NO RAGE

5:57 a.m. The sky is already blue and clear. I make my usual morning trek to sit on the balcony and visit the pot of marigolds. Early mornings are sometimes more lucid times of the day for me. I haven’t taken meds yet and my mind is not yet floating vaguely somewhere in space.

I’ve tried to describe the feeling I usually have: “foggy”, “woozy”…. But those words don’t even come close. My mind is not exactly with me. It takes enormous force of will to return to the physical and maneuver, to focus clearly to do any task, one tiny step at a time. The notion of multitasking (a scientifically proven failed technique, by the way) is hysterically funny to me now. Even getting up from a seated position is a series of individual steps – place my hands,  push to upright stance, stand still until my balance is safe and I have a handle of gravity, take a first step, pay attention to furniture or objects that might jump out and attack me, fix my gaze firmly on my destination.

I sprained my ankle not doing all of this. I walked across the floor and straight into the runner on our rocking chair. For weeks now, my left foot has been swollen, purple and black. That’ll teach me! The rocker now sits pushed over to the far side of the living room. Bad rocker!

Yesterday, I was, as Judy Tenuta, says, “bloated with self-esteem.” I gave myself a B- for filling a garbage bag with clothing for Goodwill and making two salads. An A+ day would have been one of two tasks AND getting dressed and putting on makeup. I have stopped comparing Before and After now and begun to accept my limits. Today will be a A+ because, Heather, Rodney Roll and me are headed for rehab – where they will no doubt torture me with repetitive balance exercises. And, as my handwriting is now so spidery and awful, I am going to start practicing printing the alphabet today, as well. Let’s have a little round of hope for brain plasticity. Modest goals. Small recoveries and victories.

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I’ve been thinking of Dylan Thomas’ poem to his dying father: Do not go gentle into the good night, Old age should burn and rage at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. I quoted this to Heather last night and added that I felt nothing like rage. I’m noticing a slow softening. It’s a quiet feeling – not an unnatural feeling at all. If you are healthy, or young and ill, if you are curable, maybe then rage is appropriate. It’s been 11 months now for me. Technically, three of those months past my predicated expiry date. Not a good time for that sad and useless cry of life is not fair. It’s a good time to visit Marigolds.