So, J. Alfred Prufrock had his coffee spoons, Will Freeman had units. I have days with no pain. Or less pain. Hey, days with a good poop measure up pretty good I'd say. I don't know what it is like to not have pain. Maybe no one does. I measure the success of me, by the amount of pain inside my body. If a monkey on your back is a literary form of measurement, some days I have a howler monkey screaming so loud nothing else can be heard. Maybe I should start a rating system: Capuchin, Spider and everyday Marmosets. Never, ever going to invite the Ape for a stay. He would crush me. I stubbornly push off the help, any assist in fighting the weight of carrying my pain monkey around with me. When I wake, when I sleep, it is there. I stupidly think if I can beat it on my own, I win something ( like what a Pride Trophy sheez ) It always wins. It wakes me up from sleep, or keeps me from it. Keeps me from smiling at the little girl skipping and humming because she could. I try to wrestle it on my own, yet it is now and has always been stronger than me. I don't like it. Never will.

And why should I? Why should anyone? It sucks. Literally, it sucks. It sucks life and energy out of you. Depleting what you were, or what you would have liked to be. Your face contorts into this ugly grimace of dislike and distrust. You distrust the time when pain is absent. Oh, it will be back, just like the neighbors you don't want knocking at 11 p.m. asking for the plunger. ( No, you can keep it. Trust me on that. ) Why should I like that after nearly 40 years ( yeah, ugh you read that right and I didn't like typing it either ) not one doctor has any idea better than my own self why I have this pain? Nothing to be glad about on that. Shrug after shrug after shrug. I am simply hoping for as many good days as possible and to survive the bad ones as well as I am able. Possibly without losing friends and family members with my rage and angst along the way. There have been casualties, might be more. For as J. Alfred said....

"And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea."

Just found out that Dorothy Oyler, the Grandmother of my former friend, passed away at the beginning of July. I had been a part of this family since I was the age of five. When Stacie decided I was no longer friend worthy, I knew that Dorothy would be leaving, and that I would not know when she was near to it, or when it would happen. Now, that it has happened, I don't know how to mourn. Dorothy always liked me. Whenever there was a family function and she was there as well, she would want to sit by me, and hold my hands. She liked to hold my hands. She would always tell me how soft they were, and tell me I was beautiful. Yeah, she thought I was beautiful, while most of the family thought I was fat. She once told me I was the best friend Stacie could ever hope for, and she meant it. I still have the smells in my nose of pies and canning from when I was 8 or 9 visiting the house on the mountain road. Running through the orchard, playing hide and seek with all of the cousins. The soft 50's colors on the walls, the crammed hallways. That will always be Dorothy's house to me, the apples and the orchard, the leaves on the ground. The family I was a part of even if I wasn't born into it.

She could be hard on her family, I knew it, but I listened to her. I think it is easier sometimes to abuse the closeness we have with family, just assuming they will never leave. Dorothy did that, but she loved and treasured everything Sally and Russell did for her. They were the best daughter and son in law a mother could ask for throughout all Dorothy's life. Russell would just show up with groceries cuz if he didn't, who would? Sally would go visit, just to visit. We would all be so lucky to have Sally and Russell to take care of us, to just remember us throughout the day. That is another part of this that stings so horribly, when Stacie threw me away, she threw me away from the entire family as well. I don't get to tell Sally how sorry I am for her, losing another loved one. How proud I am of her for loving the way she does. I miss telling Sally thank you for loving me, and accepting me. Suppose, I don't know the truth of that anymore. I only know how it was. I only know how Dorothy liked to hold my hands.

Thanks to a FB friend, a wonderful idea has come my way, a daily listing of things that make you grateful. List your gratefuls.....The Grateful Daily. I have often said in conversation that it infuriates me, might even sicken me, that we as humans often need to lose something we love/need/want/cherish to be grateful for what we have. Why do we need to be reminded to be thankful? Why do we need to be reminded by others' misfortune to be grateful for what we already have? I have never, ever understood this. Never will. I know I am not immune to this. I feel the effects when I see floods and earthquakes on television. I feel the effects when I step outside. I had an eye appointment today to see about a swollen gland on my eyelid. I am terrified about needles and scalpels and anything near my eyes. Yet, on the way to the car my neighbor meets me with her 6 month old twins, just on her way home from the hospital. One has been in for severe UTI and the other, is being tested for blindness. Her little boy that cannot talk or walk yet, will never see. Here I am luckier than this boy will ever be with his sight, and I am nervous about a surgery that is 2 weeks away. I am embarrassed in front of her, even if she has no idea.

My Gratefuls.... 1. My Best Mom. 2. Peanut running around the living room, destroying the phone book, kissing me and making me laugh. 3. Coffee. 4. Rye Bread.

I saw a little girl skipping and humming today. I didn't smile at her. I was jealous. I didn't look into her eyes and glean what I could, I looked down, and heard the shuffle of my own feet. I wondered what age I was when I stopped skipping. Ten? Eight? Six? I still hum, although less and less. Only when I am alone. I used to hum to children, I have no reason for that anymore.

I used to think I could say anything here, but I don't anymore. I was told it was too sad, that I was sad. Yes, I am sad. Yes, I am mad. Yes, I am happy. Where do you put those pieces of yourself if you feel so full up you might burst? I need to prick the blister of me and let it out. Don't like it, don't read. Don't like it then you don't like me. Won't be the first time. Won't be the last.

My heart skips for totally different reasons than joy. Maybe when it turns to stone, I can skip it myself.

I saw a man with one arm riding a bike today. He had a prosthetic from above the left elbow down, clamped securely to the bike handle as he rode through the parking lot where I live. I wondered about his being able to signal, or unclasp his arm if he were to fall. I wondered what happened. Was it an accident? A car accident. Was he drunk? Was the other driver drunk? Or, was it from birth? Did a piece of machinery fall on him? All of this in the few seconds that he passed by. Is he lonely? Is he scared in traffic? Who knows what his story is? Maybe some of this is true. Maybe none of it is. How much do we pay attention to the people passing by us, daily? The humans two doors down, one door? How are they like us? How are they not? Why do they avert their eyes? Shuffle their feet?

The amount of vitamin D deficiency in Humans is greater the farther north you get and even if you spend an hour outdoors each day, it would not be enough to level the field. Humans stay indoors, watching television, on the computer, away from each other. Deficient of vitamin D and social skills alike. I saw a man with one arm riding a bike today, and I wondered. I wondered about me.

The world is big. The world is small. Happiness flits about like a lightning bug. Sometimes, I don't want to catch it to jar it up. I would rather it light up the night.