I want to run awayyyyyyyyyyyyy. I am so sick of the sick house, a million people call on the house phone which makes a gawdawful noise when it rings. Everyone want to help out so the fridge is crammed with food, giant vats of soup we will never eat and the like. When I escape, I come home and someone else is here. I think I have become a misathrope. My office is now the sick room so I can't even go in there to write. And I think I am a b.i.t.c.h. Ungrateful. Crabby. Bitter. etc. I get up and the whole day is devoted to going to the hospital, getting prescriptions filled, wating on Ramey, laundry, cooking, cleaning, bla, bla, bla. How the hell do caregivers do this, day after day? It is inconceivable. Impossible. I sit in my therapist's office and shred an entire box of kleenex.
And some day, I may be all crippled up and needing the same things. And someone else will be all cranky because of my incessant demands.
For now so I don't kill anyone, I work in the garden. Pulling weeds has never been so satisfying. Die, you stupid dandelions, die.
I totally fell apart writing a poem a day. I don't think my fellow poets care. I had an Acme safe fall on my head. And the roadrunner got away. He ALWAYS gets away.