Death Becomes Her… or Me, whatever

I think I’m dying. Okay, I know technically we’re all “dying”. What poet said that the moment we are born we begin to die? I don’t know. Honestly, it’s a bit melodramatic for me. And yes, I am being a bit melodramatic myself saying that I think I’m dying. Good catch on your part. Nonetheless, I am mildly concerned that my body is giving out under me.

This is completely new territory for me. I would be much at home in this current awareness of bodily dysfunction if I had say, been a hypochondriac all or at least most or in the very least some of my life. Nod to you on the run-on sentence. I won’t bother with it, though, since between you and me, life and death puts the whole grammatical correction thing kind of in weak comparison (and yes I didn’t really say what I was just trying to say. Kudos to you, oh critical one. The point, my friend is that you GET IT. And if you don’t just smile and nod. That what I’d do). In fact, that’s what life has been. One tedious smile and nod. They should write a parenting book that says just smile and nod. It works in just about every situation a parent faces (especially when dealing with the dreaded OTHER parents). Nothing is scarier than other parents, except just maybe perhaps dying. Which brings me back to my original supposition that my body is slowly and almost unnoticeably deteriorating before my very eyes. Well, not my eyes, because I don’t look in the mirror that much. Thank GOD for that, because the sight of the enormous bags under my eyes would just cause me more anxiety, and we just can’t have that now can we?

I get headaches almost daily. Which in and of itself is not a precursor for death. Not at all. But I’m not in what you’d really call a “stressful” career. I am a stay at home overseer of children. That’s it. I stay in the same general space a 2-4 generally self sufficient children. I’m just here to feed them, make sure they’re clothes and washed properly and to ensure they don’t impale themselves on some random and seemingly innocent object (like a sharpened pencil, which in the hand of a running child quickly becomes an eyeball seeking missile. Ah, childhood). It’s not just that, but I’m dog ass tired. Is dog ass a term, probably not. But there you go. My life’s mission complete, to leave my mark upon the world in a lasting and great phrase. And you have it, dog ass tired. And I thank you. No matter how much I sleep, I am exhausted. It’s an olympian effort to raise my limp and lifeless body out of bed. My mind (also limp and lifeless) makes no great effort to help. It’s like it checked out, leaving a note to the body that clearly states “dude, you’re on your own.” And so I get up ever so slowly, just before 9 o’clock, usually achieving at least 8 hours total of sleep, and I feel like I’ve been run over by a dump truck, with an emphasis put on inflicting as much possible trauma to my head.

I still have to get up and be a mother. If it weren’t for that, I’d stay in bed until noon, hoping that some extra sleep will help (it won’t). I had blood drawn today. If my doctor comes back and tells me I have a brain tumor, I would not be surprised. I’m probably just anemic or some simple thing, but it literally feels like my body is shutting down or in some kind of weird power saving suspension mode (you know, like your computer when left on but unattended).

I’m not depressed. I’m not in much pain (except the headaches and the odd muscle ache, oh and the piercing feeling I get in my ears sometimes). Never you mind all that, though, I’m sure it’s all in my head which is host to a greatly overactive imagination which constantly contemplates death (not mine, just the meaning of it and the like). I don’t really think death is scary. I’m not really bothered by death, as long as it’s not brought on through violence. I just wish I didn’t feel like an extra cast member of AMC’s hit show the Walking Dead (love that show). It’d be nice to greet sunshine with a sense of energy and possibility instead of “oh great, here we go again.” Gotta get out of this funk.

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