What She Says

I have gone into a dark place full of churning water and anger. The thought of having to get into touch with James’ father brings up old wounds and regrets. But if there is a genetic problem, he will have to be notified so he can be tested, too. Yes, back through the wrong end of the lens, back through the white-capped waves, all the way back to seventeen and a flat, flat middle. All the way back to the time before the beginning, before the mistakes I made, before I was fooled into believing that I loved a crazy boy who didn’t know how to love anybody. Back to the scared girl longing to be touched.

I hate thinking of all this, but it has yielded a new piece, a hard, mean, nasty little piece of CNF. I may read it at Meacham, though I come off sort of looking like a monster mother who eats her young. Or something like that.

So I’m very glad to have written the piece, even though it is so nasty. The rejections are pouring in. Seems like I get at least one every day. This morning it was from Diode. I’ve published with them before, but they didn’t like this batch. Yesterday Zone 3 rejected me. I somehow figured I would get quite a few acceptances since I sent out so many submissions, but so far only two poems have been taken, only two. Was it always this hard to get published??

I have nothing that I must do the next few days, which is a very good thing for me just now. I hated being at the hospital. I hated having to deal with everything, so it’s good to just relax and be. Maybe I will get more writing done. Maybe I won’t. I will just see what happens. Next week I will finally get to teach a full week of school. I need to adjust to this new schedule.

On to it then.

~r.

So now the news is mixed, in the light of morning, after a night sleeping in a “reclining’ chair that tries to un-recline each time you change position. But sleep I did. I slept a lot and feel much better this morning. Then the doctor came by.

He feels pretty confident that James has some sort of genetic defect that is/has caused these rhythm problems and if it turns out that he does have Brugada Syndrome, he will need a defibrillator. And even if he doesn’t have it, he will most likely need a pacemaker. So that’s not what I wanted to hear and again, it’s because of a silly thing—the twisty rides that James loves SO much at our local amusement park, Lake Winnie. And then there’s Disney World. I need to do some research, and really, really hope that he doesn’t have this mysterious syndrome. If he does have it, then I have to be tested as well. And if I carry the gene, then Alex will have to be tested, too. And we will have to look up James’ deadbeat dad who hasn’t been around in years so he can be tested, too.

So at the very least, we haven’t seen the last of hospitals or heart monitors or scans or trips to Nashville. Not by a long shot. And that’s just going to have to be okay.

Got a rejection last night from Third Coast. I have submitted to them about four times before. Maybe it’s time to stop submitting to them. I should be able to make it to my class tonight, so things will return to the normal that they will be becoming for now.

~r.

They have called me a couple of times and all is going well. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that he’ll need a pacemaker which is a lot better than a defibbythingy (can’t spell) so I feel a bit relieved.

Last night in the midst of watching the playoffs and being disappointed twice, I got an acceptance from Bitter Oleander and that is a very good thing. They only want one poem out of the MANY I sent them, but it’s a good thing. I am well pleased.

~r.

So they have taken him back to the surgery room to do the procedure. The doctor said it could take all day and was a literal fount of information for us. This could be something genetic. We will be finding out. After talking to the doctor I am no longer worried that he will die in the procedure. That’s a good thing. I will update throughout the day.

I wish I could say that all is well. I wish I hadn’t had a total meltdown in yesterday’s poetry workshop. I wish I hadn’t just had another meltdown while I washed the dishes. I wish I had let the dishes just rot. I wish Steven Tyler could fix me. I wish the procedure was over and done. I wish I hadn’t made a stop by Jackson’s bakery on the way home from getting my hair did. I wish I hadn’t eaten two donuts, a fried apple pie, and a large tater tot. I wish I didn’t have a creative writing committee meeting tomorrow. I wish everything were settled and it was Thursday of next week and James’ heart was fixed and everything was returning to normal. I wish my knee would stop swelling and hurting. I wish, I wish, I wish.

I wish someone would accept some of my work for publication. Now would be a really, REALLY good time to send me an acceptance. Yes, you heard me literary universe, now would be a really good time to take a poem or two. Or a story or essay. There’s so much to choose from. Surely you’ll like something, surely you’ll see how brilliant I am and make much of me. I would really, REALLY like for someone to make much of me.

