So so days.
Not good, but will make until tomorrow days.
Then there are I want to die days.
Not really die.
Well, some days I really do.
Sometimes wanting to die is a state of mind.
Other times the desire is as palpable as the heart beating in my chest.
Am I my mother’s son?
Will her suicidal path be mine?
Will a day come when I can no longer bear to endure another sunrise having not known the relief of sleep?
There are times that thoughts of suicide are a dark passenger, one that lurks in the shadows making itself known when the pain becomes unbearable.
Two of my sons are helping put in a gas line for our new stove.
Not really ours.
Polly’s dream stove.
I have a plan, but five hours later I tap out, admitting that the planned path from meter to stove will not work.
I wonder, do my sons think I am stupid, a feeble man who can no longer see every obstacle and a way to get around them and reach the objective?
I am no longer THAT man.
Gone is the man who could have his way with world.
Gone is the man who could work night and day until the project is completed.
Gone is the muscle, the brawn, the mental and physical wherewithal to have my way with whatever I set my hands or mind to.
I am left with the shell of the man I once was.
Pain, from the muscle bands attached to my skull to the joints in my feet and every place in between.
At best, narcotics provide a brief respite from the pain.
At worst, they are like taking aspirin for a migraine, like pissing into the wind of a hurricane.
As my oldest son finds a new route for the gas line, I go to the garage.
I am alone.
Really, really alone.
My sons don’t need me.
Without or without me the gas line will be finished and Polly will be in cooking heaven.
I bend over the bench in the garage and I weep.
Why won’t the pain stop?
Dumb question, I know the answer.
Do I want to live like this for another day?
I find this question hard to answer.
As I type this my entire body screams for deliverance, but I know only death will quell the screams.
Am I ready to die?
No, not today.
I want to eat what Polly cooks on her new stove.