert Dr. Levy, though I might hold off on that one more day. My concern of course is I’m on some pattern which might lead to hypomania, then a quick ramp up into psychotic mania. Obviously the death of Legs followed quickly by mom’s Covid case has rattled me deeply. If anything, I’m acutely aware of any possible signs that I might be getting unstable—I’ve gone through the rodeo of sickness so many times, been in so many hospitals, that honestly I’m feeling like I can weather this current situation with the medication I’m currently taking. I just panic whenever my sleep gets disrupted, as sleep is the number one indicator of stability in bipolar patients. I know I’d be thoroughly screwed if I wasn’t getting any sleep at all, but certainly getting only 4-5 hours a night is problematic when you are used to getting 9-10 hours a night.

I’m not going to make that mistake of taking more Simply Sleep, only to risk it not working and me sitting here groggy and completely zoned out. I just wish I understood why my eyes suddenly opened at 1:45, was I dreaming, did Lily will me awake, is something not right with the Force, is someone else up at this hour worrying and questioning like I am? I hear the annoying pulsatile tinnitus in my ears, and I’m annoyed that’s apparently back again, thanks to whatever is causing that nuisance. I just want to sleep, I’m so very tired, maybe I go get back in bed and try to drift off. I wonder if the ABC Nightly News is somehow responsible for me being awake—unfortunately, I caught a snippet of some of their coverage last night, about a mass shooter, nope, I certainly didn’t need to hear about that on Valentine’s Day. Oh, I can’t stand what television has become, my serenity is wrecked, I need to do what sponsor Shawn did and get rid of the TV—or at least hide upstairs in my solitary confinement room with no TV present.

Nope, no more hospitals for me, this last go around with Dublin Springs was a disaster, what with me being put in a room right next to the blaring TV set. What were they thinking?! Wanting to drive me completely crazy?! And the tattooed staff, Jesus, how unprofessional, what in the hell was that place? Prison? I don’t trust any hospital here in Columbus anymore, I’d rather just live in my toilet closet until the meds knock me out. Sorry to be so dark, I’m just so, so tired, I just want to be sleeping, maybe if I close my eyes I can drift off in my chair. Won’t try to go back upstairs, Lily will just start crying and get me to come back downstairs. This is horrible.

I’m going to start crying again, I just feel tears welling up, why doesn’t anyone else see what a mess this country is, how TV and the news all play a part, there is just sickness everywhere, no one is laughing, people are hurting, no leaders to be found, everyone lost—or maybe that’s some big U.S. Mind Control Massive, like I saw spray painted on the pavement in front of Howrey & Simon at the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue and 17th Sts., NW, so long ago. I’m sick of the cold, chilly characters who have descended on my neighborhood. I don’t know where they come from, I can guess their M.O., they aren’t the cool cats you want to have as neighbors, the ones who used to stand with me in Schiller Park back in the 1990s when I went there for Happy Hour with our dogs who all played together. This place has changed, and it’s for the worse. Screw City Hall, screw the Democrats and Republicans, the cowards who got us all in this mess to begin with. How in the world are we going to get our youngsters into Civil Service, which is exactly where they are needed most, not trapped in their parent’s basements, playing Nintendo way into their 30s.

Big Lou, Legs, I miss my male hounds terribly. I’m just not complete without them. I mean, Lily is smart, yes, it’s just the male Bassets have so much character, they always do. And yes, they are the lookers. Legs, your passing has really set me back, I never anticipated how deeply I would feel your loss. I definitely better alert Dr. Levy, I will send a text this morning explaining my situation. Perhaps he can see me earlier than our scheduled appointment later this month. But then again maybe he is booked, who knows, I will find out. Or maybe all I need is my Fetter appointment tomorrow? Maybe I just need to talk to someone about my grief, and maybe that’s not Levy but Fetter. Maybe talk about it at the First Things First AA meeting. Maybe I need to call sponsor Shawn. I’ve got options. 

