My apologies for the string of down beat, depressive posts as of late. This may be the most important thing for me to write though, fighting with depression. If I look back on these posts, they may shed some light as to why this seems to be a constant battle.
The 5th day in a row. I wake up early when I hear the wife stirring upstairs. The dogs had slept downstairs with me last night, two dogs on oversized pillows on the floor, me on the couch. At least I beat them to the couch. They also hear mom up, the name the two dogs know her by, and decide they need out at 6:00 a.m. I’m still tired from the drugs, not a lot of sleep last night and in pain. I’m nauseous, but crawl off the couch to let them out back to do their morning pee.
Last night I considered heading to the lake on this cool yet sunny morning, but that went out the window with the pain and nausea. The fish can wait one more day. In the meantime the blues grab hold and pull at me, trying to pull me down.
I really needed more sleep so I laid back down, but gave that up when my wife joined us. I ate a yogurt to coat my stomach, fired up the Nespresso, and took 4mgs of hydromorphone. The only way to start your day.
Mrs. K had her usual cappuccino, then left for a morning appointment. Run some errands. We’re used to her being gone to work, so we were on our own this morning as usual.
I climbed the stairs to take all the morning meds, then hopped in the shower while the morphine kicked in. Figure out my day from there. Thought about running over to check out a gym we are contemplating joining. Good idea. They have a pool, which sounds perfect for someone in severe pain and thinking about dieting and exercising more. Floating on my back would be more exercise than I get right now.
Then I could go by the public swim center a few miles past the gym. Still close enough to warrant a looksee. They apparently have a heated therapeutic pool for the handicapped, like myself I suppose. It’s free to the public and fairly wide open for use every day. I’m not well today, but I still want to figure out a way forward and try to do more to alleviate any amount of pain I can. While I can.
I make it a point to accomplish something everyday, like a major chore needing to be tackled, or a trip somewhere just to get out of the house. Today would be a few trips about something different to do, something that may help. Something to be around other people instead of holing up. I have to force myself to keep active, do anything, go somewhere. Don’t give up yet. Instead of hiding under the covers all day in a comatose depressive state, which would be all too easy.
That didn’t last of course, meaning my plans to find a place with a pool in my quest to get healthy. The dogs took care of that for me, as usual. Well one dog did, but neither are fessing up, they ain’t talking. Seems one dog had come upstairs while I was showering, threw up on the white carpet, twice, and went to hide with their sibling downstairs.
If you don’t know anything about French Bulldogs but have heard the stories, then trust me they are more than true. Yes, they fart. A lot. Silent, but the smell lets us know it’s from one of them and not one of us. They have their own minds and stomachs, and on occasion just decide they need to throw up. Whenever and wherever. I am not saying all the time, just those moments where you think you have a minute to rest. Or any plans you’ve made.
Yes, we have dogs and white carpeting. Up the stairs, in the hallway and in all three bedrooms. Surprisingly the carpets are in great shape with just the 2 of us living here, in spite of the dogs. 22 years now since this townhouse complex was built.
That’s due to the fact I have an industrial sized steam cleaner, and another designed for stairs. The small stuff gets spot cleaned right away, but every so often I do pretty much the same job as a pro and give the whole thing the once over.
I had been thinking the past week or two it was time for a deep cleaning, and after stepping out of the shower and seeing the gift left on the floor, I decided what the hell. The morphine had kicked in, the hot shower melting the stiffness. I was still tired and down, but foolish enough to think I could tackle this.
It shouldn’t be too much to do the carpet and the stairs today, right? An hour and a half for the bedrooms, another half hour for the stairs. The Mrs., who would object to me doing too much, was gone for 4 hours. Plenty of time to get it done.
I wrapped my gift of half-digested dog food and a few leaves in paper towels, then threw it in the trash. Next I pre-treated the stain with some oxy type of pet stain remover. One of them eats leaves and weeds when they’re sick, so I knew the culprit.
Then head to the garage to have a pre-steaming cigarette, while the pre-treat spray does its job. The garage is the best place to hide and have those negative thoughts spiral. The shower is where I have all the epiphanies and ways forward, the garage is where everything comes crashing down. I know, stay out of the garage stupid.
I’m bad about standing in there, smoking a cig, and over thinking everything. The dogs are a handful, but I’d be lost without them. The loneliness of an old crippled fool setting in.
It’s then I wished the wife would retire. From a selfish standpoint, to fill this loneliness and depression. If she was here we could do stuff, smile and joke and enjoy our last years together. Maybe she believes there are more years ahead than I do. I know she fears being bored as all she knows is work.
The job she has happily done for more than 30 years has turned into a job she hates. I think she is worried about money. I’m not. The only time I was really happy was when I was poor, so I’ve been there, done that. Even so there’s nothing to fret about.
Our financial advisors did a portfolio review this year which proved there isn’t any cause for concern in the short or long term. They plot everything out until the ripe old age of 95, which is the number the government uses for potential longevity of people. You should die at 95, and have paid all your taxes the day before.
That’s the only reason I bring up finances, it’s that longevity number. Plus the fact that I don’t have to worry about money, like I would anyway.
95 years old? That’s 27 more years for me. I even used a calculator to be certain. Will I make it 27 more years? Ha. Do I want to live 27 more years? Double ha. I don’t know if I can take another day of pain. One more day might be it. Even with the opioids, which strip your quality of life in a different way. Not a good trade off.
Every person has a breaking point, a point where they can’t go on under the same conditions or circumstances, especially as those conditions seem to worsen every year. I wondered aloud “should I be ashamed of myself for giving in to the pain? Is it that bad?”. I have nothing to be ashamed of, absolutely nothing. But convincing my ever twisting mind of that is another thing. “I need to suck it up.”
That’s when I decided my fate. If cancer, a bus, or stray bullet doesn’t kill me first. When the dogs take their final walk on this earth, and pass away. I’ll do the same. I’m not certain of a french bulldog’s lifespan to be truthful, and avoid looking it up altogether. They could very well live longer than me in the normal scheme of things. That would save me the absolute heartbreak of having to take one to the vet for that last time. That would be enough to kill me, death by broken heart.
The dogs have been my purpose for 6 years now. There’s nothing else that holds me here really. They are reliant upon me being there for them, being their caretaker. At times I feel like the dogs own me and not the other way around. That’s not bad either.
So a decision was made today. At least that was accomplished. I will stick around for the sake of the “children”. The two dogs that round out our family. Seems I did that once before, sticking around for the children’s sake. The difference being it was with real children.
Due to my alcohol abuse I had to leave…for the children’s sake. I’m a better father to the dogs than I was to my two kids. That’s a damn sorry thing to say. I am constantly amazed they love me as much as they do.
So once these two dogs pass, I won’t need to be a victim of this constant pain. I can’t envision my life without them.
Enough mundane gibberish about dying.
Back to the steamer.