Monday, April 13, 2009

A Certain Slant of Light

Today I am made of onion skin, yellow trash, crunchy thin and see-through. Of incomplete sentences and the stuff of bad teenage poetry.


Smallnesses. Still no job and nothing on the horizon. Bryan ran out of his long-acting insulin this weekend and woke up in the middle of the night with his blood sugar at 500. I think of the time we will lose on the back end because of this 500. Does this mean he will die a week earlier than he would have? A day? When we are 80? 77? 68? (I cannot go any lower.) Will I know? Does it matter? Today is made up of me being macabre. I think of that one time years ago when he woke up with his blood sugar at 20, how I stuffed his mouth with bread while ransacking the fridge for a quicker form of sugar. When I turned around he was looking at me through a hole he had poked through the slice of bread like a boy with a piece of bologna. Hellooooooo! he giggled, a grown man giggling in the unnatural overhead kitchen light of 3 in the morning, his blood sugar at 20 and plummeting, how I pushed that piece of bread into his mouth and hated him for losing control. For letting it drop. For laughing when I was so afraid my hands shook while cramming bread into his clammy face, the dough dry and brown and dead.
There are things I am afraid to write but they are there and me not writing about them does not make them go away. If only I had that power. Any power. Like I said, teenage poetry, my thoughts too big for me to understand, dramatic and dark, my i's dotted with just dots because I have never been the girl who goes for hearts or happy faces. Okay, there is this: blogs with children who have died.
I let the cursor blink there for two full minutes while I tried to think of another way to say it. Something softer, maybe, something that makes sense. But of course nothing is soft there, nothing makes sense, nothing gives respect really but the truth and so there is just this and this and this. I ask my friends if they have read that blog. The one? With the little girl? Who? And my friends, their eyes grow wide as they shake their heads and tell me another story. Of another little girl. Who. And then there's that boy. The two year old? Who. The stories are swapped and we cannot imagine. We need to keep them stories, of a blog of a mother I have never met, of a friend of a friend of a boy of a girl of a child, once upon a time in a faraway land there once was a child who--
I hold on, knowing that things drop. Blood sugar and the stock market, things that make sense and can be enumerated and then things that can't, that won't, things without numbers that I will not say because maybe just maybe words have power and I can keep those things at bay. No, not mine. I hold on tight.
Years ago I read an article about poetry, how to tell the good from the bad, or maybe the point of the piece was how subjective it all is. I actually don't remember the point. What I do remember is that included in the article were several famous poems and some not-so famous, supposedly terrible poems. I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, and I could not tell the good from the bad so I stopped reading poetry. How stupid is that?
What is the fucking point?
There is none, that's the joke. There is just this: beauty and loaves of bread made of yeast which turns to sugar which converts into energy and we all know that energy can neither be created nor destroyed and so I close my eyes and feel both fragile and invincible all at the same time. The world is too much. Thankyouthankyouthankyou, even though today is a sad day full of incomplete sentences. I hold on because if I let go I will be flung apart, scattered and lost like dandelion seeds and dander. I have no faith but I have my hands.

If you can, please donate to March of Dimes, or to St. Jude Children's Research Hospital. I don't know what else to do.

*Image of Shark Girl--I have been coveting this image for months now, I love it so. Sadly I have no idea where I got it or whose it is. Please let me know if it rings a bell and I will gladly credit the artist. It is so good. UPDATE: Thank you, Sparkie, for pointing me in the right direction! The artist is Casey Riordan Millard, and I am her new #1 fan. And how perfect is her artist bio for this post? Awesome.

16 comments:

Richie Designs said...

I was once upon a time, married to a man who's blood sugar roamed the 300's on a good day and an emergency visit or 3 of the 500's.

and then there were the days of monitor reading 19, of unconsciousness, the praying for the 911 people to arrive faster, of not sleeping for days after wondering if I was going to find him dead the next morning.

I left for many reasons, not because of the numbers he posted but the ways in which he chose not to read them. I suspect bryan is much different.

it's such a long and sorted story...but reading that brought it all back.
-------
and yes, I read the story in the LA times yesterday about her. heart crushing is my only thing to say.

Sparkie said...

Buck up, PF. Google Casey Riordan Millard and you will find all the answers.

Jen said...

I think the whole situation causes us to appreciate what we have and hold on to it. Its so, so, so very sad, but now I kiss Leah more and hug her tighter.

But have you heard about the money that was raised and the outpouring of support for that family? I am sending them food tonight and have never even met them. It's just amazing to me.

