Three Comments, Plus

Sometimes I can't get out from under sorrow. An oppressive blanket that I just can't kick off. Otherwise, it lies under me, a mattress on which my strong straight back rests.

Silly metaphors.


I.

Anger first, then sorrow, my friend Mary texted me this morning.



II.

No rocket science, especially about the med community overall. Pharm feeds off and feeds it, now it wants the lion's share of a thing that sadly everyone else worked so hard to prove was the right thing all along. They will of course fuck it up, wrote my friend Ken in response to my most recent posts.



III.

The unwillingness to have a conversation is shocking to me. This is how our previous two docs functioned. They didn't want to hear anything from us and didn't entertain the thought that how the body functions or doesn't on the most basic biochemical levels might contribute to seizures. Or even tell us that they didn't believe that was an issue.

So my question to myself is why continue seeing neurologists at all? It seems to be the wrong tool for the job at this point, like going to an auto mechanic to treat cancer. But we're told that we have to because it's irresponsible not to have one. But is it? We've learned on our own how to wean as safely as possible. We've learned from experience that extra [drug] and not rescue benzos best stop her clusters. But I still worry, always worry, that as EVERYONE says, we can't go it alone because they're DOCTORS and they know things and we're not. But I'm not sure doctor means what people thinks it means at all. It sure as hell doesn't mean critical thinking or curious mind, wrote my friend Chris from across the country in an email I got this morning.



The gentle advice of my friend Moye, my sweet sister Jennifer's concern, the Bird Photographer's embrace, the raucous laughter of my friend Debra, and the arrival of Saint Mirtha conspire against the immediacy of sorrow. They, and the three comments that fell into my lap this morning, peeled the blanket back.

Thank them.

I am always trying to string moments together to make a strand that will last, something to hang around my neck, but I'm thinking that I must acknowledge moments as only moments. There's no end to the stringing, otherwise. So many sounds. Sorrow. Samsara. Surrender.