Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
A patch to wake up
A patch to fall sleep
A patch to help you pay attention
A patch to take a drink.
A patch to kill your dreams
A patch to keep you sane
A patch to make you eat
A patch to dull your brain.
A patch to calm your nerves
A patch to stay alive
A patch to keep you breathing
And then a patch to die.
As news about his mother’s declining condition was received, he thought for a while and then, teary-eyed, told her with his mind across time and space, “Well, Mom, I’m good with whatever you decide to do. You’ve known pain and sickness for so many years. If you decide you’re done, I understand.”
She would be missed, though. Strong, intelligent, and vital, she was his favorite mother. Probably always would be.
My wife suffers from autoimmune issues that end up expressing as RA. Inflammation, swelling, and pain flare up without warning. Hips, back, jaw, fingers, hands, feet, back. Nothing is immune from autoimmune problems.
It’s not a new issue for her, starting back in 1998. It wearies her, of course, and frustrates me. All I can do is support her, and that just doesn’t feel and sound like much.
She’s gone through meds but as anyone who is prescribed meds knows, everything has a side-effect. Many meds cause their own problems, burning through other organs, upsetting digestive systems, etc. In her mid-sixties, she’s been a vegetarian or vegan for over forty years, for many reasons. As her RA progressed, she eliminated more and more foods. She keeps a food journal. Fats were strenuously reduced. Salmon was embraced. We’ve always eaten steamed vegetables, particularly broccoli and brusse sprouts, and roasted asparagus, so we just stayed the course with those. Black beans form a large component of our meals. Alcohol was gone, but she was never much of a drinker. Dairy, especially cheese, which she loves, was eliminated. Tomatoes (another favorite) followed. Sugar. Then she kicked the meds because the side effects were too deleterious. She’s always been a staunch supporter of work outs and exercising and has been a jazzercise enthusiast and weightlifter for over forty years. She puts a lot into both and has been asked by the jazzercise instructor to fill in and lead classes.
That’s the thumbnail sketch. With her diet restrictions, off the meds, she’s been doing well, and even improving. Know how it is, though, right? Something flares up, causing pain and problems.
That brings us to CBDs.
Friends of mine are CBD advocates. They and their wives use CBD and other cannabidiols such as CBA and CBG to cope with their health issues, particularly inflammation and arthritis, sometimes in conjunction with THC, sometimes with mushrooms, but usually with wine or beer. All are pleased with the results. A few raved about CBD with THC to sleep at night. Edibles such as gummies, easily obtained and ingested, garnered particular praise.
So I collected info from friends regarding brands, habits, dosages, and side-effects, and brought that to my wife. She did further research. Purchases were made. She took her first, Wyld Blackberry 25 mg CBD gummies. “How was it?” I asked the next day.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied. “And I didn’t feel anything for the pain, swelling, or inflammation.” She showed me her crooked finger, with its red, swollen joint.
I have minor inflammation, mostly afflicting my intestines. While I address restoring my biome’s balance through diet and probiotics, I thought I’d give the CBD a try.
“How was it?” my wife asked the next day.
“Great. Felt almost an immediate relief. I was really impressed.”
A low growl came from my wife’s direction. I may have imagined that. She tried the CBD again that day and experienced the same results.
Research was pursued. She determined, she believes, that she’s one of those people who suffer increased anxiety from CBD, and no relief.
For the heck of it, we tried other gummy variations, and also gave CBG a try. Same results for her. Which just sucks, you know? Meanwhile, I thrived on it.
But that’s how our bodies are, individualistic and unequal, following paths and micro-paths which we don’t fully understand, sometimes forged by genetics, but also by small biological quirks. That’s part of the life experience, understanding what your body is doing, trying to understand why, struggling to address your own unique needs and issues. The wildest aspect is that the body is always changing, and the hunt for understanding doesn’t end until we cease to breathe.
And that is life.
I have three cats. One, Boo, our bedroom pantera, has cancer. This affects his mouth, obstructing his throat, causing him to drool, and naturally affecting his ability to eat. Started two weeks ago. It gets better, it gets worse.
He’s always been a cat that freaks out. Loud sounds — say a sneeze — launches a charge for the door. The vacuum cleaner being moved sends him skittering to get out of the house. Turning the vacuum on causes huge meowing fits by the door until he’s freed from the terror. Someone knocking on the door or ringing the doorbell is an incentive for a mad dash to the back door. If he can’t get out, he hides in the closet.
He barely permits us to scratch and pet his head and the back of his neck. Getting medicines into him is a ridiculous battle. We don’t know his back story of how he came to be like this. He came to us six years ago, another refugee who no one would claim. We gave him shelter and love to the best of our abilities.