David Brenner with a sex change said...

Beautiful writing. Generally speaking, I hate poetry, but your prose comes damn close to the good stuff. Keep it up. Don't lose faith. Just remember that your best day dead beats your worst day living.

Anonymous said...

Beautifully written-onion skin-wonderful analogy! I understand your fear. My husband was diagnosed with cancer a year ago. He's in remission, but it will come back-it's in his blood. Before it happened, I never thought it was something i-we-our family, could handle. But we do, and instead of turning dark and bitter, we've managed to come out better, closer, more appreciative. You are much too sweet & sunny to dwell in the dark, dear. Yes, these low sugar episodes are scary and may cause harm-but they may not=that's where you must dwell. Your blog brightens my days an many others' too, I know. Tomorrow will be a better day. I know it's very difficult, but instead of being upset about not having a job, try to enjoy that god-given precious time with that cute little Petunia face! Maybe that's the reason it's not coming quicker-? Thank goodness that she is healthy.

kim said...

my dad has diabetes and your weekend reminds me of many, many nights in my childhood! i remember so vividly waking up to the ambulance holding my dad down to get sugar into him...!
the grown man giggling...wow...do i remember times when my mom wasn't home and my brother and i had to deal with a father who had low blood sugar...trying to get him to eat a cookie or drink some orange juice. he would argue with us and yell at us and fight us...he would have NEVER behaved that way with a regular sugar.
he is now on a pump and hasn't had many highs or lows to that degree since. the pump...it's a good thing! :) hang in there.

jen said...

Okay, you have bummed me the fuck out but it's okay. I've been soo sooo worried today about my husband's job and feeling helpless and...HELPLESS. Not knowing how to make HIM feel better. I wanted someone to talk to about it who would TELL ME WHAT TO DO to help this financial situation for my family (i even tried to google it!!) but nobody can. And that can make you cry or make you look at funny pictures on the internet. Today I chose the latter.

Michelle M in KY said...

Oh Susannah,
How I feel like you today and many days now that I think about it. I did not read your links, but I am assuming that you are referring to the senseless killing of the girl in California. I have been watching and waiting...hoping and praying...and to no avail...another sensless tragedy. My brain cannot absorb it. I feel most days like I am weary from ingesting it all. I feel like I actually wear it, that it pours out of my soul. I ache for these children and I ache for their families. It makes me wonder...why??? To which there is never an answer.
But yet, even with 3 children, 3 yrs. old and under in my home, I watch the coverage. My husband shakes his head and leaves the room. He cannot stand the thought and he thinks it better to not know. Sometimes I agree and wish I was able to tune it out, turn it off, and be unaffected. I know he's greatly affected, but doesn't want it to exude out of his pores as it does mine. I wear their hurt, their frustration, their weariness, their tears. I cannot imagine and NEVER.NEVER.NEVER want to imagine. But, at times it's all consuming. I cry, I pray, I wonder and no answers ever come. It makes me hold on tighter, observe more often, and at times not want to engage with the outside. I'm sad...and I cannot put into words how there are days that I think Mothers should take to the streets every time that a child goes missing. I sometimes think it will take a revolution for it to end and I want to be at the front of the line leading the way. I can't write anymore...weary and crying again!

Good Enough Woman said...

I am amazed by your willingness to look into the darkness--and to do it so beautifully. Just remember to turn back around to see the glitters of joy . . .

krista said...

babies shouldn't be allowed to die.

Lolo said...

I won't click, not today. I know from your post that it will trigger too much in my heart. Your post was enough and I mean that is a good way so thank you for that.

Wishful thoughts said...

Thank You.

Robin said...

I thought you might be taking about Emily: http://captainhambone.typepad.com/emily/2009/03/march-30.html
but then I clicked the links and my heart broke many more times for three more families. Ugh, nothing more awful that for a sweet babe to pass away. Crying...again

Trenches of Mommyhood said...

I feel the same way. Today is just one of those days where I want to cup my fingers over my ears, close my eyes and scream, "LALALALATHISISNTHAPPENING"
Those babies. Those MOTHERS.

Kwana said...

The fact that you can say thank you says so much. That is so hard to do. You are braver than me getting the words out there into the air. Good let them fly. Let them go. Stay strong. It's so scary right now. Fear is a happy camper fight it.

nancy said...

I recently came across your blog and have been reading along. I thought I would leave my first comment. I dont know what to say except that I have enjoyed reading. Nice blog. I will keep visiting this blog very often.


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