I seem to be having a rough time today.
Not enough compassion.
Too much compassion.
Not enough awareness.
Too much awareness.
Three boiled eggs on a plate last night on the dinnertable, amongst a green Greekish salad and Brian’s scrumptious grilled chicken.
Flawless white, buttery yellow, perfect like a picture.
For us, they were a side dish. Something to cut up and go on top of the salad.
There are families whose days might revolve completely around three eggs. When and where to get them, finding the water and the fire to boil them, how to share them.
My guilt will do no one any good. My prayers might, but self-pity surely won’t.
Good news: Nicholas and his mom were back at school today. Maybe they’re back for a while, maybe not. But at least he’s up and around.
Can’t run – the shoulder hollers at the slightest jog, even with Tylenol. Have abandoned even the idea of upper body yoga, at least for a couple of weeks. At this point I don’t even want to stretch out my left arm. Time for a sling? Back to the doctor? X-ray? Acupuncture? Damned if I know. Maybe just stop trying to pretend I’m not kinda broken right now. Legs-up-the-wall is fine, though. Most lower-body stuff is fine. I can still walk pretty quickly.
Weight loss has stalled. No doubt due to the lack of intense physical exercise. Moods are 65% shitty, 20% level, and 15% chipper. Quick calls to my friends are doing a lot to boost my mood, even if the friend on the other line is having a shit day too.
John and Elizabeth Edwards are amazing people. I saw the press conference on Thursday and while I am in complete agreement with my husband that it’s good publicity for them to have a press conference about Elizabeth’s recurrence of cancer, my opinion is that it’s also an opportunity to see how they handle obstacles and challenges. It was no doubt the only option for them – and the best one. I’m still not impressed with his opinions on gay rights, I’m still disappointed by his lack of support for Melissa (Shakespeare’s Sister), but eliminating poverty is a hell of a platform for a president. He recognizes that so many of our nation’s suffering stems from that, so to tackle that behemoth would put a dent in some other areas.
Last December in Massachussetts, a little girl died from an overdose of Clonidine and other drugs in her system (both prescription and OTC, as far as I can tell.) A psychiatrist had diagnosed her with ADHD and bipolar disorder. She was four.
I shouldn’t have read the rest of the article. You can look it up on MSN if you want.
Compassion for the girl (who looks frighteningly similar to myself at that age), not enough compassion for her parents and for the people around her who let it happen. The girl died the day before the local social services agency was going to come for a surprise visit.
How do we get off this Wheel? Why can’t I learn these lessons for other people? Was I the social worker in a past life? The relatives who lived with them, who saw how sick the girl was and did nothing? The mother? The girl? God, just to be able to hold that child for one second.
I long for my girl at times like these. Instead of trying to talk myself into the feeling of gratitude (as I did this morning, turning off the coffee pot and forcing a smile on my face), I am filled to bursting with thanks for her whiny obstinate boogery dancing shining loving self. I want to leave work and take her to the park.
And hot on the heels of that gratitude is guilt that I didn’t really feel it this morning, when she was pitching a record-breaking tantrum about having to wear shorts to school under her spring dresses.