Vertigo

Spin around merry-go-round,
faster, faster round and round,
darkness comes without a sound,
grip the post and don’t go down,
the vortex sucks into the ground.

Doc ordered tests, had three vials of blood drawn, and asked me to keep a health journal. I am supposed to take my blood pressure daily, continue doing my self-help stuff, and note any symptoms, as that might help her figure out what exactly is going on with me. I might just need my meds adjusted.

Tell you true, I am really glad that I am not alone during this phase of life. Vertigo scares me. I am afraid of falling down. I’m afraid of being sucked into that vortex. I think it will put me in the ground, so I fight the darkness by gripping the iron posts of my headboard as tight as I would grip the posts on a merry-go-round. If I let go, I’m gone… maybe just passed out for awhile, who knows?

I trust the old G would call an ambulance for me.  He watches me sleep most nights anyway, while playing on his phone or watching TV. He knows the patterns of my breath, just as I am familiar with his.

My health is one of the reasons why he kept his apartment downtown… his name on that lease is his little security blanket so he won’t end up doing the homeless vet thing again if/when I die (or kick him out, whichever comes first).  We are not married, so he has no legal rights to the house.

The mortgage has a transfer clause, so the loan can be transferred to my daughter (or perhaps a sister, if she does not want it) and as long as the payments are made, the bank does not care. Important papers are in my office, most are in a red binder.

I hereby leave sorting of ALL PAPERS including documents on computers, disks, and flash drives to my sister Jai with the following instructions:

1. Save my poems, short stories, and unpublished works… Sister Wars is in a box.
2. Box up and mail all books, poems, letters, and documents penned by Rodney J. Douce to his son Darrick, if the stubborn old man is no longer breathing on this planet.
3. My degrees, certificates, and similar things are in a thin purple binder.
4.  Shred (or simply do not share) anything that may be harmful or hurtful. Use discretion. Some things are NOT for everyone’s eyes.

Print this blog post as proof of my instructions. Consider this X as my electronic signature.

IMPORTANT:  Please do not let anyone throw my art away.

ALSO IMPORTANT:  Under no circumstances should my sister Susan be allowed to write my obituary. She does not know me well enough… her entry for me in the family history book was short and blatantly sexist… basically, she ignored my life achievements and reduced my existence down to just my name, date of birth, dates married to my ex (less than 4 years combined), HIS occupation, HIS shit, and ‘mother of’ our child.  We argued about it incessantly. If I have time, I will write my own… if not, Jai can write it.

Last but not least, dear sister and/or friends who may read this… do NOT freak out… I have no intention of exiting soon, but if I do… just know that I love you. Thank you for being you.

 

Advertisement

Father’s Day

It is Father’s Day. I’m flipping through the Sunday newspaper and whoa, the familiar face of a man I used to work with in the obits, dead from cancer at the age of 52. Damn.

My dad once barked at a telemarketer, “What do you mean my friends? All my friends are dead!”

Not all… but as time passes, the unwritten list grows.

My father is an old man now with hair so snow white that it caught me by surprise to see that in a recent photograph, like whoa… how could I not notice, when I saw him just a couple weeks ago?

I am, as they say, a “daddy’s girl” as I have always felt close to my father. We share common interests and a simular sense of humor. We can talk for hours about anything and everything. He has a unique perspective, an understanding in a way others miss, occasionally shares an insight on something that make me think or ponder over for awhile. He has always encouraged me, guided me, and loved me unconditionally.

On this Father’s Day, my heart breaks for those whose fathers have already passed. Farewell Mr. Wargacki.