Disassociate

I've disassociated from my mother's hyperbolic ramblings about her physical and mental conditions.  They are constant now, the only tale she relishes telling.  I cannot let them affect me emotionally any longer.  I am sympathetic, attentive, and loving, but I can no longer handle the continual adrenaline spikes or whatever psychochemical thing that has been happening inside.  It is literally killing me.  It feels like a betrayal somehow, and I DO feel guilty for it, but I cannot help her in any way if I am in as bad a shape as she.  

She is downtrodden.  There is no joy.  I try, but everything is painful for her.  I took her to the doctor yesterday.  She was nearly hysterical in her rambling responses to the doctor's queries.  She told disjointed narratives of how awful it was.  She waves her arms, wild-eyed, as she recounts the horrors she endured.  The doctor wanted to know if the procedure worked, if the pain from the fractured disc was alleviated.  You would never know the answer from my mother's recounting of all the miseries she has.  

"Yes," I said in a low voice.  "It was a success.  She has many other arthritic pains, but that procedure worked."

The doc wanted to give her something for pain.  Of course a 93 year old will have pain, and there is no sense in living with it.  "Tramadol," the doc said.  

"You have to sign for that," was my mother's retort.  She has two bottles of Tramadol at home, but she refuses to take them because "you have to sign for them."  

"Well. . . yes, but they are very mild.  Nobody is ever going to get addicted to Tramadol."

I asked her if they were easier on the internal organs than over the counter pain relievers.  Yes, she said emphatically.  Tylenol was the easiest on the body, but the others are terrible.  This has been my screed forever.  Opioids do not damage the internal organs.  But, having said that, there are dangers with Tramadol including addiction which the doc dismissed out of hand.  

My surprising takeaway is that Tylenol is not the evil, organ destroying drug I've held it to be.  But even ice baths, I've read, can be harmful.  

The question is, ultimately, what do you do for a 93 year old with osteoarthritis and osteoporosis?  

Give them heroin!

We go to the ophthalmologist today.  "We."  It jams up my day, of course.  I have to prepare my house for the maid service, get to the gym and back to shower in time for the eleven thirty appointment followed by her afternoon physical therapy.  

"Are you up for a happy hour this week?" one of the gymroids asked.  

"Oh, son. . . I need one, but it depends on. . . you know. . . my mother." 

All I can say is that some disassociation is beneficial to all of us.  I'm not just going through the motions with my mother, but I am observing more and feeling less.  Deride me if you must, but I can't continue otherwise.  

And still my own problems haunt me.  Have I told you about my problems?  Ha!  I'm sure you have dissociated yourself from those by now.  

So let me irritate you with my joy.  I took a Xanax to sleep last night, and once again had what seems to have been a good night's sleep.  I dreamed all night of adventure and love.  Yes. . . there was romance, both emotional and physical.  It was not a sexual dream but extremely lovely.  In the end, however, things began to go south as they always have, and so I woke.  I guess I didn't want to see that through.  Very vivid, though.  I remember every detail. 

Yup.  That is the extent of my joy.  Pathetic.  But I am dissociating from my own life, too.  I'm simply observing that as well.  I can control nothing, it seems.  Control is an illusion with which I have come to grips.  For most of my life, I believed in the Existential creed that the only thing you could control was how you felt and reacted to your condition.  

I no longer believe that to be true.  I am certain now that one cannot control even volition.  Once the chemicals in the body turn on you. . . you haven't any choices at all . 

Holy Christ, this was all a freely associated blathering.  I had no idea of writing such a thing today.  I don't know what I thought I might write, but this wasn't it.  Selavy.  Once the gremlin gets hold. . . . 

I've been watching Christopher Hitchens again.  People have released a lot more media of his lectures and debates and interviews, and I am realizing he was a very arrogant man.  Knowing his dire end, it is painful to watch him smoke and later constantly clear his throat of phlegm.  Once he got cancer, he never allowed himself pity, or so he said, but surely there was regret.  The man was certainly brilliant and a fantastic debater, but watching him makes me feel I've squandered my life and talents. 

Maybe I'll quit watching Hitchens and stick with reruns of Andy Griffith.  Just about all of life's lessons can be learned there.  

Fuck it.  I'm romantic by nature.  I have no defense against it, no control.  Things like this make me happy.  No wonder I have no true love.  Can you imagine living with something like this?  Hell. . . you'd just have to disassociate yourself, no?