Toast & Jam: The Making of Christmas

Friends came today with an orphaned tree, who someone had viscously decapitated and left by the wayside to serve the beggars. The gratefully rescued tree, once it was dressed in sparkly craft fair adornment, found its special purpose spreading joy and happiness.

The empty-house blues were promptly chased away by the friends, hustling to arrange the twinkling lights on the tree (which I was forbidden to videotape, unless I was prepared to name it "Martha's Last Christmas") and, bustling about, setting out cheery companion tabletop accessories.

I shall take pleasure at gazing upon the yuletide splendor as I eat

my toast and jam. 

empty as a pocket, with nothing to lose

Well, my fingers are stiff from the swelling of arthritis and my mind is fuzzy from... what? What is causing my brain to short circuit? Mid-sentence I cannot think of the next word I was going to say, sometimes. Five minutes after I see something, I cannot recall what I saw, sometimes. I have trouble remembering details, sometimes.

Someone with whom I used to be close commented a few months back the reason she no longer made time to sit and talk with me was she didn't like hearing me repeat things. Remembering her words makes me shudder, feeling old and worn out, no longer useful or entertaining. I've become an annoyance, like a lamp with a loose bulb. My brain flickers on and off, sometimes. It is very disorienting and scary. Is it a temporary condition or the start of something more sinister?

Is it because I am depressed, or, is it the antidepressant medication I take? You know, they do not tell you that you will still feel depressed, even though you take the meds. I find it oddly amusing that the only difference is that being depressed seems to matter less. I think the reason most people go off their medication is because it doesn't make their depression "go away," and they mistakenly think it should. The holidays are especially tough times to get through for those of us struggling with depression.

I am surprised to see that my last post was a year ago. It seems like just a few months have passed. Has it really been two years since my beloved Patrick died his horrible death at home from esophageal cancer? I still miss him so. He was a Brooklyn, New Yawk man with a heart as big as Texas. A little short man with very long arms that could reach all the way around my oversized body, to wrap me in delicious hugs, sweeter than double-fudge brownies topped with Hagen Daz coffee ice cream.  A kind and loving man, not easily forgotten, who treated all he met as if they were the most important person on the planet. My own short-comings are the reason that happy memories are no match for the profound grief I feel, because he certainly left me with many wonderful memories. When I'm alone I still hear his deep voice and gentle words in my ear, singing to me as he often did. My heart aches in my chest and tears burn hot paths down my cheeks, then drip down to soak my shirt. My nose runs and I don't want to wipe it. Just let it drip, like the pain oozing its way out, slowly, slowly, a little at a time. It used to be daily, but has now been weeks since I last cried. I don't yet know if that is a good thing.

It has been months since I had a hug. As a person who thrives on acts of affection, I am dying of thirst as if in the Sahara. My secret pocket is empty. You know? The imaginary pocket where we store all the magic warm fuzzies? Those are the feelings we get from the warm embrace of a child, a close friend, or a lover, which can be stored in the secret pocket next to our heart, to be brought out as needed when there's no one around when we need a hug. And, now that I am in rural Oregon, with no children, grandchildren, family, or close friends nearby, I find it very hard to get through each day.

Everything in and around me is empty. I found a place to live one week ago, so my bank account is empty (after shelling out $1,204 for a lease.)  I came to Oregon with only what fit into 3 suitcases so my new house is empty. I spent all morning on the phone trying to find a bed. I had to beg the Rescue Mission furniture store two blocks from my house in downtown Roseburg to give me a bed, since I have no money and my air mattress went kaput at 6:15 this morning, tossing me and all my blankets onto the floor. The task of getting off the floor and into my wheelchair was so pitiful it was comical. And, after crying about my knees hurting, I did laugh, because I was so happy I did not have to call the fire department guys to help me get off the floor.  My refrigerator is empty, never mind it is 3 days before Christmas (my disability and widow's benefits make me ineligible for food stamps.) 



As empty as I feel right now, there are things for which I am grateful. Today, it was having friends get out in the rain to bring over and set up, my beat up old donated bed.  I am grateful for the friends and the bed.

Even though I am poor and my depression has me by the throat today, it is the little things that make me feel rich, sometimes.


My life right now is pretty much like Paul Simon sings about on Graceland,  

"Empty as a pocket, with nothing to lose...  but she's got diamonds on the soles of her shoes."