I'm sitting here tending to my drugged-up child who suffered two grand mals last night despite double doses of THC meant to thwart the second one. I'm sitting here in my pajamas though it's nearly three p.m. Outside it is glorious, perfect for gardening or sunning or walking the dog.
I'm sitting here wondering if I've given Calvin too much medicine or not enough; he vomited just after his morning dose of anti epileptic medications. I tasted the bittersweet benzodiazepine liquid in the thick spittle I kissed off of his cheek after he got sick. I had to guess how much to redose.
I'm sitting here, as my child sleeps, pining to go outside. I can hear the birds going crazy as the wind whips bows and swirls dead leaves into mini cyclones in the field. I'm sitting here worrying about the world, about our Ignoramus in Chief and his penchant for bluster, worrying about his impetuousness, narcissism, contempt, dangerous provocations, lust for power and warped craving for praise. I'm sitting here wondering if our nation's young men and women will be shipped off to war again.
Last night as I held my boy I heard the train whistle and the downstairs clock chime, then later the chapel bell ring. I hear a small aircraft flying overhead and immediately get that sinking feeling in my gut recalling lonely childhood days, remembering my young friend Martin who died with his father in a similar plane. I can just make out the river waters thunderously raging over the nearby falls and I think of the boy Calvin's size who went over Niagara that day. I laid there worrying—my angst is always worse before dawn—if Calvin might suffer a third grand mal. I wonder about the world's convulsions—the aftershocks, the fallout—in the hands of despotic men who selfishly want it all.
I'm sitting here wondering if I've given Calvin too much medicine or not enough; he vomited just after his morning dose of anti epileptic medications. I tasted the bittersweet benzodiazepine liquid in the thick spittle I kissed off of his cheek after he got sick. I had to guess how much to redose.
I'm sitting here, as my child sleeps, pining to go outside. I can hear the birds going crazy as the wind whips bows and swirls dead leaves into mini cyclones in the field. I'm sitting here worrying about the world, about our Ignoramus in Chief and his penchant for bluster, worrying about his impetuousness, narcissism, contempt, dangerous provocations, lust for power and warped craving for praise. I'm sitting here wondering if our nation's young men and women will be shipped off to war again.
Last night as I held my boy I heard the train whistle and the downstairs clock chime, then later the chapel bell ring. I hear a small aircraft flying overhead and immediately get that sinking feeling in my gut recalling lonely childhood days, remembering my young friend Martin who died with his father in a similar plane. I can just make out the river waters thunderously raging over the nearby falls and I think of the boy Calvin's size who went over Niagara that day. I laid there worrying—my angst is always worse before dawn—if Calvin might suffer a third grand mal. I wonder about the world's convulsions—the aftershocks, the fallout—in the hands of despotic men who selfishly want it all.
 |
| Photo by Michael Kolster |
Prayers for you and your child...Hopes of world peace before its all gone to far...
ReplyDelete