A waste...

I really, really struggle with not working, with just existing.  And, for that matter, doing a really poor job at the latter.  Several things of late point to this.

For example, Sandra came by to drop off her son on the way someplace.  Because I forget so much, I followed her back outside to give her two booklets that I had kept back for her in my most recent downsizing.  On my way to the car, the two pastors with her popped out of the car to meet me, to meet the person one of them knew only online.  I am not sure if the other one of them knew anything at all about me.

I was mortified and horrified and every other "ied" in the English language along those lines.  For one, I had not brushed my hair since my bath.  I was in my men's lounge pants and a hoodie.  And, most importantly, I had no time to rehearse the moment. I had no time to prepare.  Of course, one of them stuck out his hand with this wide and friendly grin on his face.  I would have given everything I owned at that point, save Amos and his food supply, for the ground to open up and swallow me.

I cannot shake hands. I mean, I can, but that is a boundary I set for me.  No hugs or hand shakes or other social touching unless I ask for it.  For the sake of honesty, I will admit that I cannot bring myself to ask.  Of the very few instances since I set that boundary when I craved, when I really needed someone to reach out and touch me, I couldn't ask.  And I would give anything I own, save for Amos and his food supply, for my pastor to trace the cross on my forehead and give me a blessing.  But he doesn't.  And I cannot bring myself to ask.

But I digressed.

Tonight, I was able to do two things that made me feel as if I were not a waste of space on this planet: 1) I baby-sat Sandra's son again and 2) I got to edit a friend's paper she's presenting.  As to the former, I actually took her son to a store so he could make a purchase and then took him out to dinner (which a wi-fi connection), so he could eat tasty food and play electronic games to his heart's desire.  We actually closed out the restaurant.

As to the latter, this was my third edit of the paper.  On the first edit, I did not finish the paper, but made some directional comments that provided a new path for the author to take.  On the second edit, I suggested a wholesale re-ordering so that the sweet, sweet Gospel of her topic pealed over what might been mis-perceived as Law later, so that it might be received as the Gospel it really was.  The author did a fantastic job of taking the edits and making them hers.  On this round, I honestly believe I added the icing ... or perhaps just some whipped topping and a cherry ... that took the paper sailing past the victory line.  Oh, how my heart sang at being able to edit, to write, to craft something that had a real purpose, rather than the shouting at the wind I do here.  Such a mercy it was and is that she let me edit her work!

Mostly, though, I struggle that some days all I can do is feed Amos and myself.  I try, really, really try, to accomplish at least one other thing in a day than seeing to our bodily needs.  Dusting a bit, dishes, straightening, cleaning the bathroom sink or floor.  Sometimes it is grilling up several chicken breasts or preparing several bags of steak to marinade for a while so that I can make beef jerky.  Other times I work at making things a bit easier about the house for me or writing note cards or researching something about which someone has mentioned needing to learn.  And I have been reorganizing, reducing, recycling, and setting things aside for donation.  My, nearly two years of systematically downsizing my life from being surrounded by stuff to keeping the useful and a bit of the desired and letting go of the rest.

One of the things that has driven me in this is the thought of my trustee having to tend to my estate.  Selling the house will be a task in and of itself.  Much of the work I have done has been both for me and along the lines of ensuring all things needful are brought up to code. I know full well any buy inspection will find something needing repair, but I doubt, at this point, there would be anything that would stop a seller.  For example, there is a bit of a shifting in the garage, but it does not bother me and would not stop a sale.  After all, the garage is as old as the house.  It fits a single car well and the saddle doors slide extremely easy, given their age.  I have updated the wiring to the garage, burying it in the ground, replaced the lighting, and added a separate GFIC two-gang outlet not controlled by the light switch.  Additionally, outside the door to the garage from the house side, there is an automatic flood light.  For an old garage, it is cleaned up, brought to code, and very serviceable.

