Nine Days
Nine days now I've had a constant headache. Nine days I've been more-or-less housebound and I am utterly fucked off about it. I have ventured out, to buy milk and bread and the like, but just the short distance to the shops caused the pressure to build up in my head big-style.
I am gubbing painkillers and tranquillisers to keep the pain down and to keep me tranquil, but neither are working too well. The pain is still there, and so is the stress.
Not sure if I should post this entry or the last in my blog, as friends and even acquaintances read it. There is the feeling that I should be presenting an upbeat spin on this (and also I have strong feelings that "sympathy" can often be a very destructive force). However, at the same time, I need some outlet for this. Hence, my writing.
Nine fucking days!
Someone told me there is a bug going round and people have been getting week-long headaches, so I've been telling myself it might just be a bug, nothing to get excited about, and no, don't be ridiculous, of course I'm not going to die. But it is nine days now, and the headache, after easing a bit, has suddenly got worse. I'm dosed up on paracetamol and have even had a valium, and still the fucking thing is lodged in my head like a rock.
How many more days will I accept this and be able to pretend to myself it is just some sort of bug? Maybe I can stretch my hope out for another week. After that, I'm going to have to come to terms with the fact that something has gone fizz-bang in my head.
Nine days!
I don't think I am frightened of dying - at least not the idea of not being alive - but I am very fucking frightened of the process of dying. When I had my brain haemorrhage the pain was so intense I vomited over myself. It was worse than being kicked in the balls. Much worse. I have never suffered a pain anything like it, and I do not want to suffer that pain again.
I want to carry on living. I want to see my daughter grow up. I want to see my other daughter have children. I want to get my third poetry collection (and the fourth and fifth and even tenth) published. I want to finish my novel. I want to write some kick ass music that Fatboy Slim will play at Glastonbury to tens of thousands of people (and I want to be in the crowd at the time). I want to hitch a ride in a Rolls-Royce, I want to fly in a hot air balloon, I want to sky-dive, I want to climb Mount Kilimanjaro (even though my spell-check doesn't recognise it), I want to see penguins in the wild, I want Jimmy Saville to fix it for me. There is so much I want to do I just cannae die. Not now!
But why not now? My fantastic, vibrant, wonderful friend Claire died in her late-thirties of cancer. My sister's friend, Janie, another live wire, also died of cancer, way before her number should have been up. Everyone I know has a story to tell about someone who died shockingly young. And the one thing they all had in common was that they had everything to live for... except they didn't. Having a joie de vivre or a raison d'etre is absolutely no guarantee that you ain't going to pop your clogs way before your allotted time of three score and ten years plus some.
Thing is, we've all got die, ain't we; and I guess it's just a roulette wheel spin as to whether we do it when we're 21, 45 or 95. I'll be hacked off if it's 45... or, at least, I think I will be. Maybe I won't be. Maybe death is the nicest possible thing that can happen. Maybe there's a paradise through that door. Or maybe just plain old nothingness. Neither option seems that bad. But still, if I've got a choice I'd rather get another fifty years of good old Earthly life in before I trade in my mortal coil.
I am gubbing painkillers and tranquillisers to keep the pain down and to keep me tranquil, but neither are working too well. The pain is still there, and so is the stress.
Not sure if I should post this entry or the last in my blog, as friends and even acquaintances read it. There is the feeling that I should be presenting an upbeat spin on this (and also I have strong feelings that "sympathy" can often be a very destructive force). However, at the same time, I need some outlet for this. Hence, my writing.
Nine fucking days!
Someone told me there is a bug going round and people have been getting week-long headaches, so I've been telling myself it might just be a bug, nothing to get excited about, and no, don't be ridiculous, of course I'm not going to die. But it is nine days now, and the headache, after easing a bit, has suddenly got worse. I'm dosed up on paracetamol and have even had a valium, and still the fucking thing is lodged in my head like a rock.
How many more days will I accept this and be able to pretend to myself it is just some sort of bug? Maybe I can stretch my hope out for another week. After that, I'm going to have to come to terms with the fact that something has gone fizz-bang in my head.
Nine days!
I don't think I am frightened of dying - at least not the idea of not being alive - but I am very fucking frightened of the process of dying. When I had my brain haemorrhage the pain was so intense I vomited over myself. It was worse than being kicked in the balls. Much worse. I have never suffered a pain anything like it, and I do not want to suffer that pain again.
I want to carry on living. I want to see my daughter grow up. I want to see my other daughter have children. I want to get my third poetry collection (and the fourth and fifth and even tenth) published. I want to finish my novel. I want to write some kick ass music that Fatboy Slim will play at Glastonbury to tens of thousands of people (and I want to be in the crowd at the time). I want to hitch a ride in a Rolls-Royce, I want to fly in a hot air balloon, I want to sky-dive, I want to climb Mount Kilimanjaro (even though my spell-check doesn't recognise it), I want to see penguins in the wild, I want Jimmy Saville to fix it for me. There is so much I want to do I just cannae die. Not now!
But why not now? My fantastic, vibrant, wonderful friend Claire died in her late-thirties of cancer. My sister's friend, Janie, another live wire, also died of cancer, way before her number should have been up. Everyone I know has a story to tell about someone who died shockingly young. And the one thing they all had in common was that they had everything to live for... except they didn't. Having a joie de vivre or a raison d'etre is absolutely no guarantee that you ain't going to pop your clogs way before your allotted time of three score and ten years plus some.
Thing is, we've all got die, ain't we; and I guess it's just a roulette wheel spin as to whether we do it when we're 21, 45 or 95. I'll be hacked off if it's 45... or, at least, I think I will be. Maybe I won't be. Maybe death is the nicest possible thing that can happen. Maybe there's a paradise through that door. Or maybe just plain old nothingness. Neither option seems that bad. But still, if I've got a choice I'd rather get another fifty years of good old Earthly life in before I trade in my mortal coil.
posted by Dee Rimbaud @ 3:29 PM
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