Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.

Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.

Monday, December 16, 2002

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Please ignore my age and any past suspicions that you weren't real. No one else is listening, and I think I've moved beyond the hope that prayer is going to do any good.

I want my body to work again.

I hurt so bad, Santa. The last two weeks ... I'm sitting here crying, Santa. Every day the pain seems to get worse. I can't even control my own hands. I'm shaking and aching and nothing is making it better. I have bottles of meds that do little more than dull the increasing agony.

I'm tired, Santa.

I'm tired of hurting, tired of disappointing my children and my family. I'm tired of waking up in tears because the pain is too much for me to stay asleep. I'm tired of having one of my children ask me a question, and suddenly going completely blank. I'm tired of going 3 or 4 days with only a few hours sleep total. I'm tired of waking up feeling more exhausted than I did before passing out. I'm tired of the drugs, I'm tired of the doctors, and I'm tired of being tired.

There's a wheelchair on my Christmas list, not because I want it, but because I'm slowly losing the ability to walk. The cane doesn't do me any good when my arms won't work. I have a handicapped placard for my car, the one that is permanent.

I want my mind back.

I want the brain cells that have been short-circuited to wake up. I don't want the fogs and confusion and frustration. I want to be able to do a damn crossword puzzle without bursting into tears because I can no longer remember anything.

I want to be there for my family. I want to be able to stand up long enough to make dinner. I want to be able to make bread again, or even something as simple as a cake. I want to be able to go to school plays and open house and go roller skating with my kids at parties.

I want to remember what my husband told me five minutes earlier without him having to tell me again. And again. I want the look of frustration and the growl in his voice to vanish. I want to remember being me, and I can't even remember what it was like.

I want to help my kids with their homework. I want to splash in puddles with them and chalk up the sidewalk and go to the zoo. I want to hold them in my arms, I want to be hugged, I want to be touched by them without crying because the pain of contact is too great.

I don't want my children to be afraid anymore. I don't want to hear "Is Mommy going to die?" I don't want to hear "Mommy, I hope you get better." I don't want my children to have to pick up after me because I can't hold onto anything and can't bend over to get whatever I knocked over.

I want to make love to my husband again. I want to be touched. For it to not hurt. I don't want to be scared of it.

It all seems so very selfish, but Santa? For Christmas ....

.... can you give me back to my family?

No comments: