The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

red magic and the kiss of death

"red magic and the kiss of death" 

I've been thinking about death a lot.

Why it's suddenly an issue, I don't know. It's a fairly popular theme for most people, given that no one ever escapes it so it seems logical that we would think about it, fear it and romanticize it. I don't think we can find the middle of it, though. Either death is in our faces, as in on every news outlet available, where killing and general carnage is commonplace and soulless, or it's a rare occurrence in an otherwise uneventful circle which tends to make it spectacular and darkly mysterious: the fingers of it touch the neck of everyone close, leaving them to look over their shoulder, searching for God and reason.

So, we're still dealing with the newest death to touch our lives and it's been a fairly grey day. First of all, I had another gall bladder attack around two-thirty a.m and it lasted until about ten. I took three Tylenol and waited for the slow-moving cool of relief to take me, except it didn't, and because I hadn't eaten in more than twelve hours, I felt sick to my stomach on top of everything else. I lay there, in the dark, listening to M. cough from the couch downstairs where he had taken himself when he realized he couldn't sleep, and I began to wonder if all this pain truly is my gall bladder, after all. What if...and then the truly horrifying thoughts crept in. I wanted to cry, mostly from the pain, but also from the frustration of not knowing how to solve this problem. My intention in life is to live it for as long as I can, but also to enjoy it while it moves along, something which has not been an easy task to date despite largely favourable conditions. I feel the pain, the cold sick in my belly, and I start working myself into hysteria because I think it is possible I am the host for some vicious disease, one which is eating me from the inside out, leaving me a paper shell to rip under the threat of well-intentioned fingers.

So, I am being scheduled for surgery at some point, but to date I've received no confirmation of a date (though my doctor assures me they will call). I wondered aloud to M. about whether or not it makes sense to have a part of me removed when they don't really know for sure that it's the source of the problem. It wasn't like I expected an answer, though. He's used to me and my physical complaints. The sting of it is that I'm frightened. I could take the pain if I knew it had a reason and a way out. If I was totally confident that it would heal, leave me to carry on as I was before, I would be able to stop thinking about reactions to medications, internal bleeding, ulcers and the 'c' word. The anxiety over this is making it worse, by the way. One gets to a point when they're feeling awful when they begin to panic that it will never leave them, and then the cycle begins.

I realize my focus should not be on myself at this time but I'm having trouble being more attentive with M. because of the discomfort my body is experiencing. He was up, looking after the wee one and trying to find a way to get back to normal and I was in bed, a pillow over my head, the covers hiding the rest of me. I know he needs time to grieve, but I physically couldn't be more present than I was. I had to sleep, I had to make it go away.

Tonight, I could not deal with making dinner. My torso is on fire, my stomach whirring about like a vat of hot fat and my back pulsing with a dirty pain. I couldn't fathom being creative with food, much less eating it. He made the pasta with broccoli, and I figured I could handle that, until he sprinkled soured feta cheese all over it, and the smell of sweaty socks filled the air, making me gag. He's sick with a cold and couldn't smell it, but my face told him what he needed to know. He ended up throwing most of it away, and I gave him what would have been my share, opting for toast and wee bit of peanut butter, begging the fates to let me alone.

Yesterday, after the funeral home, he insisted on taking us to lunch. We went to our favourite restaurant, 'The Willows', a gorgeous old house on the side of a lake and he said it was commemorate his mother that we were there, to order whatever I wanted. I mused about possibly ordering a Manhattan, because I'd never tasted one before, and without a moment's hesitation, he asked the waitress to bring one. Then, I went for a club sandwich with green salad, and thought it was a safe choice. I guiltily nibbled on the bacon, knowing it might disagree with me, and that I was breaking my 'no pig' rule, but after a few bites I decided to forego the rest. Dessert, which M. again insisted on, was key lime pie, and I thought it would safe too, because there was no ice-cream, which I desperately wanted. I had done what I could to keep the fat out, and for all my efforts, I was rewarded with an attack that is still smouldering under the ribcage.

So, today, after a horrid morning and a sleepy, red-eyed afternoon, I asked him if he was up to making ornaments with me. He welcomed the distraction and we busily worked at it until the dinner hour, after which the doorbell rang and a man stood there with a gorgeous floral arrangement. White lilies and roses for M. from my sisters. He was very surprised by it, and when he read the card he broke down a little, placing it carefully on the counter before leaving the room. I think it meant something to him that they'd been so considerate of him and what he's feeling, and I left him alone, taking care of the wee one, doing her homework and cleaning up the pasta/dirty sock mess. I don't know what he's feeling, and I should try to focus on that before I whine any more about my own drama.

Even I feel the strange, empty space to the east of where we sit and it disturbs me. There is a wintry hollowness in it, a knowingness that there will never be another phone call or visit, that all of her slivers of annoyance have been quieted forever and that my irritations have been replaced by a sense of endearment.

Why does it take a death?

Even though I know he's hurting, I want him to tell me it's going to be alright. There is a selfishness in me which needs his assurances, even when he is no position to give them, because it's in me. The fear is in here, as is the pain, and I want him to take it away, even if he has his own to deal with.

I tell myself that I'll be a better person when the pain is done.