Within the house, my primary concern has been ensuring all the electrical work needful to modern living was completed.  All the open GFIC plugs are now grounded, every outlet and switch have been replaced, outdoor GFIC outlets are now in the front and the back, the living room has additional grounded outlets where a television might go and on either side of the couch, all ancient light fixtures have been replaced, no more knob-and-tube wiring exists, and strategic lighting and switch changes has taken place, such as adding three-way switches to the both entrances to the kitchen and to each of the entrances to both spaces in the basement.  Finally, spaces have been improved, such as adding lighting and outlets to the parlor bath, both halves of the basement, the front porch, and the upstairs hallway.  Even then there was a bit more electrical work not included in that listing, but it makes the point.  All the wiring is safe, to code, and is properly loaded in the electrical panel.

I added air-conditioning and replaced the old heater.  I also had to replace the old washing machine, refrigerator, and the hot-water heater.  I am not bothered by replacing mechanicals/appliances.  Such is a needful thing.  In replacing the hot-water heater, as has been noted many times over, I had it moved from the center of the space to the wall.  Wow!  What a change!  Perhaps nearly as shocking in helpfulness was having the new washing machine relocated to beside the dryer.  Why they were separated is beyond me, but a second set of faucets made a drain pipe the only addition needed for the change.  It was actually done at no cost as part of a larger plumbing project in which the basement toilet was restored, a sink hung next to it, the basement shower restored, and the parlor bath sink moved so that eventually a wall could be constructed to easily separate the space into a half-bath and a parlor.  The other major plumbing job was to add an outdoor faucet in the back yard so a hose did not have to be run from the front of the house.

Besides plumbing and electrical, my primary changes have been paint in many rooms, hallway, and the stairwells, updating a tad the main bathroom (sink, fixtures, and half of the lighting), and creating a third floor out of the basement. The latter project was done all by my own elbow grease and on penny budget, other than the professional wiring and plumbing. There is a separate living space and a utility space that included the divided bath, the laundry space with a counter, a utility closet, and a wall of storage shelves.  Paint, flooring, and the updated lighting all made a huge difference.

So, in short, even a modern sort of person would not have a problem buying the house.  The one lack is an updated kitchen, however I have not the funds for that.  And I strongly believe all the other work is an impressive change from the condition in which I purchased the home.  Therefore, I have reached a certain peace about saddling my home upon my trustee after my death.

But the sale is not the only issue.  It is also what to do with my stuff.  I am nearing the point where I have reached a measure of peace about that burden as well.  My clothing, books, movies, and office supplies could be easily packed up and donated.  The antiques sold.  The kitchen items donated to homeless relocation non-profit.  The lawn equipment and tools donated or sold on Craig's List.  And my stuff thrown away.  You know...those little tidbits of your past that you keep for no real reason. The latter is growing smaller and smaller.  Pretty much everything I have is well-organized, grouped by kind, and easily found.

All of this has created a clean and clear space in which I live.  Visual rest is a term I have come to appreciate more and more and more.  So, most of the non-repair/upgrade work has been for me as well as for the one who shall have to deal with my life after my life has ended.  I have done so because I believe having to deal with such is a far different task for a loved one than for a friend/acquaintance/estate manager.  I believe it is a different sort of burden, a heavier burden.  Love, especially family love, makes the task easier or at least less onerous.  I do not want the one who tends to  the closing of my life to bear a burden any heavier than it has to be.

When I can do something along the lines that achieves that goal, such as tending to the yard or house or level of possessions, then I feel less of a waste.  And when I do the volunteer communications work, I feel the same.  Other than those times outlines above, I struggle with my life.

I read about how all life is precious to God.  When I am spending half a day or more writing in agony, merely existing, I wonder how that could be.  When I am not in agony but have not the energy to do more than languish with Amos draped across my person, I wonder how that could be.  And when I come face to face with the fact that I do not know how to be around nearly anyone else in the world without being an awkward, bumbling, social misfit who makes the encounter hard for all involved, I wonder how that can be.

