Skip to main content

Stay until your love is alive and kicking.

My HMB has nasty asthma which has plagued him practically since birth. We have spent countless hours in the emergency room only to find that he has another pneumonia so we'll be sticking around for a couple of days.

He would fight and make such a fuss. After a couple of days, I would begin to pester the doctors to release us. He refused to let any nurse even give him a Tylenol much less a temp check or a breathing treatment and if I was to nurse him, I'd prefer sleeping in my own bed and eating meals that didn't include milk cartons and jelly packets. He benefited greatly from the IVs although once they put it in the arm attached to his sucking thumb which made for some dreadful nights where I was forced to crawl into his hospital baby bed, rails and all, before either of us could get any sleep. One's dignity is secondary when one's child's has his sucking thumb all taped up.

Once or twice, sleep deprived and anxiety ridden, I channeled Aurora Greenway. I'm certain I wasn't the first or last they'd seen of such antics in the hospital. That's why that Terms of Endearment scene works so well. Other times, I seethed privately.

A couple years ago, when we were still frighteningly dependent on a particular asthma treatment, I found myself seething for another reason. While picking up said treatment from the pharmacy, I was shocked to learn the out of pocket cost was so high. But it was nearly October and I had cracked the code of HMB's recurring bronchial issues. Exploitation it was. As the pharmacist tech was processing payment, I noticed what appeared to be the Morning After Pill on the shelf just behind him.

Is that the Morning After Pill?, I inquired.
He glanced over his right shoulder. Yes.
Out of curiosity, how much is it?
Forty bucks, said the pharmacy tech, blandly.

Apparently, these days it costs twice that to keep 'em alive.


Popular posts from this blog

Just get out the way, and let the gentleman do his thing.

Retired Memphis Police Department Chief Inspector Robert Jones came to my pool party the other day. Over hot dogs and fruit salad, he regaled his grandchildren with tales of his days in Special Services on the police force. That's SWAT to you and me.

Among those anecdotes, he spins a yarn that includes a tear gas capsule hidden on the motor of a car full of pimps and ladies of the night, effectively expelling these law breakers out of a Buick Electra 225, running crazy. Later, he would be appointed Chief Inspector, along with fellow officer James Bolden (who also served MPD director), climbing his way up the career ladder with an excellent work ethic. But, before all that, he was a regular joe on the beat, paying his dues. Only, this fiery, young Irishman was going to do it his way.

They called him The Flame. Not only for his ability to run like one but, there was also that shiny red hair. In his youth, his stubborn independence got him into some trouble so he channeled that and mad…

I was so scared to face my fears.

Why You even trust us with so much, I can't even imagine. We alternate between pumping triumphant fists in the air and rocking quietly in the corner, squeezy eyes and knitty brows, vulnerable to the next thing next. In a matter of weeks, issues that include extreme trauma, mental illness, genetic disorders, and tired, old grudges, which serve to poison the waters, pass through our hands. We stand, arm in arm, carefully considering whether we are meant to dodge or take the shots:What are we supposed to be to learning?
Can we set it gently to the side and move along?
Is this our burden to bear for a season?
Who is wearing hearts on sleeves?
and should we?It's hard to say in a world of emotions but I KNOW our hearts are true. Even in their ugliest states, we keep it real. Sometimes, we're all Daigle, inspired and fortified, but, as many times as not, we're blasting Adele, accidentally alienating the ones we love and raw as can be. Let's just keep the Gungors, Eminems …

You built me palaces out of paragraphs.

You're so sure I don't hear your words. Maybe you think there's too much weary history for me to contend with New & Fun. You hear told of the time before yours and sometimes you feel alone. Maybe you've even wondered if I'm still up to the challenge.
You assume too much, Love Child, because yours are the words I've been waiting for all my life.
So many words.
My time before you taught me to talk less and hear more but I sift through ALL your words and listen for your heart.
Without your words, how could I know that you sometimes say what you don't mean just because you feel too much to articulate?
Without your words, how could I know that you are unsure and insecure about who you might become?
How could I know, were I not listening, that you often hold back because you think it's not quite your time?
Without your words, how could I know how much you root for the underdog with a righteous anger?
Without your words, how could I know that you often …