During its productive phases, a writer’s head needs to have room to forget the world is out there. It needs the world to find material and to verify it, but once the mind starts the process of turning emotions, impressions, and ideas into linear text, it needs to know that the world is unimportant enough to detach from.
Lately, my head has been a mess. My dad has been ill. Walking pneumonia, high blood sugars, and shingles—all of these conditions need to be attended to, and all are the source of concern (he’s not a young man after all), but because he’s active and generally healthy, none are reason for alarm either. He was given an antibiotic for the pneumonia and responded beautifully. The only problem was that his blood sugar, which he ordinarily manages very well, went through the roof, so he had temporarily to take a second diabetes medication while his body dealt with the pneumonia. Then as he was finishing up with the antibiotics, he developed shingles, which are supposed to be even more painful in the elderly.
I’ll preface the next set of comments by saying that my tendency toward the dramatic comes entirely from my father. I have no doubt that he felt miserable, and I have no doubt that he felt fear. There were several days when I felt fear for him and for myself as well. But mustering sympathy without indulgence or snappishness was quite the feat because he was a difficult patient and a perpetual reenactment of Camille, each cough and twitch prompting what in his mind was a moving death-bed scene, the phrase “one-way ticket to the other side” figuring prominently on the script.
Since he coughed and twitched by night as well as day, he soliloquized and managed stage property (kitchen utensils, doors, television remotes, and other noise making devices) whenever the spirit moved him, which meant that no one else slept very well for about three weeks.
Finally, he’s back to good health. We’re expecting the prognosis to be official later today, when he goes to his last follow-up appointment. Everyone’s been sleeping for a week, and the one-way ticket to the other side comes up only when lawn mowing and other chores are mentioned in his hearing.
The first week of my father’s illness, I was concerned, as much by his health as by my mother’s inability to distinguish between his real complaints and those brought on by fear or a need for attention. After that, my sense was that things were under control for him, that he twice needed to go back to the doctor for a med adjustment, and that less drama would probably make him feel better. Still, the niggling uncertainty that I could be mistaken had a way of pushing other thoughts aside, especially as I felt increasingly certain that the drama was the product of an ever growing fear.
my concern for myself during that and subsequent weeks was that I wasn’t sleeping well and was having greater trouble focusing at work and at the computer. Fortunately, I had few jobs during those weeks. I was able to do a little writing, and I did a little revision. But I got almost no work done on either my big translation or editing project. This week, when my dad is going about his normal routine, I’m incredibly sleepy and exhausted. I’ve done a lot of editing, but some days are more productive than others, and I’m suddenly experiencing lots of wrist pain, which I’ve been treating by taking OTC antiinflammatories and resting the hand. Yes, for most of this ordeal, I’ve been unable to knit much or to type except when necessary, so the two things that can help me keep my head on straight have not been available to me.
The only real writing news is that I reread some poems and was happy with the revisions. I’m still tweaking the really long one, but I’m thinking that it’s good enough and close enough for my purposes now. The other longish poem I’ve been working on a lot this spring is frustrating me. The last time I worked on it, I noticed a gap about three fourths of the way through, so I added some back-story. Then I read it about a week ago and thought the back-story was not necessary. Confused, I sent it to a friend of mine for her to walk through her reading of it with me. She’s very good at that, so I’m sure that will help. Finally, I did read one poem, where the revisions did not help. I’ve made some changes, so I’ll need to reread it again.
Puntitas reads _The Soul Thief_ by C. Baxter, _The Secret Magdalene_ by K. Longfellow, and _At Some Disputed Barricade_ by A. Perry.