Time for a prayer:

Dear God, help me through my grief, I’m hurting so much. Help me to find kind, compassionate people to guide me through this painful process. Help me to sleep, I’m scared of getting sick again, I don’t want to be afraid of my bipolar. Speak to me through Fetter tomorrow, or anyone else I might talk to today. Walk with me today God, guide Lily, I will follow her. Work through my hands in the kitchen today. Dear God, watch over Legs, and Lou and Nell; say hi to Dad and his poker group; and help those troubled souls back down here on Earth to find peace. Amen.

I hope I don’t get angry today, no, I don’t want that. Just feel like I need to be away from the TV for awhile. Yup, maybe it’s a day for staying up in bed. Except I do want to take Lily for a walk. I need my exercise and so does she. Maybe today we will hunt for honesty. Could be tricky, as people are omitting facts right and left. Oh well. Far be it from me to figure that out. I’m turning things over…right?

Took a listen to a podcast my psychologist brother sent me about healing anxiety for good, and it was all blame the mother, nurture the Inner Child, trying to repackage all the stuff I’ve been working on in therapy since before my brother even knew he wanted to be a therapist. My poor mother, how about giving her a break, she’s simply the product of her fucked up childhood, and trying to do the best she can. 

Time for a poem, Philip Larkin’s “This Be The Verse,” maybe Chip’s podcast host needs to do a reading of this gem on her show. Thank God for the poets, probably anxious all, and thank God we didn’t throw them all on Risperdal, for the world would be missing out.

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad, they do not mean to, but they do

They fill you with the faults they have, and add some extra, just for you!

But they were fucked up in their day, by fools in old-style hats and coats

Who half the time were soppy stern, and half at one another’s throats

Man hands on misery to man

It deepens like a coastal shelf

Get out as early as you can

And don’t have kids yourself.

***

And on this happy note, go back to your podcasts, your temples, your massage parlors. For me, it’s Sleepless In Seattle, but I’ve got my hand over my heart now. Guess that’s enough.

Switchin To Glide

 

Well Michael reminded me that God only gives you what he thinks you can handle—and now with Legs gone, mom with Covid and me having been exposed to her Saturday, I’d say I’m shouldering a lot today. Valentine’s Day too, and I couldn’t give a hoot, I no more want to be cooking today than the man on the moon. I’m just numb, trapped at home because I don’t know if I’m sick and I don’t want to infect anyone. I had hoped to take mom to Vets Memorial next Monday to see the art displayed, but now that’s in jeopardy. How cruel fate is. So I’ve turned to Q-FM 96, which is helping me cry, with their erectile dysfunction ads and commentary about their 46th anniversary, which I deeply appreciate. Hopefully I can crack a smile this morning, though admittedly it’s gonna be hard. 

At least the tears are flowing, thank you sweet Legs for opening the door for me. I know it was your departing gift, and will get me started on my journey to smile and laugh again. Ah, Q-FM, thank goodness you are here, even though I can’t always follow you because of these friggin meds but I’m trying my best to stick with you as best I can. They’ve alerted me to the realization that National Enquirer is not at my Kroger—perhaps I need to put a mask on and drive to the Grandview Giant and thumb through one there? The nurse I talked to yesterday seemed to indicate that it was OK for me to be out as long as I had a mask on, seeing as I have no symptoms of Covid. Or maybe I get Michael to get Legs’ chair out of the parlor…but we might dissolve into tears if we do that, so perhaps we wait awhile.

I’m a mix of emotions today, all I know is I feel destined to be listening to Q-FM this morning, perhaps they are my Valentine all along, maybe I’m left with a radio station, now that all the print newspapers are all but gone. Dear Q-FM 96, it’s your 46th birthday today, Long Live Rock, I’m so very glad I’m listening to you today, free (of course). I hope there are many, many others here tuned in to you today. I think I’m going to ask Michael to tune into you during my art show in May. Let’s set the stage, shall we? 

