Gail Deemer

It's cold in here, 72.7 F and I'm cold for once.  It's kinda strange to feel cold since I've been hot for so long.  There's nothing like body fat to ward off chills.

I'm heating some noodlly thing for lunch.  The tv's off, for a change, and all I hear at the moment is the sound of the microwave and tapping of keys.  I sat in the throne room and Alex, my niece's cat, came in for his food.  It seemed odd to me to hear his footsteps (pawsteps?) on the linoleum floor and the rasp of his tongue as he groomed.  So many wonderful things are missed because of a box with magical pictures.

Walked to the post office yesterday.  It's 1.5 miles from our place to the post office.  I took a bag with the mail needing to go out, a camera, keys and a bottle of water.  I could've been there in about 10 minutes if I hurried, but I didn't.  I wanted to experience the world around me and see the beauty everywhere. 

Here, in PA, there's an abundant supply of beauty right now.  The autumnal colors are at their peak and the weather was just right yesterday for a walk along a semi-rural road.  I think I took over fifty pictures yesterday of trees, weeds, sky, road, grass, daisies and just about anything which caught my eye.

A pine tree limb twisted long ago to catch the nuturing sun rays.

Milk pods exploded, their seeds preparing to scatter in a stiff autumnal wind.  I can remember walking to school along the railroad tracks and stopping to squeeze the pods.  It was so cool when a gentle squeeze would release the milky seeds inside.

There's a roast in the oven, I have a book to work on and some bags to crochet from plastic bags.  So I'll end by saying though I can no longer drive to other places for beautiful pictures, all I have to do is take a walk.  I see beauty everywhere I go.

I feel a weakening in one leg and it collapses as I wash dishes. I pull myself up and continue washing the dishes. My husband continues to read the paper. It's been over three years since the spasms started. He knows when I need help and when I don't. I bend over and pick up some food from the floor after wiping the counter and stove top. It's when I straighten that it begins. I grab the countertop and hang on as my left leg spasms, up and down as if it marches on its own. Harder, quicker, so fast, so painful. My husband puts down the paper and quickly moves from the living room to the kitchen. He barely gets behind me before my head starts jerking back and forth, harder, quicker. It pounds his chest and I apologize silently unable to speak.

He knows what works most of the time and grasps my elbows forcing my body to straighten. Slowly, sullenly, the spasms stop. Muscles slowly relax, spasms reluctantly cease. He waits, holding me against him. It's not over yet. My body stretches, muscles stiffening, I grunt unable to speak. He knows to hold on until it's over until my voice is normal until all stiffness is gone. Like a disobedient child throwing a tantrum, my muscles jerk once, twice, three times more then it's over.

Sometimes I cry when it's over. Most of the time I don't. I listen to my body and know this spasm, this convulsion is over but another one will hit soon. It's best I get my butt to a soft place and fast. Almost every day, for over three years now, it's the same. When I'm alone, I try to stay near a soft place. Falls can hurt.

My body contorts spasmodically, unexpectedly, Words I don't understand speak with a voice which is almost not mine. I try to stop the movements, sometimes it works but not for long. I cry inside, not because my body convulses, but because I'd hoped it wouldn't do it again. Frustration. What keeps it going? What doesn't? I listen, I watch, I remember. Looking for little cues here and there which might signal onset.  My mind, so fuzzy that thought is difficult, tightens and I try to get to a safe place, a soft place before it starts.

Once more, the spasms stop and I relax. 

I stay inside most of the time in the winter.  The car stays in the driveway and appointments are made with permission of those who can take me there.  I can see the sky from our front window through the bare limbs of trees and bushes adorning our front yard.  The other hill, which forms our narrow valley, fills most of the view from my front window.  Sometimes I sit here, on cold, snowy winter days and wish for visitors.

I sat at the computer on one such lonely day after talking with a friend on Yahoo.  She and her family were going shopping.  I hadn't been out of the house for days.  My husband works all day and our cats, Chopper and Cali Ann, don't speak English.  I'd turned off the idiot box earlier and I sat there surrounded by light and sound, sad and lonely.

The fridge's freezer fan clattered as it stopped.  I'm not sure why it does that but it's been clattering at odd intervals for years.  When the idiot box is on the fan becomes a part of the white noise of my winter home. 

The silence of the tv usually soothes me when I'm in the 'poor me' mood.  This time, it was something more.  It was another indication of my loneliness.  Another thing, another sound, a voice I couldn't hear, couldn't interact with.  My soaps wouldn't exasperate, amuse or bore me.  History, science fiction, fantasy, everything the idiot box could be for me, no longer enticed, no longer held my attention.  I was truly alone.  Again.

A single tear carressed my cheek as if to comfort me.  It too, soon left leaving a damp channel down my face then dripped on to my blouse.  I didn't bother to wipe away the dampness.  Why bother?  No one called, no one visited, no one cared.  I was alone.  Would always be alone.  Another tear escaped from the welling pools distorting the computer screen.

Time.  7 to 5.  Every day.  He left for work around 7 came home after 5.  He met people.  Had a chance to talk, to listen to live voices.  I was jealous.  He didn't understand my feelings.  So that meant he didn't care.  Time mocked me, mocked my tears.  It didn't care.  It didn't understand my feelings.  Another tear followed by too many to count.  "Poor me' in full bloom.

A tiny voice called to me.  "Write it down."  A surge of 'something' rushed through me.  Sentences formed, images called, the tears stopped and my fingers tapped keys as a poem formed.  I can still hear the fan, feel time mocking me, and the overwhelming loneliness as I write this.  Such a moment, a snapshot in time, reminds me that things could always be worse. 

Some day.  Some day I'll explain what's going on to a doctor and that doctor will know exactly what's wrong and what to do about it.   I hope.  I think.  I dream.  Sometimes I cry then I get on with my life.  I refuse to give up hope.  I refuse to wallow in a pool of tears.  I refuse to let 'Poor me' stay around for long.  My poem, Silence, describes that moment in time.  It holds that memory for me.  To remind me when I'm down and 'Poor me' sits beside me, holding my hand and commiserating, that I've been through worse and survived.  Winter world sucks but spring and summer follows.