Another nonverbal day. The last few days have been even more of a struggle than usual. Is it even possible, without completely losing the plot? Yes, it seems so. I am still here. Still relatively coherent, very much alive (the pain tells me that, very clearly so), but in a surreal state of high-pitched silently shrieking fugal stretto. At the same time… oh no, there’s that Pina Bausch Le Sacre dance scene again! How do they all coexist? I do not know. They just do. It’s all ‘going on’ in there, a palpable, concretely physical unfolding in the abstract realm of my brain. Yep. Go figure.
A terrible night. Strangulating undulations of hot and cold, breathless semiconscious mute roars, motionless writhing, and white brilliant fear. Too many thought trajectories… and overwhelming frustration at the manifold chains that bind while locked inside the perrenial battle with executive dysfunctions. The dichotomous interplay of intense fulfilment and eager yearning, crossing swords with the sheer agony of lack and paucity…
Lucy remained the one corporeal anchor. The gently cogent force that propels me out of ponderous despair into proprioceptive motion each and every morning. She was there, waiting patitently for me to disengage from the excruciating semi-somnambulistic pugilism.
We ventured forth into the cold morning air, she did her toilette, and I fixed coffee for myself after our little ritural of face and paw cleaning upon our return. Yes, I am meticulous about cleaning my Princess, and she is very obliging and patient. She understands. I do suspect that she too likes being clean anyway. Then, it hit me. Without warning. I realised I was shivering with fever, and the nausea turned an ugly shade of blue and purple. I stumbled along, preparing for the worst – swallowed two panadol and one dose of stemetil (prochloperazine), grabbed the bucket, lined it with a plastic bag, armed myself with wet wipes and tissues, and crawled into bed. Lucy was by then already in bed, her after breakfast routine, of course (sleeping), but this time, she watched me attentively from her curled up position. I sent a text to my friend Rick, asking him to come and take Lucy out for a walk later in the morning, because I might be too infirm to do so. The stemetil calmed the nausea and I drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Rick dropped by two hours later at 9am and I awoke, feeling surprisingly well!
Minced pork wonton noodle soup was in order! I was feeling famished!
The rest of the day was trashed. Fever returned and I crawled back into bed for the afternoon. I had nightmares about sliding downhill – work piling up and personal deadlines slithering away…
After a good solid Sunday of decent work, the fever bounced back with a vengeance today. Another washout day. More frustration. My greatest achievement today, apart from this ramble online, was measuring the beanbag chair and drawing the plan for a soft fluffy cover. Sigh.
During such perilous inner storms and outer ragings, the sweetness of Lucy slumbering softly is balm to my soul. No matter the tempest, here is an innocence that cannot be sullied. And to me, she is my waking dream: an innocence in motion, surreal yet concrete, a dream come true.
And the Tom Waits song springs to mind… though I have no idea why… it is just so.
You are innocent when you dream.