Sunday, June 22, 2014

Sucker punched...

The pharmacist called to tell me that the erythromycin pills price changed.  She called because she understands that I do best when I rehearse things.  So, she did not want me to have a melt down when I pick up all my prescriptions on Friday.  Sweet.  Merciful.  However, the news feels like the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back.

$436 per month.
$436 per month to digest food.
$436 per month to digest food when I was paying $93.

Of course, my MacBook power adapter thingy decided to stop working today.  I personally believe it should have lasted longer than 19 months, but I had read the magnetic thingy and its positioning make for a shortened life as far as computer adapters go.  But, really, what a way to kick a gal when she's already down.

I was wildly nauseous from 3:00 to 5:00 AM, before breaking down and taking the Zofran.  Sometimes I worry that if I take it too often, it will stop working for me.  Even though I know that my 8 mg dose has room for growth (chemo patients can take up to 32 mg at a time), I still feel that I should be absolutely sure that I cannot endure the nausea a moment more before taking a Zofran.

So, I slept until 7:00, when I got up to feed Amos and take my erythromycin dose.  Then, I could not get back to sleep.  From 7:30 to 11:00, I tried so hard to sleep.  I tried to not think about that call and not think about the dreams I had.  But all I could feel was despair.  With sleep not coming, I decided to go ahead and get up.

Walking across the sanded porch floor boards to take Amos outside, I realized with this strange sort of clarity that I could only endure one more day of sanding.  No more could I be so utterly filthily and —despite the use of a mask—have to spend hours clearing out sawdust from my orifices.  I changed clothes and went to town.  This ... this after working a double session yesterday and then calculating out the remaining work: 11 boards (one long sanding session); removing the metal threshold and addressing the boards beneath it and their edges (one session); going back around all the edges to ensure that I have come as close to the walls/baseboards as possible (one session); and going over the entire floor one more time for a light finish (one session).

I changed my clothes and went outside.
I stayed outside until I was finished.
I am in agony, with hands and arms still vibrating hours later.

I don't know how to take a photo of the floor where the lighting doesn't cast darks patches on the wood.  This photo is not all that accurate, for the spots by the door and those at the end of the porch are no less sanded (no darker) than the rest of it.  In fact, the entire floor is much lighter than shown ... perhaps closest to the boards just on the far side of the back door.  In any case, I am hopeful that, once sealed, a photo will be more balanced.

To ensure that I would not try to sand any more, not try to do just a tiny bit better job, I got out the blower and cleaned off all the lattice, the window, the doors, the walls, and the ceiling as best I could.  Even with sweeping up after changing each sanding disc, I still had copious amounts of sawdust everywhere.  Now, I will not be tempted to get the sander back out.

I also texted Firewood Man to let him know it is read for power washing.  When he came to mow on Thursday, Tim took the time to move the grill from the back porch to the sidewalk, so I could finish the floor.  Neither of us thought it would before the end of June.  Depending on when he has time to come clean the wood, I just may make that deadline.  For I anticipate the sealing to take just a short while compared to the front porch.

I know. I know that it is going to be beautiful. I know that each and every time that I take Amos out or leave to fetch prescriptions, the cockles of my heart will warm ever so slightly at the sight of properly tended wood.  I know that this is the last bit of the house that I can really address myself, the last needed actually, since Tim came up with a way to take care of the peeling paint on the lattice walls of the back porch.  [I don't know how, but someone else is going to prep and paint the remaining three garage walls.]  Yes, I still have to take care of the basement steps and those flooded carpet squares, but that will be a walk in the park compared to the colossal amount of labor this floor took.  I know that today was a good day to finally finish removing the paint.  I even know that in three or four days, the intense pain of my body from pushing so hard to finish those last sanding tasks will ease and be gone.  But I am still overwhelmed.

I am overwhelmed by the enormity of what it has (and will take) to restore the back porch floor.
I am overwhelmed by the staggering price of the medication I take to digest food.
I am overwhelmed by the thoughts and feelings of my father's death that keep cropping up.
I am overwhelmed by knowing that I do not really understand the words of faith.
I am overwhelmed by the changes in my mind.
I am overwhelmed by dysautonomia, especially the innards misery, the chills, and the anxiety.
I am overwhelmed by the deficit I am forced to live ... if I want to digest food.
I am overwhelmed by the Medicare donut hole.
I am overwhelmed by being the only one who has to face and figure out this life of mine.
I am overwhelmed by the nightmares and night terrors that plague me.
I am overwhelmed by who I am becoming.
I am overwhelmed by fear of the state of my soul.

$436.  How do I swallow that??

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