Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: FAMILY (01/21/16)
- TITLE: I Don't Mean To Complain, But . . .
By Judith Gayle Smith
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My suffering hubby hasn't slept for almost three panicky nights. He fears drowning, swallowing the incessant mucous clogging his throat. I suspect Catarrh; his doctors don't know what it is and I'm sure they'd appreciate my amateur diagnosis fueled by internet searches.
It is 5:40 am. I've been awake since 1:30 am when my beloved started choking on his merciless phlegm. Shaking off sleep, I walk on my own feet, stumbling to pull Mike to a throat-draining position. Eyes unforgivably closed, I transfer him to his "do everything but brush his teeth" new power wheelchair.
My live-in, sweet, bipolar older sister - sobbing uncontrollably, noisily rushes senselessly downstairs. "I lost my watch again," she wails. She appears ballooning, swaddled in warm bulky slept-in layers of colorfully mismatched clothes. Her bus is due before 7 am.
She panicked downstairs at 4:30 am. I'm gritting my teeth, remembering Jesus residing in me, but wanting to shake her silly for screeching Mike awake. I loaned her my "just for emergency cheapo little watch", forgetting to verify the time. Relieved, she took it upstairs for more sleep. A half-hour later she clattered madly down, thinking it was 8 am.
Our adorable little dog, Snuffy, sleeps kicking beside me, contentedly passing gas. His odiferous presence is a mixed blessing. He's had four good days without a seizure; inoperable brain cancer clawing his mind like a rabid demon.
Snuffy "comes alive" when we eat, desperately reminding us he is just a little doggie with a "fried tumor" - whose only joy in life is people food.
Mike has a follow-up doctor's visit today. We greedily shared wee hamburger "sliders" for dinner last week and he immediately choked on the soft bun. He declined mayonnaise on his slider, and it refused to slide down his already cough-irritated throat. A colorful night with both ambulance and fire truck.
I misplaced Mike's prescription for heavy-duty painkillers, miserably anticipating informing his doctor that Mike's supply is exhausted. Our doctor is cognizant of my Chronic Fatigue brain-fogginess; prayerfully he'll be understanding. I must ask him to up my sedatives so I can remain "nice."
I don't feel very "nice" right now. Everything irritates me. I must take time to bury my heart in my Bible, but that "old man" in me wants to thrust the Holy Spirit away, enabling me to wallow in my greedy self-pity.
I hurt too. But, as a caregiver and Mike's lover, I seek to emulate Mother Teresa in seeing Jesus in every suffering soul.
My hubby's weak chronic coughs sound like kitten sneezes. My sister's explosive sneezes sound like foghorn blasts. Mike sneeringly says her sneezes are coughs with no necessity for God's blessing. I counter that juicy phlegm projectiles need His blessing.
Catering to our little dog's taste-bud fueled salivations, we watch him balloon with too rich for him people delights. Hmmm - that explains the incredible aromatic gas brown haze acridly enveloping me. Snuffy's offerings jars the olfactory senses, keeping me reeling and gagging over my keyboard, ack ack.
Please come to know and love my little family as I do. I am a tired old crank, and they need more love. We are transparently real, and being a preacher's wife gets me on my unforgiving arthritic knees. You don't want to see me get up off the floor.
I believe I will start "figuratively" praying on my knees, nestling in my warm comforters with the little stink bomb beside me - his "behinder" staring me in my shrinking nostrils.
A too true pity party - the names have not been changed to protect the innocent, because we all contributed to . . .
Excuse me - I must to run to Jesus for help.
Dear Jesus and Father God, I need You. I complain and cover it with sarcasm and ill-humor. Sometimes I just want to run away from home. Please give me the courage to love them as You do - I am not asking for strength, because - as one dear gal friend of mine quoted to me - I might kill them.
nonfiction - sigh.
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