Like Alice, 19NOV07

I wrote this poem 14 years ago during an especially dark time. I don't even remember why I felt this way, and--I do NOT feel like this now, but it came straight out of my grieving heart at the time. I want to share it (for those who've never seen it) so that it might help those who don't have to deal with depression to understand how challenging the struggle really is.

It’s hard to keep my chin up.

There is no ‘Little Chopper’ living here.

Each step is as through sea water,

And I do not feel Him near.

I feel like this might be my fault.

I’ve allowed it to come to this place,

But I don’t want to keep struggling onward

With this fake smile painted on to my face.

This is not one of those cases, y’all

Where I don’t believe that He is Him.

I know that He is this Great Body of Water

That I just ain’t swimmin’ in.

I’ve allowed myself to wander, broadly.

I’m down here in this grave of a pit.

It’s cold. It’s dark. I want outta here,

But I just can’t seem to climb out of it.

Why is this bed so much more comfortable?

Why does my head hurt this way?

Why does Pinocchio's nose grow?

Because his heart and his mouth don’t agree.

Can’t you feel that I feel lost?

Can’t you see the tears in my eyes?

Can’t I be brave enough to tell you?

Can’t your heart see through all my lies?

I need help. I need a way out of this pit.

The bottom seems miles from the top.

Like Alice, I’m falling, falling, falling

And I can’t figure out how to stop.

Out of the Mouths of Geriatrics: Burnt Toast

 I'm still learning all the little intricacies of my new home. During my second week, I re-learned how to make coffee. I used to make it as a teenager on a regular basis. However, since my teen-aged days are 22 years in the past, I will confess to forgetting how to accomplish that particular house-making skill. Additionally, I've learned the patience required in filling the pillbox of a person suffering from numerous afflictions. And, I've also re-learned how to use several appliances.

Yesterday, I learned the toaster. I know, I know--the toaster is easy, yeah? Well, it turns out--on this toaster--that the dial cannot be turned higher than a two or the toast will burn. This fact is ESPECIALLY true if you've toasted more than one piece of toast in succession. Usually, I make sure that Guy and Gal have their food and medicines before I sit down to eat. As this is the case, it happened that yesterday my toast happened to be the last one popped into the toaster. It was the third piece--in a row. Needless to say, one side of my piece was severely burnt.
I didn't really want to waste the piece of bread because it is not only really delicious, but also really expensive bread. Those of y'all who know me won't be surprised to learn that I was going through this "shall I or shan't I" discussion with myself out loud. So, Ginevra--the eldest of Gal's three kids--immediately instructed me not to throw the bread away, but--instead--to take a knife and scrape the burnt part off the toast. I tried it. It worked really well. Seriously, Ginevra should know! This burnt toast dealio with the knife has been part of Oak Street's Standard Operating Procedure for quite a while.
Seems that when Ginevra was a youngun', she was eating breakfast at a friend's house after a sleepover. When her friend's momma presented them with the toast portion of their breakfast, Ginevra became very upset.
"That isn't the right way to make it!" she exclaimed vehemently. The friend's momma, uncertain as to how she might have fouled it up, asked Ginevra to explain.
"Well," said Ginevra in a didactic manner, "that just isn't the right way to do it! My momma takes it out of the toaster and scrapes the black stuff off of the side!!"

Out of the Mouths of Geriatrics: Tree Trunks

 This morning, Gal and I were trying to get her up and ready for the day. Today, however, the search engine in her computer was working a little slower than it normally does. Bless her little heart, Gal could NOT remember how to do a certain something that we do every day. So, I encouraged her. I cajoled her. She was not budging. Finally, she said to me, "Look me in the eyes. I love you, Loralee. I do not want to hurt you. Lifting me will hurt you."

Gal said it all so earnestly that I decided to see what I could do to convince her of my astoundingly solid strength. I proceeded post haste to the bathroom, picked up the scale, and carried it back into her bedroom. I placed it as close to her wheelchair as I could get it, so that she could see the numbers from where she sat.

"Lookie there!" I said to her just as earnestly, "I'm super solid. I can handle lifting you, I promise! That scale says 187.2 pounds! (Now don't judge me. I've heard from various sources that weight fluctuates over the course of the day.) She declined my help once again, citing a similar protective reason.

"No!" I said to her quite desperately. "Feel these muscles!" I flexed my biceps in demonstration of my super-hero-like strength. She shook her head, so I decided to pull out the big guns.
"Seriously Gal, I promise we can do this!! Check out my quadriceps! Do ya see how solid they are?" I flexed my right quad, and then pounded it with my closed fist so that she could properly 'check it out.'

It wasn't to be, however. At least not at that moment. Gal was quite determined that we couldn't lift her together. She shook her head vehemently just before replying to me, "Yeah, I know. It sounded like a tree trunk when you hit it!"

Out of the Mouths of Geriatrics: Voting

The congregation where I worship here in Tyler (at cumberland road and broadway) allows the city government to use to building as a voting house. On a recent Tuesday, an elderly couple were leaving the building just after voting. They were strolling along slowly, holding hands. As they passed, the lady said, "Now don't go thinking that were doing this cuz we're in love. We've got to hold hands just to make it across the parking lot. If we don't, we'll fall! Actually, we just met in the parking lot."

From the Cobwebs: Unfinished poem...(I guess??)

She stays with me, unhappy and hurt.

She stays with me, unforgiving and bitter.

She stays with me, unworthy.

She stays with me, unwanted.

I want to love her.

I DO.

I want to forgive her.

I DO.

But somehow, I cannot.

I want to hug her and tell her everything will be okay

and at the same time.

I do not want her to stay.

Out of the Cobwebs: Out of the mouth of Geriatrics: Popcorn

 Out of the mouths of Geriatrics: Popcorn

I laughed out loud--loudly--last night as I was putting the gal to bed.

She said to me, "I don't like you lifting me so often. You might get hurt.

You're no bigger than popcorn."
well, now, I hope she means a kernel and not the jumbo bag at the movies.

To be honest, though, I'm pretty sure she means the kernel because she is

constantly saying, "you have such tiny ankles!" and " wow, you have

narrow feet!" and expressing shock and disbelief that I really weigh

as much as 185 pounds. In some ways, the gal is good for my ego, yeah?