I’ve come to this page ten or so times tonight with every intention to write about, I don’t know what. It just occurred to me that the title of my blog is “Disconnect.” As in a lack of connection; a disparity. Funny seeing as how the reason I write the thing is so that I might feel a connection to something, which brings me back to why I’ve come to this page ten times tonight. I’m feeling a bit raw. A bit like I’d like to be in the fetal position. A bit like fucking, because, let’s face it, isn’t that everyone’s favorite coping mechanism?
My mother is asleep on my couch. She has an appointment with her neurologist tomorrow. Next to me is a list of things we need to talk to the neurologist about:
1. White outs, because when she wakes up every morning, she can’t see for about five minutes
2. Balance, because she’s like a walking pinball
3. Cataract surgery, because, if nothing else, at least now she can see what she’s stumbling into, unless, of course, it’s less than five minutes after she’s gotten up
4. Passing out, because apparently she blacked out last night and laid in the middle of the
living room yelling for my sister, who could sleep through a tornado, to come and help her
5. Need to change migraine medicine, because, the one thing we’ve found in ten years to help
her headaches causes severe breathing problems
6. After a bad migraine, balance issue seems to get worse, because, maybe it isn’t just an
expression. What if her head really does explode?
7. Refill Percocet, because if you can’t see and you keep falling over, you may as well be high.
“You know, I was thinking, there could be something really wrong with me,” my mom said five minutes before she fell asleep. “I was thinking that as I was driving up here.”
“Yeah, I was thinking that too,” I said. I forgot to say, it’s all I think about. Well, that and the fact that I’m graduating in two weeks and I have no money and no job. And how I haven’t slept in a month. And, and, and, well, you can see how fucking is better.