Yup, Q-FM understands, and maybe they will help me heal my tears, which may be coming out at different times throughout the day. I’m thinking about e-mailing the station manager for a request for Warren Zevon, though I’m not sure it’s suitable for Walt Disney watchers. But then again, the disc jockeys already covered the boring nature of G-rated movies, so hell, they may be game for anything these days. All I know is Wastebook doesn’t come close to providing as much entertainment as my beloved Q-FM, so good riddance Fuckerberg. Guess I’m riding the range of emotions today, which actually feels nice. The hospital dose of Risperdal (STILL) hasn’t taken me completely out, though I may never be able to drive a beautiful highway again. Sucks to always be a passenger.

So we are getting closer to Lily’s walk, hope no one tosses a bar of chocolate inside our gate like they did when we first brought Legs home and he let loose with his barking. Someone on Nextdoor said we now have to be outside with our dogs whenever they go out for their dumps—whoops, there goes the neighborhood, when the dogs aren’t safe, better alert PETA, I guess no more wearing furs anymore, so fashion is out the window. Better call that friendly Sargeant Community Liaison and let him know someone wants to chase all the hounds out of the neighborhood, and what are we to do when this neighborhood has been a dog-loving place for DECADES.

Ah, new neighbors moving in, trying to change the rules at the craps table. Nope, sorry friends, first in, last out is the rule of the day. Legs’ law (thanks Apple word prompt) says we gotta play it this way, so all you new home buyers beware of what you’re signing up for (ending with that word for a purpose). Yes, I think I may start looking for a new male Basset some time in the future. Lily is depressed, I’m a loose cannon, the Blue Jackets may have tossed off a curse with Legs moving on to greener pastures. Edwin the house cleaner says he’s up to the challenge of cleaning our house, and maybe, just maybe, I can start bathing regularly and putting away my clothes. But maybe not. Gotta talk to Levy and Fetter about that.

Bring on rock and roll, the old bands, the new bands, just please Q-FM, stay true to your programming roots and keep the Christian rock on it’s appropriate station lower on the dial. You know the special way to spread the Good Word to the people. Stick with the classics, the originals, oh, you know what you are doing, no need for me to send any emails (except for the occasional request). Now how to weave Q-FM into my triptych honoring the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Google (maybe Apple) and Wastebook? Such is my challenge, and I shall have to think about it…perhaps I will need some Diet Ginger Ale to assist me on my efforts, seeing as cheap red wine (or scotch and soda with a twist) is absolutely out of the question. Better get the remainder of the moldy art out of the basement, I’m gonna need that table down there me thinks (if the mold hasn’t already gotten to it). 

No, Columbus Department of Health, no need to scare everyone with warnings about radon, if we all wanna die young it’s our choice. Note to self: order that sign “My Choice” from Amazon, or have mom do it and just add it to my running tab of birthday gifts in 2023. Now how do I try to make some scratch myself this year? Ask Google to mar my unread blog with their AI-chosen ads, which will completely destroy my art I am trying to create? Just take a tour of those food blogs over on Google and see what an absolute mess they have become; even the New York Times is flirting with ads on their Cooking App. It’s a tragedy, I say, what to do about all this, maybe I fire off an email and sound the alarm, but then again maybe not. Can’t fight City Hall (or can you?).

Yup, there may be more tears today, but I’ve mustered a small smile, so I’ve got that going for me. I’m so glad I found my way back to Q-FM today, Legs would have wanted that. Who cares if Lily woke me up at 2:30 a.m. this morning, at least I fell back asleep in my recliner, cold, yes, but I slept and that’s good. I feel OK, no Covid symptoms yet, maybe I’ve got luck on my side too. Who knows. Hope the sun is shining where you are today. Smiles, everyone, smiles!

Just Another (Non) Manic Monday

 Well sweet Lily has foiled my attempts to go back to sleep, so here I am as 4:00 a.m. approaches, grateful at least for the 5 or so hours of sleep I got last night. I’ve had a long run of good night’s sleep, so I guess this is par for the course. Oh well. Coffee is brewing, got the Ray Charles playing on Pandora, Lily and Michael are sleeping, Legs is in heaven playing with Lou and Nell. Guess I shouldn’t have taken the extra Simply Sleep at 2:00 a.m., so lesson maybe learned there. Guess you might need to teach this old dog some new tricks. Sigh. Michael said I don’t have to cook tonight, so odds are good I can just rest in bed this afternoon. Blessed be.

