Tonight the order I requested can’t be filled. The shock took my body and the freezing water was to capture and cool me. Was this burning body temperature trying to take me. Did she run for ice to get my temperature down? Mom said it was a temperature of 107. Were my mothers thoughts that she was going to lose me. 107, I can’t believe that, wouldn't it render me death. A year of sickness began. Frail and at some core level my mothers worst nightmare began. A heart murmur, a kidney infection, throat infection and my body and soul locked on the edge of passing.
Doctors' care brought male love and attention that was lost 3 years before when my father died. Did I have Scarlet fever? I can’t possibly know, it was never defined. It left some labels of heart, throat and kidneys. The shock took it’s muscle memory to a forever longing into what could fix this ache. Looking for a depth of where love was wrapped in the memory of icy water.
I had begun asking why? Why was I compulsive at waking and looking at my throat and it’s morning dryness? Why did I hate wooden popsicle sticks/tongue depressors? The touch of them and my mouth I would gag. Cringing my fingers couldn’t even feel the wood on my skin. I’d cover them with the wrapper. Watching others lick sticks would send my inside spinning, only taking my teeth to the closest spot and that I could, the rest of the confection was thrown away. No matter how sweet and wonderful it was, gone. Again memories now wear their care only to never allow me my feelings. I was to swallow them into the recesses of memory again.
This is my feeling where I flow into a healing of my care as I know it. I still won’t lick popsicle sticks but looking into my throat is not as big a necessity. How important is it anyway? Maybe wasting time thinking about being sick could be a given that I don’t need to pursue. This thinking falls short wondering about my poor mother and her fear. She lost 5 siblings, two stillborn twin boys, a tubal or Ectopic pregnancy. Leaving her with a truma from her navel to about 1.5 feet long. Long. Then my father died. Either of these 2 would have made my poor mothers heart cry, however she had so much more. Now they make small incisions and my father had blood pressure problems that would be taken care of with a pill and her Ectopic pregnancy would have left a small scar .
Tears and Fears with a history of grief between both my mother and I. She trudged on in fear of all that threatened her security and I with my phobias and fear of my own. I began asking why with guidance where I could and gradually heal what I once hated. I began to see and love my mother for what gifts she gave me and even my talents giving me a voice of free spirited behavior cloaked in a critical wonder. I was silly, loving and longing in poetic living when I could
