Skip to main content

Birthday Detritus

124Glittering Birthday tiara, emblazoned with "Birthday Bitch", sent forth by my surviving sister, sits askew the lampshade. A half eaten bag of tortilla chips remains on the table, dyed navy and green, in honor of the Seattle Seahawks. Perfuming the air, a squat, clear, vase filled with short-cut, long-stemmed, white and red roses.

Birthday cards litter my counter and tabletop, wishing me a  "Happy Birthday" in varying shades of funny. One tells me my sister "squeezed a unicorn to make me a rainbow" and there sits a rainbow-hued pile of poop. Another tells me a "Birthday Hug is Incoming" as a grey kitten flies through the air, from my husband. Still another, tells me that my mother "was going to get a flash mob together to do a birthday dance"; when you open the card, it belts out "Everybody Dance Now" and a little man vibrating (dancing).

One good musical card deserves another and I have one left from last year from my sister, Renee.  The last birthday card my baby sister will ever get me and it's a good one. Pink and furry with big eyes and it sings about Birthday cupcakes.  One day it will stop singing but it sang for me this year.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Fall

Orange, gold, rust, burnt sienna, ochre, raw umber; the riot of fall colors, in the trees and at our booted feet; a drive in the countryside; the taste of hot apple cider on my lips; the satisfaction of a truckload of firewood we gathered and cut ourselves; elk herds on the move; hearty stews, savory soup, crusty whole-grain bread, pumpkin and gingerbread spice lattes; these are the memories I tap into the most this time of year. Cabela's fliers in the mailbox; Carhart's camo-clad hunters swarm outlying areas; mushroom garthering; huckleberry picking; logger burgers; forest service roads; cheese sandwiches on the woodstove; warm quilts, cool sheets, and flannel nightgowns; cold butt, warm heart.  Immensely grateful to have the well of memories to draw upon.

Lashing Out

Fed up. Sick of hearing, "I'm sorry."  Apologies don't erase the pain you inflict on me. You pull my pubic hair. Your nitrile gloves pull the hair from my head. Not once in a while but day in and day out. You turn me in a manner that suits you rather than in a manner that doesn't stress my body. Why won't you use the pad and sheet to turn me as one unit? Instead, you allow my body to twist as you hold me one-handed. How good you are at your job. What part of "my muscles are dying" don't you understand?

Shards Cling To

I just met my new psychologist and I already like her. I would say that it is effortless to talk to her, but talking to anyone through an augmentative and alternative communication (AAC) device takes a great deal of effort. One must think about what to say and drill it down concisely and succinctly, Then attempt to type it out with your eyes on a wonderous, but infuriating machine, and hope you nail the 'Speak' button, and not the 'Cancel' button. You're praying that the device doesn't spontaneously, disengage the eye gaze, leaving you mute and helpless. You're also praying that the calibration holds and your eyes don't tire or dry out. Aside from all of that, she did not overwhelm me with rapid fire questions, nor invade my personal space, by insisting on reading while I'm writing, instead of allowing me to "speak". Those things are huge. Counseling somebody with my disabilities, present unique challenges. I have major physical deficit...