Lord, I’m tired. Wonder if I’ll just conk out in my chair. Definitely think maybe I might go back to bed when Michael comes downstairs. I guess I’m relieved that Legs won’t be making a racket, wanting his walk. There’s something to be said about the sounds of silence. Yup, I’ve got the AA First Things First meeting at 7:00 a.m. It’s Meditation Monday. I’ll just be listening, of course. Friend Lolly is up at this hour so we texted. I told her to text Michael, who I know is really hurting right now. Yesterday was so terribly difficult for him, heck for us both. And Lily too. Not sure what today will bring. I hope Michael has a friend to reach out to—or maybe when we see Dr. Sears Thursday he can help give Michael closure. 

Let me say some words about my strange, cantankerous (at times) husband. He actually has a heart of gold, he knows goodness when he sees it, maybe he just feels neutered in a way by someone, something in this wretched current state of affairs we find ourselves currently living in these days. All I wish for him is to find some friends to talk with—he is so intelligent and funny, and if you can get past his wild, long hair, you might see a twinkle in his eye (if he lets you see it). I’m the more outgoing one, but Michael opens up too if given the chance. He is the Yin to my Yang, I’m so deeply intertwined with him. Some may call that unhealthy, but it’s held us together for 21 years, and hey, isn’t that an accomplishment? I hope he can process his pain with someone, well, I guess besides me, if that’s possible. Look at me, I just worry about everyone, just like mom. Hence why I need my sessions with Fetter.

Well, we are getting closer to 7:00 a.m. now, and my AA session. People on Pandora are talking about Valentine’s Day this week, but I really don’t feel like making a big production out of it this year. I’ve got a broken heart right now, not sure when or how it is to be mended. I guess no one knows how long grieving takes. Part of me is tempted to start looking for a replacement of Legs; another part tells me to wait, just grieve, feel the feelings, trust in my Higher Power to guide us. I’m confused but that’s OK. And I’m sad. Terribly sad. Such is life right now.

Ode To Legs

 Greetings all, it’s me here, up at 2:00 a.m., probably awoken by a nightmare but I don’t recall. Maybe Legs came to me in my sleep and awoke me, who knows. I know what’s required, took some more Simply Sleep, so I’m waiting for that to kick in, which it should in due course. While waiting, I wanted to reflect on my dear, departed Sir Little Legs, the most legendary Basset you could ever hope to meet. Descended from stud Special Forces, who won the Hound group at Westminster. Only male in that litter of females I saw when I went with Shirl to Athens to pick our pups out. So loud that he drove at least three people out from surrounding homes to our property. Anxious, drooly, yet ever so lovable, Legs was ours, and we loved him so much.

Thinking about how he was struggling in the end, I was struck yesterday afternoon with such profound grief, and doubt as to whether we were good parents for Legs…mom assured me that we were, we spoiled him, let him have the run of this place, walked him, tried to train him and socialize him from the get-go, yet he always was nervous around other dogs (never people). I’m pretty sure this is because his litter was removed from their mother early—maybe that’s why he was only $300 (or was it $350?). Sometimes I would get so embarrassed by his barking, other times I felt protected by it. I thought about getting him a bark collar, but that felt so cruel so I didn’t end up purchasing one. Oh, was I a bad parent, or maybe just a bad neighbor? Is everyone around us silently celebrating Legs’ demise? Will sweet Basset Lily pick up where Legs left off? Will Legs be reincarnated into another Basset we might adopt?

Dearest Legs, I miss you terribly. I cannot look at your chair without feeling such incredible pain. I’m going to have Michael put it out by the trash (when he is ready). I’m not throwing you in the trash, Legs, I just know your beloved piece belongs with all of my art works that are waiting for it at the dump. I’ll be listening for you today, Legs, in the voices of birds out in the trees in our yard. I know you are here with me, and I know you’re not suffering anymore. Perhaps you can follow me down to Athens when I drive down there with Arlene this Spring. I’ll bring your clay paw print with me, tucked in my purse so I have you close. Edwin the house cleaner will soon be here to wash you away from the floors, but it will be cathartic for us all. I may never clean your blanket again, or maybe down the line I will cut the blanket up into pieces for a quilted piece of art. My heart is broken, dear Legs. I miss you so.

