I came home from the Hospital late Sunday afternoon. I didn’t get a chance to speak to my dad until today about an hour ago. I kind of wish I hadn’t.
The dictionary lists the meaning of the word “shame” as a feeling of “embarrassment” and “humiliation”. I feel this way about my room. I have never eaten in my room that is the good part. I have never had a “tidy” room. My appearance will always be impeccable unless I’m sick. My hair will be clean and styled, my make-up will be applied with the utmost of care and I’ll have a nice outfit on. Most likely I will smell like expensive perfume.
My bedroom on the other hand will be a mess. I don’t mean a normal mess. I mean like a hoarder mess. There are piles and piles of clothes I no longer wear. There are empty CD cases mixed in along with hair clips and I don’t know what else. There are also gigantic piles of shopping bags filled with empty soda cans and cigarette butts. These bags take up most of my room and bathroom. I didn’t want my dad to know I was smoking in my bathroom so I would throw the butts in these bags with the empty Ginger Ale and Orange Soda cans and when he wasn’t home try to find a place to dump the bags. My dad is a fanatic about smoking. He used to smoke and my mother had lung cancer. My doctors have all said that my 5 cigarette a day habit is the least of my worries at this point. If I had a $1 for every time I was laughed at when I give this history on a new Doctor’s visit I would be rich. But still out of respect for my Dad I hide it.
I don’t think I was really fooling anyone. While I was in the Hospital I guess he went in my room. To say he was angry would be an understatement. I think I was told I would have to leave if I didn’t straighten out. I knew something was up when I heard him muttering under his breath “it would be a shock if you did anything”. While he was at dialysis this morning I swept all the hardwood floors, disinfected all countertops, cut the Pomeranian’s nails, I may have passed out for just a little bit I’m not sure, and picked up the pee pads that he had let sit there for a couple of days and washed the floor.
I’m not suppose to be doing any of this. I just had surgery. I feel sick to my stomach, I can’t eat, I have a low grade fever, my stents hurt, I can’t take pain medicine, my vision is blurry, my sister is back to not taking calls, no one on Facebook cares I almost died again, I’m talking Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, etc. and I’m tired but can’t sleep.
So bring it on, this shame of mine. Put it on the pile with the other shit I’m dealing with. I just don’t care. I’m more worried about vomiting. I hate it. That and if I told some people I loved them lately. The kidneys really mess up your brain function. I’m so confused and can’t remember things. I do know I still have to do a Living Directive or Living Will. I keep getting asked about one. The transporter bringing me ONE FLOOR DOWN to get a test done asked about it and if I wanted life saving measures taken if something happened. I was like “Buddy we’re going ONE FLOOR DOWN if I can’t make it that far I belong in the ICU”. He just laughed. I thought it was weird. I couldn’t make up my mind. I didn’t know. How do you make that decision when you’ve spent most of your life not wanting to be on this planet but not wanting to necessarily be dead either. It’s a tough one. Any input would be good on that one.