This morning, on the way to somewhere. I tortured my wife with a game of “When I was a kid. We were so poor.” After starting several truths with the same “When I was a kid…” I knew that her tolerance was thinning. Whether she knew my intentions or not. The subject soon turned to coffee and I recalled how my Father never had anything but the leftovers of a six pack of Heineken and last nights take home from the bar. Despite owning a coffee maker. The only purpose it served was as an anchor in case the counter top decided to run away. While visiting on the weekend. He would always sleep until noon or so before he opened one eye enough to locate me looming by the doorway to say, “Coffee, Black. Two.” It was then, and only then. When I’d take whatever amount of money left on the side table or his pants. Usually enough for two cups of coffee. A dill pickle, (Those were good.) and a soda. Times were different. So two dollars would not only cover it, But provide with the loose change I needed to start my days adventures. As my wife suggested to stop at the local Starbucks to get some work done. I agreed. Thinking devilishly, of that Cafe Latte she’d purchase to keep me occupied and quiet while she had her nose in the computer. However, spending six to eight buck for a fucking cup of coffee and getting a funny look when you don’t adhere to their contrived sizes of Tall, Vente, and Grande. Imagine a construction worker, or bus driver ordering from those choices. I bet it’s like a kick in the balls. While I consider myself a realist, and I don’t expect a cup of coffee to cost thirty five cents in 2024. Wouldn’t we be better people if we made our own coffee and/or limited related outings to mom and pop or independently owned spots? Just a thought and an All-American rant. Drink Deep.
Something that could easily be tamed by medication, which he described. In the days that followed, my condition worsened, I wasn’t making it to school and due to my parents conflicting work schedules. I was staying with my grandmother. By then. I was not capable of eating and could not handle any light, whatsoever. I vividly recall the overpowering light that emanated from my grandmothers 12′ inch B&W TV being more than my eyes could take. Quickly, (I’m talking about a matter of days.) I began hallucinating. (Here was this kid who sucked at fifth grade Math hallucinating ratios most kids don’t know of until grad school,) That’s when I remember being taken to the emergency room.
It began with the best intentions. The days and weeks since my Neurology follow up had me feeling angry, lost and somewhat hopeless. I had mistakenly opened up to my doctor, therapist and wife that I had briefly thought of suicide, or commented on how I wished the original death notice I received when I was twelve would have ended me instead of prolonging my suffering through related issues. Falling down and not having the control you once had on your life it not easy to get used to. With that said and fully expressed, I had felt a positive shift in recent days that mad me feel as if I had turned a corner. I had all but stopped worrying about what I couldn’t do any more and started thinking about what I could. My intention was to share with my wife that the fear and negativity were behind me. That, whatever it took, I was going to be open minded and more constructive.
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