Skip to main content

Patients

I think ALS is what one gets when one prays for patience. I don't actually recall praying for patience, but I thought about praying for patience. That must have counted.

I number among that neurotic bunch of people who believe we have a daily reprieve on our alcoholism, based upon our spiritual condition. Indeed, I've logged over twenty years sober and clean. I like to say that I learned how to pray in my 12-step program, but that is not completely accurate. I learned how to pray as a child in that rout manner: 
God is great. God is good. Let us thank Him for our food. Amen.
I also learned to say nighttime prayers:
God bless mommy and daddy, and Grandma and Grandpa...
My foray into Born Again Christianity, in my teens, left me feeling like a fraud upon my return home to a more hedonistic household.  Therefore, I credit my 12-step program with teaching me the nuts and bolts of praying right. Thanking God for all the blessings in my life. Not giving Him my laundry list of wants and desires. And, right or wrong, I learned never, EVER, pray for patience.

Having ALS is a consistent downward spiral. My losses are innumerable. To refresh, I need help with every aspect of daily living. Essentially, I'm a quadriplegic living in a skilled nursing facility, receiving hospice care. Some might say, Takin' up space, waitin' ta die. For the record, that is not how I feel.

Patience is a requirement if I want to have a good day. Sometimes an entire day is too much to hope for; sometimes I need to focus on exercising patience for an adult diaper change.

Whenever I'm approached with, You're such an inspiration! I think about the poor caregivers that have been on the receiving end of my very last recognizable curse word. How about asking them if I'm an inspiration? Some days I figure I rate pretty darn high on the going-to-hell-o-meter.
Labels:
Location: 2720 E Madison St, Seattle, WA 98112, USA

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I Remember...

I remember catching fireflies,  putting them in a jar, as a girl of five. I picked pears off a tree that overhung an alleyway on my route home from school, then enjoyed the forbidden fruit. .I had a golden cat who chased a gray mouse through our living room sending my mother, 3-year old sister, and me screaming atop the sofa and chairs. We lived in a farmhouse and I watched Romper Room. A daddy longlegs skittered across my dirty kid legs as I teeter-tottered on a broken kitchen chair back. I played grocery store and laid out a bedroll for group nap time in preschool. We lived in an apartment attached to a bakery. My maternal grandparents visited and a photo was snapped. Grandma held Dawn and Grandpa held me. I held Grandpa's chin. Walking through the back of the flour-caked kitchen, I saw scrumptious pastries and colorful toys stuck in the cupcakes with my hungry kids eyes. We lived in a two-story apartment building next door to a large farmer's field.  That field was my...
3 comments
Read more

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?
Post a Comment
Read more

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.
Post a Comment
Read more