My heart is tight and angry, compressed, the size of a hard brown nut. My heart is weary with strain, the strain, the wondering, the waiting. God designed the world to make us nuts so we’d feel the need for prayer. I feel the need for prayer. Pray for me. Reach out to all your gods, each and every one of them. I am not proud. Any old favor from any old god or goddess, someone long ago retired. Like Athena. Like Aphrodite. Like Zeus. Like the whole fucking pantheon. I’m listening. My arms are crossed in front of me, to protect myself and all that is mine. Would you like me to kneel? Would you like a piece of my heart? Here, take the whole thing. Throw it on the fire. It’s so hard and tight it won’t even sizzle.

Jesus the Christ but I’m scurrying around like a mad woman, in my head that is. In my head a refrain of no, no, no, so distant I can’t really hear it. Can you? That sound of the other shoe coming down on my face. I am lying in the road, full of tire marks and motor oil. I am mad clean through to the center of my soul. Why my child? Why this on top of everything else? Isn’t it enough that he’s autistic? Isn’t it enough that he’s bipolar? Isn’t it enough that he issued forth blue and forceps-bruised?

On any other day, at any other time, I find myself to be the luckiest person in the world. Generally, everything goes my way. I have a husband I adore. I have kids I love and generally get along with really, really well. I have wonderful friends and a job that is perfect for me. I have a book contract, for Christ’s sake. But see, on a day like today, on a day like yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. Someone bring me a big flashlight so I can see to the end of this tunnel. Please oh please oh please oh please prayers and raspberry jelly. Prayers that wing upward like sparks. I am listening, I swear I am. I am open and as raw as water. I have no skin or bones either. I have been flailed alive. Please oh please oh please and pain-free knees.

I wish I could write my way out of this and on through to the other side.

~r.

Even though I know writing about it will probably upset me, I’m going to write about it anyway. Every issue I have, all my bad baggage and terrible thoughts and memoires are twisting up around my ears. The situation is this: James, my autistic, bipolar son, is running out of his psyche meds on Thursday and needs to get in to see his state-appointed shrink. Well, he missed the last two appointments because his caseworker dropped the ball. I didn’t even know when his appointments were. I never take him anymore, the case worker does that and I have been eternally grateful for that. Until now. His old case worker quit or something and he was reassigned to a woman. I don’t even know her name or how to get into touch with her. Anyhow, James is running out of meds and the folks at the state-run mental health office could care less. This morning, after calling and calling and getting message after message, I just wanted to scream. I probably did scream. I pounded my fists on the stairs. I made a lot of noise but nothing changed the fact that I was helpless and could do nothing. No one bothered to call me back. Maybe they will call back tomorrow, I don’t know. I was able to make an appointment for next Friday at 9:30. I have decided that I will just give him my medicine (we take the same thing). I discussed this with the pharmacist and I think I’ll have enough to cover us both. The frustrating thing is this medicine—Lamictal. If you are on it and miss three days, you have to start the dosing schedule all over again because there’s always a danger of a life-threatening rash developing when you start taking it. So he can’t do without it, and neither can I. Anyhow, I just finally had to breathe and let it go. Tomorrow I will call his GP and see if they can’t prescribe the meds for a few days, but I doubt they will. I am seriously glad that I didn’t have classes today and that I don’t have classes tomorrow.

But in addition to all that mess, there’s another, more serious mess. James is having a heart procedure on Monday and he’s supposed to discontinue his heart med. for three days before the procedure. But the last time he went off his medicine, he had to go to the ER—his pulse was 300. So I need to talk with the folks at Vanderbilt about this, and to ask when he needs to discontinue food and drink before the procedure. And of course, NO ONE CALLED ME BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am mean and full of hate and unshed tears. I hate every single thing that needs me right now. I hate my dog and I hate the dishes and I hate all the people in this house who expect things from me. I just CANNOT HANDLE THIS RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well, having written about it helps somewhat. That is usually the case and one of the good reasons to have a blog. Of course posts such as this one won’t make me popular on the web and won’t help me sell any copies of the mythical book. Posts like this are nasty and mean and full of back teeth. Posts like this never floss their teeth. Post like this and people like me are full of woe and awful tire tracks.

So I’ll try to sleep and hope for calls in the morning. That’s all I can do. Oh, and I just got another rejection for poems. Thank you, cruel, cruel world.

~r.