Most people don’t know when they’re going to die; some do. Take my mom, for instance. The doctor told her she needed to go into the hospital for treatment of her heart and kidneys, and she said, “Um, no, I don’t think so.” So the physician ordered Hospice care and Mom died six months later. She was 92.
I am going to be 64 on Saturday, and I got my latest blood work yesterday. The chronic kidney infection has gotten worse, which is raising the body’s stress level, which is raising the glucose level. The glucose level should be below 120; mine’s averaging out at 232. The increased glucose level is putting additional strain on the kidneys, so the cycle of failure is increasing.
I am told that the first symptom that you’re heading into a diabetic coma is fatigue. Hm-m-m, let’s see: I am so tired that I fall asleep around 8:00 p.m. Take a nap in the morning and another one in the afternoon. Only leave the apartment about once every other day.
So it looks like I am, in airplane pilot’s language, on “short final.” That’s scary as hell. Being on the ground is okay, as is being airborne. It’s that crunch when you leave the air and touch down on the land that can hurt a lot.
What my mom did was get totally gorked on painkillers. That’s not an option for me. Like everything else, I gave to go with my eyes wide open.
My mind races skittishly from one thing to another. What needs to be done? What’s left undone? What matters? What is, on an eternal scale, a total waste of time? And what is the biology and psychology of crying? Why do we cry at some things and not others?
My aide’s husband did not cry when she miscarried their first child, or when she was deathly ill, or when his mother died. He cried when Dale Earnhardt died. Go figure.
Honestly? I’m too tired to care. I’m going back to bed.