I had to call the doctor again. This isn't getting any better, and I pleaded with him to let me stay at home. Please no Mater Dei. And he's relented because I told him I would go completely psycho. I really would. Staying in bed with the cats and the dogs is a much better idea. And I promised I'd be a good girl, no smoking. I don't think I can smoke anyway, this breathing problem is driving me round the bend, I just cough for dear life and now my ribs hurt. It's as if my ribs have gone horse riding or on a long hike. Or perhaps someone has walked on them with high heels without having been invited. I hate hospitals, and nurses too. I wonder where the nurse fetish comes from. Certainly not from me. And I don't like the beds, the bedding, the compartments which mimic privacy. What privacy? If I just so much as sneezed, I'd be heard. That's no privacy. I hate the smell too. Deviant smell. It's the smell of corpses' deodorant. How the hell could I breathe that? So I'm staying here. I'm in for a terrible night I know. But at least it'll be here in my own home.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
The thinking
I am finally up after a really bad night. Mister says it was really bad because I spent most of it in the bathroom. I have no recollection, except for the fact that I had to change my clothes and take a quick shower. So I suppose he's right. It is something like hysterical sleep, drifting in and out of consciousness, shifting the duvet because it's hot, then suddenly feeling so cold that i think I need maybe 5 duvets at the same time. This is bad. And I told the little people to keep their coughs to themselves. I don't think they did, I have one bad cough, a wheezing cough which tires me out and makes me helpless. Then I just let the Mister take over, he knows how to do this nebulizer thing which makes me a little better. So thank God for Misters.
I don't know what last night was all about. But somehow, in a very rude sense, I remember what I thought about last night. All last night. My dad. And no, please don't think I am pushing it. It's just what is happening. Perhaps there is a lot of guilt there. I've made him happy. And there have been times when I've made him sad and sick with worry. It wasn't my intention to make him worry, it's just that I suddenly stumbled upon the world and became a tearaway. I made him cry. I remember that. He cried silently, but he still cried. And now I'm overcome with guilt. And I remember one instance when he thought I was dead. He threw every single bit of caution to the wind, including tearing at the yellow police ribbon. I saw him from behind the window. And no police force was stopping him until he saw me with his own eyes. And I remember seeing the shock and relief on his face. He didn't care, as long as his daughter was alive, the world could die. That's just what his eyes said. Only now, years later, do I understand. And perhaps, only him, years ago, understood it all. And now he's concerned about the bad daughter being down with bronchitis. He's forgotten how bad the daughter was. He's on a to a fro mission to see how I am. He's bringing squeezed oranges with him. And he smiles and tries to joke to make me smile. And he does. Life hasn't exactly been very kind. But then we tend to forget the good. I had no choice, no say as to whom I was born. If it's luck, then I got so very lucky. I used to see other dads and was mystified as a child. My dad was nothing like that. And I'm still mystified because my dad still isn't anything like that. And perhaps people think I'm daddy's girl because I try to take him to a lot of places with me. And I don't do it just out of kindness, but also because he really is good company. My dad likes travelling to Verona in summer, for the opera at the Arena di Verona. He's been asking me to go with him for ages. I've never gone. But this year I'll be there with him. And I really don't care what people think. It's what I think that matters.
I don't know what last night was all about. But somehow, in a very rude sense, I remember what I thought about last night. All last night. My dad. And no, please don't think I am pushing it. It's just what is happening. Perhaps there is a lot of guilt there. I've made him happy. And there have been times when I've made him sad and sick with worry. It wasn't my intention to make him worry, it's just that I suddenly stumbled upon the world and became a tearaway. I made him cry. I remember that. He cried silently, but he still cried. And now I'm overcome with guilt. And I remember one instance when he thought I was dead. He threw every single bit of caution to the wind, including tearing at the yellow police ribbon. I saw him from behind the window. And no police force was stopping him until he saw me with his own eyes. And I remember seeing the shock and relief on his face. He didn't care, as long as his daughter was alive, the world could die. That's just what his eyes said. Only now, years later, do I understand. And perhaps, only him, years ago, understood it all. And now he's concerned about the bad daughter being down with bronchitis. He's forgotten how bad the daughter was. He's on a to a fro mission to see how I am. He's bringing squeezed oranges with him. And he smiles and tries to joke to make me smile. And he does. Life hasn't exactly been very kind. But then we tend to forget the good. I had no choice, no say as to whom I was born. If it's luck, then I got so very lucky. I used to see other dads and was mystified as a child. My dad was nothing like that. And I'm still mystified because my dad still isn't anything like that. And perhaps people think I'm daddy's girl because I try to take him to a lot of places with me. And I don't do it just out of kindness, but also because he really is good company. My dad likes travelling to Verona in summer, for the opera at the Arena di Verona. He's been asking me to go with him for ages. I've never gone. But this year I'll be there with him. And I really don't care what people think. It's what I think that matters.
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