Saturday, September 22, 2007
Weather changes usually affect me only to the point where I have to pull out my sweaters/tank tops and put away my tank tops/sweaters. But when it's 90 degrees one week and 72 the next, something happens to Rick's nose. It gets clogged up and/or drippy and he gets whiney, irritable, and quietly grumpy.
Every night this week, there has been snuffling, sneezing, flopping, groaning, snorting, and other sorts of noises coming from his side of the bed. Noises and movements that one can't just sleep through. Noises and movements that actually wakes one up multiple times in the night. Because we don't have a tempur-pedic, and nope, those spring mattresses don't absorb any sort of jumping movements, but rather spreads them evenly. Like an earthquake.
When whispered: "Do you want Nyquil?"
No answer. *snuffle*
"Do you want Vaporub?"
Head shake. Grunt.
"Do you want your nasal spray?"
"I already used it." WHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE.
Nights (and days, to think of it) are difficult when Rick's sinuses are acting up. He's got a big nose and big nostrils, but when his sinuses act up, he says it's like someone's squeezing his nosebridge and air can't get through. And nothing he takes helps it, even the sinus medicine.
So what to do? Endure the elbows in my face, the knees in my back, the wheezing and hard breathing from the mouth, the kicking of the blankets, the flopping around (seriously, i think there's a seal in my bed), the banging of the medicine cabinet in the middle of the night, and the sorrowful *SIGH*s that come from this poor man who can't breathe with his nose.
Who knew that a simple body part, such as cartilage, could cause this much trouble?? Like it was trying to say, "Oh yeah, you think I'm just here to smell things, huh? You think that I can just filter out all that pollution and give it back to you in booger form without me having to work at it, eh? So you're just going to take me for granted???!! Well... I'm going on STRIKE!!"
To appease the nose, I've written up this "Ode to a Nose." (not a proper ode, mind you, really just a poem off the top of my head, but "ode"ing it makes it seem more poetic):
Oh Nose, how wonderful you are!
You oderous, odoriferous, Odorific thing!
You smell, you flare, you wiggle!
Breath would not be the same without you.
Food would not taste the same.
I love how your shape changes if I force you.
I love how you leak when extra fluids are retained.
I love how you get cross and throw germs out of your house.
Please, do not be angered.
I was insensitive to your needs.
Please, open up and let the air flow through,
Oh sweet gate of breath!
Okay so that was lame. But I bet it made someone laugh.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
I have good days and bad days. It comes and goes. Not thinking about it makes life normal and easier, yet thinking about not thinking about it is also somehow irreverent. I never want to forget what happened, because that makes light of the tragedy and the life that was wasted for no good reason. I started this blog with intentions to do something productive with my life (besides the recurrent pangs of wanting to go to grad school and volunteering on the weekends). I have many hobbies and not enough time to do all of them. Having a blog and forcing myself to post gives me an outlet, but before I can do anything creative, I must first work through my emotions. So perhaps a good way to stop running around in my head and giving myself headaches and stomachaches is to put it all on paper.
I'm not past being sad. But I've added anger to the mix. On bad days, I want the guy to get what's coming to him, and bad. On good days, I feel sorry for the poor idiot, a misled teenager. It is not our place to judge, only God can do that. And I can try to forgive and pray for his soul. I want to believe that he has some good in his being, that he has remorse for his behavior, that although he is responsible for his own actions, he is product of his environment, upbringing, and a victim of gang pressures. That he was not strong enough to fight the bad influences, nor did he have enough love and support from family and friends, which resulted in the person that he has become. This is on a good day. With compassion and peace and forgiveness. I have a healed heart on good days. On bad days, I have daymares.
I had a daymare last night before bed. For those of you who don’t know of these things, a daymare is a nightmare that occurs during the non-sleeping hours when you’re conscious. It is a wild fantasy of things all in your control, and you allow it to go as far as you want, as detailed as you want, have full imagined conversations, replays, alternate endings, etc. This can occur when sitting in traffic, having a quiet meal, reading a book, walking, in the company of others (they see your eyes glaze over), etc. Mine often make me have cold sweats, heart palpitations, anxiety, and a nasty look on my face. After a while, I realize I should stop the daymare. Especially when people ask me what's the matter and if I'm okay.
My daymare last night was about meeting Gil’s killer. I was at work, he was a student coming up to visit the Getty with friends and/or schoolmates. For whatever reason, I was introduced to him amongst the other kids, which is strange in itself because I don’t work with the public nor am I in the Education department. He introduced himself while shaking my hand. And I froze. I said, “what?” and he repeated himself. I snatched my hand back – and in Ending #1, I pounced on him and beat the crap out of him. And (of course, because it’s MY daymare) no one stopped me. I don’t know exactly how I beat him (I have no real-life experience so details in fake-reality are very vague) but I know I was pissed. I probably broke all my fingernails and didn’t even know. In Ending #2, (because I consciously know that I can’t just strangle people and not have any consequences) I watched him walk away as I stood there and wrung my hands, wrung my shirt, grabbed a nearby railing as hard as I could. I wanted to bang my head on a wall, pound it on cement blocks, rip out my eyes, cut my arms. I was so angry. SO ANGRY. And so frustrated. Additional alternate endings were similar to the second, except coworkers were concerned, people huddled around to watch me writhe on the floor and pull my hair out, but no one knew what had happened or why I was acting this way. I couldn’t speak, and I didn’t care if I looked psychotic. I was uncontrollable and my fury took over my body.
I then decided this daymare needed to be over. So I sat up in bed and cried. I felt so sick to my stomach that I wanted to eat a bottle of Tums. I sang some good, quiet songs in my head to calm myself down and lower my blood pressure, and tried to get to sleep.