Keep Movin’ On

 Well I’ve cued up the Ray Charles, like we did when we headed out West to Yellowstone. We are on our way to Med Vet. Michael talked to them about cremation services. Tears are flowing. I’m prepared.

***

Legs is gone. Our beloved, loud Athens hound has joined Big Lou and Miss Nell at the Rainbow Bridge. At last, he isn’t suffering anymore, he is at peace. Michael was back with him during the last moments before the euthanasia, I couldn’t bear to see him, so I sat crying in the waiting room, talking to a youngster there, who offered soothing words as I sobbed. At least I could shed some tears, the Risperdal didn’t completely block them. Michael was a mix between crying and grousing about the staff at Med Vet, but I was sure to apologize for his behavior, which was nothing more than his way of showing grief.

Me, I’m actually feeling a sense of calm and relief now that Legs is no longer suffering. Yes, there is a huge hole in my heart, how will it feel walking one Basset instead of two? Sure, as expected I’ve already put out subtle “feelers” for a source to be on the lookout for a male Basset for us…what do you expect, we got Legs inside of a month of Lou passing. Hey, I work quickly. I’m feeling like walking, I think I’ll make my way to the alleys, silently paying homage to Legs and the streets here he loved so much. More later, I have to move.

Dark Side Of The Moon

 

So. Somber day here at home, I’m a wreck watching Legs and his breathing, I cannot tell if he’s in distress and dying, though it looks like he is reasonably OK right now. Michael spent a long time with Med Vet on the phone this morning and now he is talking privately to mom—I’m thinking about all those people in the Arena last night laughing at the man in our section who revealed his butt crack when he leaned over, but I was stoically silent, such is the fate of worriers. I don’t think we are going to Med Vet today, save an emergency cropping up—Michael wants to see Dr. Sears, who knows Legs, he has treated him his entire life, so I’ve just got to hang in there and hope we can get into see our vet earlier than planned. I’m completely powerless here, and thank God I know Step One by heart, I’ve done it perfectly, as required. 

The game was a bust last night, we got shut out, I should have known we were in trouble when we didn’t get the free popcorn I thought we were getting with our tickets. Don’t know where that miscalculation on my part popped into my head, probably misinterpreted some Gameday Blast I received in my email. Because my heart is also breaking about Legs’ current condition, I’m going to head to mom’s on this sunny day, and try to work on some art, perhaps start that piece in homage to Jasper Johns. I’m not good with death, it rattles my serenity, I think I can handle my own death when it comes, but when it comes to my creatures great and small, it’s terribly, terribly difficult to process.

I just want to run away, how in the hell am I going to handle days of watching Legs like a hawk? Maybe I just pack a bag for mom’s now, and hide out there for a week (assuming she’d have me). Now Michael is telling me if I want to go to mom’s that’s OK—what about all the stuff we bought for Super Bowl Sunday, will all that get thrown out? I feel absolutely trapped, in a straitjacket, I cannot get loose, it’s horrible. If I go to mom’s, I won’t get these final days (if that’s what we are truly talking about here) with Legs, if I stay here I will slowly go insane with worry until we get to Dr. Sears (what if he cannot see us early next week?). OK Legs wants to go on his walk, he is eating, Michael is calm, it’s ME, I don’t agree with holding off, I want to rush Legs to Med Vet, maybe his demise (?), I don’t know what to think anymore. It all just HURTS.

I know I’ve got to get out of this house, at least for now, and that’s what I’m going to do after brunch. I will bring my pills and that ugly green bag and pack lightly for a few days away. I hope mom will have me, Michael has food here, and keys to the VW, which hopefully still runs. I’m in a nightmare, I just want to create art. That’s all for now.