While house cleaning, I FINALLY found my poetry written from the mental hospital to which I was confined from August 2-August 13 this past summer, during which time a memorial service was held for my mother, and her visitation was also held. She had a stroke, driving through the lovely countryside of Barrington Hills, IL, as we were returning from shopping at ALDI's where we had a most enjoyable time.
At the stop sign, her jaw went slack, her head went back, and her eyes rolled up into their sockets. I put a compress mirror under her nostrils, but she was not breathing. I dialed 9-1-1 on the cell, and they told me to lay her back. This I did, her foot was still firmly attached to the brake pedal, and was heavy to remove. Then they told me to get her to flat ground and administer mouth-to-mouth rescusitation. An angel who lived near by returned from his home to help. I tried, but could not get her to breath. The emergency vehicle arrived within six minutes of my call, and they tried for 25 minutes before driving her off to the hospital. In addition to her stroke, she had pneumonia in both lungs (she had congenitive heart failure), and this made it impossible for any air to enter her lungs. Four days later, they pulled the plug on her in the hospital. She never regained consciousness.
I sent out over 550 e-mails to keep people advised on her status. Our neighbors up the block stayed with her 10 hours a day in the visitors room, they held a constant vigil. But she was, for all practical intents and purposes, dead once she had the stroke, because she could not get any oxygen soon enough.
Fortunately, she and father had made plans for just such an event, and both of them have stipulated that there will be no extraordinary means applied to keep them alive in a vegatative state. So those choices were easy.
While in the hospital (for threatening to kill my parents' pastor, who had kicked me out of church back in February, for singing too high, and for talking to the praise band as they set up for 3rd service - and would not even let me enter the church where I was confirmed, and for 47 years a memmber - and only my mother even once came to my defense, on that Easter Sunday when the Roman Catholics let me be an usher, but the Lutherans would not even let me attend one of their services - so, I thought it inappropriate for the pastor to officiate her memorial service; he disagreed, as did my father and sister, which was very disappointing to me) we had an exercise where we were told to keep a free form writing journal. Until just this afternoon, I had lost track of where I had left it, but, voila! C'est ici!
WRITE ABOUT YOUR HOPES & DREAMS & GOALS
I hope to see my grandchildren (although as of now, I have none).
I dream to sing at the Super Dome
In New Orleans, Lousianna, in front of
40,000 ninth ward residents.
My goal is to stumble the
Fuck out of this nutzoid place
That allows Alchoholic-Bipolar-Weenie
Waggers out in three (working) days
But keeps me in for ever
And ever and evah
AH,
MEN?
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(they would ultimately confine me for nine working days
(although all other patients were discharged within five
(they wanted me to take a $1,000+ injection rather than
(the $13 / month medications that I had taken for more
(than 10 years during which time my mood was stable
(and no one felt as if I had to be controled.
(Clearly, at some point in time, I stopped being a patient
(to be healed, and started to become a profit center
(to be exploited. Ass hole bastards!
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Today, now, finally, it seems as if tomorrow
I shall be released (finally) from this
place of incarceration which is in no way
unpleasant and, in fact, offers me
the one thing (besides intimacy)
that I most crave - companionship.
And in this absolutely delightful circumstance
Fellowship too - the best of all companioships;
With cable TV, sometimes a mere backdrop,
And sometimes a focal point, an interesting
Collection of CDs, DVDx and cassettes, and a
Crowd which, for the most part, would accept
Whatever - no one's in control of the remote
And every one's in control, and snacks and
Drinks (nno booze, no surprise, no coffee regular, dammit
(to hell in a hand basket and back) are available
Virtually 24/7, and you can wander the halls
Even after lights out, and talk, again, even after
Lights out, in hushed tones
So I'm going to miss this place
More than I'll ever miss my mother
albeit only Loopy Audrey (Who is in
No manner Loopy) and pot-headed Sue
afre left, and one of my favorites,
Tree-man-Mike, has displayed enough
Anger issues to have his discharge
Revoked (WHEW - he barely made it out).
So what will I take from this (experience)?
Five friends - four girls and Tom S.
Who will share with me the Magical
Mystery Tour
Just about time
To hop on the bus
FLY AWAY
FLY AWAY
FLY AWAY
(And always - to visit pot-head Sue)
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LIKE SHEEP TO THE SLAUGHTER
Pot-head Sue (the former care giver) was kind enough
to gently put the crappy socks they dole out
here on my feet. With this particular second
shift crew, I probably could have made it
past 7:00 am without being told to stuff
'em into socks. But, I don't want to cause trouble.
And they have kindly asked, twice already,
"Mark, would you please put your socks on? We
"know not what evil stuff resides 'twixt the tiles."
But, as with most things, I need help to put
on my socks - either a chair to sit in (end
even then, it's a stretch), or a step to step up
on, since my overly fat belly is an
obstacle to socking up. And also to
wiping my ass after I shit. Sad state
of affairs.
But, Angel Pot-Head Sue is here now for me,
and freely offers to have socks with me,
and thus I with her, and, sadly to say,
this as as erotic as anything I have
engaged in (with a woman) since August, 2008,
with my beloved Natalie Jean, in Galesburg.
I need a dog. Amen.
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