He loves going outside in the morning. I permit him out, weather permitting. Although it’s in the forties today and sunny, wind gusts turned Boo back from going out. He couldn’t eat and was in pain, so he’s crying and drooling. My wife is doing her Zoom exercise class, so a voice is stridently shouting, “Heel toe! Grapevine! Four more!” This is set to blaring music. Today it’s old country and western. Of course, my wife is exercising, thumping across the floor in her shoes, which, yes, is a new stress-fear-anxiety source for Boo.
So, I’m trying to feed and comfort Boo. Also trying to feed the other cats. But they’re distracted by what’s going on with Boo, so they follow me around, trying to supervise and give advice.
Hell of a morning. All before coffee.
The thief isn’t death – we’re all going to die —
the thief is the decline that robs us of time.
The thief burgles memories
and steals our wit,
the thief is the disease that rots our bodies
and makes us sick.
The thief embezzles our energies and usurps our pride,
darkens our vision and makes hope a lie.
It takes our hearing and corrupts our senses,
builds up walls and creates new fences.
We look out from within and they look in from without,
both of us wondering,
does anyone know what life is about?
Emphysema, they told him. Eyes twinkling, he chuckled with charming nonchalance (gasping for air when he did), because that was his style, and because he already knew. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said after the chuckle, although the panic in his gut said, “This is no joke.”
They put him on all that shit, and gave him oxygen to suck on, and advised him of the things that he must give up. He gave up the shit and kept the rest. Yeah, there was unbearable pain every day and hour, but it was the loneliness and regrets who were the killers.
a twinge
becomes an ache
an ache grows into a throb
the throb develops as a relentless pain
the pain
becomes a fear
the fear grows into a concern
the concern develops as a constant worry
the worry
becomes a visit
the visit grows into a routine of meds
the meds develop as a constancy of life
the life
becomes a bore
the bore grows into apathy
the apathy develops as a decision
the decision
becomes a moment
the moment grows into a goal
the goal develops as an ending
He doesn’t want his father to die, but this person that he sees every day doesn’t tell the jokes that his father used to make, and he doesn’t drink beer and coffee, doesn’t go walking with his dog, or wash his cars, or go for drives (driving too fast), or watch television and argue about sports.
He doesn’t want this man to die, even though his beard is white and wispy, and his hair is gone, and the lean, tall body sags like a worn fence, and he no longer barks out demands and orders.
He doesn’t want this man to die, the drooling one who sits in a chair and stares most of the day, the one that doesn’t eat much, mostly eating candy when he does eat, the man who doesn’t remember his name and needs help to use the toilet.
He doesn’t want this man to die, no matter what kind of wreck he is, because he knows that he’s still his father, and he will miss him more when he’s gone.
But he doesn’t want this man to suffer any more, because he is his father, so he comes every day, visiting and waiting, wondering and remembering, wishing that he had hope for something besides what it is.
Howling winds hurled gray sheets of rain across the landscape. Thinking of the dream, I remember endless, gloomy gray. No lights were ever seen. The wind shrieked and howled. There were waves and waterspouts, and there was rain.
We’d been striving to prepare for the heavy, increasing storms, but their cycles sped up, and the storms were more sudden and violent. Many people and places were surprised by the storms’ viciousness and frequency. Others tried taking them in, because, what else could they do?
But a strange disease began sweeping the settlements. Virulent, contagious and deadly, symptoms appeared with little warning. The population quivered with anxiety. Civil cooperation vanished. An era of selfish fighting for survival erupted.
I came into the dream seeing others and racing from them, ensuring I avoided others because I didn’t want to die from the disease. I’d already lost friends and family. My desperation to avoid others drove me to leap off cliffs into crashing waves. Constantly on guard, continually traveling, hoarding food, I felt exhausted.
Then, during a relatively calmer, quiet period, one man called across to me. He was a hundred yards away. I didn’t want him to get closer. I believe he said, “They have a cure.”
Although dubious, I was interested. I didn’t know who they were. The storms lessened. During a period of trudging between buildings in search of food, I saw posters. The posters claimed there was a cure, and gave directions.
I was leery of a trap but made my way in a general manner toward the location of the cure. I saw others. We kept our distance from one another but called across, sharing information, trying to address, who can vet this, and how can it be vetted? More people closed in on the center where they supposedly had a cure. Suspicions kept me back.
The storms finally abated more. Weak sunshine washed the wet land. More people were encouraged to go for the cure.
And I, tired of solitary fight to survive, joined them.
Michael Seidel, writer 