I’ve got one flash I’m happy with one I’m not, so, um, you know, the fuck. I was going to write a flash and now, with the disclaimer as the lead in I think maybe I won’t.
Yesterday was a bad day. I don’t mean as in “You chewed my slippers and shat on the floor! Bad Day, you are a bad, bad day! No Biscuit. Bad day” Like the dogs alluded to in the previous sentence, the Day was just being a day, like dogs are3 just being dogs. Slippers are a natural enemy and dogs are ubnder the impression that everything is better with Dog fluids or solids and/or you should have taken him out. The day was just doing it’s day thing, starting at midnight and ending at midnight. I know it’s dated, but, regarding the movie gremlins and not feeding them after midnight --- it’s always after one midnight or the other.
I had too many things to do at once and there were fuck ups and my pain and stress levels were running a bit high and I couldn’t take any medication because that was part of the fuck up; being unsure if I’d be getting anymore. I left my mom waiting at her eye doctors, a follow up for the cataract surgery, went on my missions of, if not futility than fuckery, and … Well, shit.
See my meds are such that my first visit needed a narcotics contract. It also means I have to pick up my prescriptions by hand, not the sort of things that the FDA allows to phone in or fax (yes, they still use fax machines here, it was nostalgic to hear the “handshake” of a fax machine connecting). My envelope wasn’t at the front counter. The receptionist had a nurse find the attending to sign it. To be fair the place was almost empty so as urgent as they made it look, I’m thinking it was easy. Quick to. Though the receptionist asked “When did they tell you to pick it up?” I said Ten, she asked if I was sure it wasn’t 2 and I said it was. That was the statement that put the wheels of urgency into motion.
So I go to the pharmacy. They only had two of the three meds in stock, the anti-aniexties, not the big bad pain killer. A sweet young thing (think next door teen who babysits your kids. Don’t be a perv.) took my directions regarding checking with other locations of the mega pharmacy. I meant on the computer, she made phone calls. No luck. She insisted that they would keep trying and give me a call. I smiled my thank you for babysitting smile and took the pain med script with me back to the eye doctors. My mom hadn’t been seen yet. A minute later we were lead back to an exam room and were told the doctor would be there shortly. The second he comes in my phones starts singing. I excuse myself.
I luv u from my little sister. Can you babysit from my daughter. I called the pharmacy at the clinic where my doctor works obne floor above. They had the medication. I left a message on my docs voice mail, told my little sister that I luv her 2 and my daughter that the timing sucked, and went into the end of the exam. 1) My mom wanted the second surgery in May, doc was non committal when I asked what his preference was (it’s elective was sort of his answer) 2) He wants to run more glaucoma tests although pressure seems fine (great, a stoned mom) 3) a prescription for glasses for eyes that won’t be the same in May. Wacky but workable. Not how I would have done it, but I don’t think it would have changed if I were in the room.
So I drop my mom off, ask if she’s ok getting in alone, she insists it’s fine. During our absence a nurse had come to visit my father. No one knows what the fuck exactly, but both of his feet are wrapped in tight ace bandages and, for some reason, the front door was dead bolted. My mom says she had to go in through the back. She’s 85, on a walker, the back steps are uneven, icy and there is no hand rail. In some respects he underlying resentment towards my father is that he is no longer stoic but makes pain sounds all day long.
Pain sounds. Dad what’s wrong, I ask sometimes. Nothing I’m fine, he says than caterwauls. Mostly what he’s moaning or shouting is things like ‘I’m going to be alright’ or says his own name with different inflections. I’m just saying as off handed as my mom said the front door was dead bolted, it must have taken extreme effort and danger to get in through the back. I had a key, I was in a hurry. And I might be guilty of the same thing, I didn’t mention how high my anxiety was or how I hadn’t taken any pain meds or how thin and stretched my last good nerve was.
I made a personal visit to my doctors office after dropping off my script downstairs. I’m glad the reception staff is mostly all new. I asked to speak to a nurse or doctor. She couldn’t get one so she entered my chart and I was politely able to get her to type verbatim the circumstances under which I was using a pharmacy other than the one I had contracted with and had left both a voice message and came in person prior to filling the script.
If they want an excuse to get rid of me as a patient, however, they could use that one. I could fight it. Hoping it doesn’t come to that, but it’s tickling the back of my mind. I might have been very short with my folks in between runs or something stupid like hamburgers. My mom who is the only other person who lives here who isn’t demented cannot for the life of her answer a direct question with a yes or no. I might have shouted “Do you want a fucking ham-fucking-burger or fucking not?” I also had to find socks and sweats as no one knows where my fathers clothes get off too and I uncomplicated things almost six months ago by losing buttons and zippers in favor of elastic and cotton.
A long tedious day frought with bad mojo in my brain pan. This is not the first tedious entry I’ve put on the Box, but it is the first tedious entry about real events sans cryptic nods to who knows what. When I came back with burgers, meds, pants, shirts, socks, a battery operated clipper, they were both asleep. I went to the attic and took two pain meds, the nerve mending shit (from the nerve surgery several months ago), a Xanax, a shot irish, turned on some Jason Statham movie where people get beat up and shot a lot, eased into my chair and quietly cursed.
The cryptic stuff I don’t talk about wasn’t involved in yesterday. Shame that. I really need some cryptic stuff, at the risk of sappy or metaphysical, I need a soul salve --- the cryptic stuff can do that. It can because I want it too. Funny how that works, but that’s exactly how it works. It’s near the top of Maslows little model of the politics of human needs; cryptic shit. Hierarchy of human needs sounds way too much like a parliament or check and balance. It’s a bit like putting food as the senate chairman, water as a speaker on the floor and fresh air as a delegate from a state with one electoral college vote. Thing is when you’re thirsty you really want the water, claustrophobic, you really want the fresh air; food, no matter how high on that hierarchy will not substitute.
I guess I just mean I think of human needs in a more socialist sense. So I’m a fucking commie. I mean the needs are on a line or a hopscotch court written in chalk, boxes, not true, numbered, from here to there. Intimacy, affection, security, ethical treatment, shelter, food, health --- all that shit is in a straight line, until you are fucked up or hungry or wet or lonely.
Yesterday was a bad day. This is an entry about it. You shouldn’t read it, it does nothing and goes nowhere and it wasn’t cathartic, it’s so I remember or so that I can actively forget with malice of forethought.
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