Stephen King should envy me my dreams—so creative, so horrible.
I wake and am dreaming, as always, about my sisters—one bank officer and two ordained Methodist ministers. They never visited me. They visited each other; they took vacations together; they traveled overseas. They never drove 270 miles up Rt. 81 to visit me. I visited them.
At the end of the game, a new psychiatrist asked me if my sisters and I were close. “Well, what do you mean by that?” I asked.
“Did they come and visit you in the hospital?” he replied. No, no, they didn’t. Full of shock and surprise, they came to see me in the first hospitalization back around 1971. They didn’t come again until 1999, when I spent a month on life-support with no expectation of survival. They stayed three days then left me alone to die. All I know for sure is that I wouldn’t have treated them that way.
Well, it’s old news, isn’t it?
It never goes away. Betrayal and abandonment by family is an excruciating pain that simply never stops.
So, what’s for today? It was predicted to be sunny and Amelia and I are going to the Crawfish Festival, but the sky is solid gray gunk. However, it is warm. Songbirds announce the day through open windows.
I will get up and go on. Because I must. I am here; I am alive—but I have neither health nor family, and those are the two things that people cite most often when asked what makes them happy.
I don’t want to be a bummer and tell you how my life goes these days, but it ain’t pretty. I am alone and lonely. I cry every day. High glucose levels have eaten away at my vital organs—my eyes being two that I consider pretty vital—and, as Dick says, “It’s hard to feel good when you feel bad.”
So I will get up and go on and not mention these things again (which, by the way, is why my posts have become fewer and farther between).
But every night of my life I dream about my sisters, whom I loved, and wonder how they could have failed to visit me—especially the two ordained ministers.