I feel such shame over that disastrous impromptu meeting yesterday.  I cringe and wish to hide from the entire world.  I think how anyone else would have handled it far better than I and no one that I know would remain crippled by shame the way that I am, now, when I think of that moment.

For so long, I worked to make the life that God gave me matter.  I volunteered beginning as a young teenager, I earned a degree in education, I served as a missionary, I taught college, and I finished my career in the non-profit world.  I never thought I would end up single and childless, but I tired to do things that I could do.

And then I grew ill.  And more ill.  And more.  Until now, where a good day is getting laundry done.  Sometimes, even without the burden of a migraine, where all sensory input must be blocked out, I am so weary that I do not even read or watch television or work on the mission's communications work.  I exist ... in the GREEN chair.  Thinking or even not thinking.  Just being.

When I worked with a foster care agency as its communications staff, I met a family who was raising an microcephalic child.  Most babies with such a severe case do not survive.  They are born with an undersized or partial brain.  This little boy was a living medical miracle, life supported by not all that much more than a brain stem.  The foster parents had to monitor/care for the child every minute of every day.  His breathing and nutrition intake were fraught with complexities.  He could not control his movements or speak, though sound came out of his vocal cords, or see much, or participate in his physical existence in hardly any fashion.  At the time I met them, the foster parents were facing growing criticism about not withdrawing care and allowing "nature" to take its course.

I read an interesting flyer about end of life care Monday night.  This being right-to-life week, I would have expected it to be about abortion.  However, it was a presentation on considerations about decisions made at the end of a life.  A guiding principal was about not preventing the natural course of the end of a life if the extension meant an extension of suffering, not a gaining of life.  Another principal was not to hasten the end of a life rather than allow the natural course of death.

For that child, she was not suffering. By that I mean, she was in no pain.  Some believe she tracked the voices of others, but physically, that would be impossible.  She had no brain.  She was loved and cared for and a part of a family who believed her life had value.  To the doctors and therapists, withdrawing care was a mercy because his death was inevitable.  To his foster parents, each and every day was a miracle,  Withdrawing care would be akin to murder.  Practicality, based on a return on investment measure of the cost of his care to the county, verses love, an impracticality to the local government.  It was an interesting, thought-provoking encounter for me.

When I was in college, I trained in hospice care and served as a volunteer.  I know about end of life care.  But, in this girl's case, one side saw end of life and the other side saw middle of life.  One side saw waste and one side saw value.

Sometimes, lately, I think about that little boy.  He died not all that long after I met him.  His foster parents had adopted four other children with profound special needs.  The only reason they did not adopt this little boy was that they could not afford the cost of his care.  As it was, they were the age of most grandparents starting a second family of discarded children.  They had subsidies from the adoptions, but their finances were dire, giving the medical and adaptive care for their other four children.  Few would ever understand adopting those children, but no one understood why the fight for the little boy's life.  So few saw it as a life.

Clearly, I can see and hear and talk and move, though all of those are oft compromised.  Clearly, I can reason and sometimes reason at a high level.  Clearly, I have a life that no one, at this point, would argue the cost of which outweighs continuing my existence.  No one, at least, save for me.

All that money toward my prescriptions, none of them as cure or treatment.  All of them being supportive care.  What value is there in draining all of my retirement savings on expensive medications that make life only slightly more bearable?  To me, I think of it as waste.

I feel like it is a waste.
I cannot see how it could not be so.
I feel like life has ended ... after a fashion.

What do you do? The question I loathe and fear the most.  I do nothing.  Most days ... nothing but hold on to a fluffy, white, traumatized puppy who has at least as many fears as do I.  Who struggles with interacting with others as much as I.  Who takes far, far to long to feel safe with another.  And who inexplicably has new fears pile up on top of old and conquered fears return ten-fold.

What do you do?  I love a puppy dog, do all the wrong things, blather on about things most everyone I know cares little, and accomplish very, very little on a daily basis.

What do you do?  
Nothing.
God gave you an IQ of 151.  What a waste.

How is that not the truth?


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!