...One night, while working late, Ives, in his fatigue, staggered out to Madison Avenue: for as far as he could see, the office buildings were casting eerie shadows, and he felt the world a lonely and dreadful place. He often awoke with a gasp in the middle of the night, his heartbeat accelerated, his breathing shallow, his heart filled with sadness, his head with memory.
After his son is killed, Ives has trouble sleeping. Nightmares. Scratching his arms and legs bloody. And sadness, tremendous sadness. Ives feels cheated. His son, his good and devout son, has been taken away from him. God hasn't played fair.
Some news from the University of Michigan this morning: the brain biopsy has confirmed that my sister has lymphoma of the brain. The neurologist and oncologist are discussing treatment options, including chemotherapy and radiation. The question is whether or not my sister can survive the treatments.
Recently, I've been having trouble sleeping. I wake up in the morning, and my jaw hurts. I've never been a teeth grinder before. This summer, I'm worried that I'm going to fracture my molars or bicuspids or canines. I went to the dentist a little over a month-and-a-half ago. He confirmed the grinding and told me to take ibuprofen and not chew with my back teeth. For a while, that did the trick. The last couple of weeks, however, have been a test, and my mouth is failing.
Of course, it's all about stress, and I feel stupid complaining about sore teeth when my sister is fighting for her life. Like Ives, I don't think God is playing fair. My sister deserves better. I will put up with some cracked teeth if my sister will live to see my son graduate from high school.
Saint Marty doesn't need Zoloft. He needs a miracle for his sister.
Antidepressant
by: Adrienne Su
The purple pill rattles
out of its bottle,
makes my hands therefore my pen
shake, cloaks me in thirteen
layers of delusionary fur,
stunts my walk, and blurs
each stark moment so it won't
be so stark. At last I don't
know what time it is
sometimes. I like this
effect all right, although
I'm still sad. Night goes
too fast, bringing sun,
whose brash light comes
unwanted into each crevice
of the apartment. This
could be a matter of life
circumstance and pills might
be the wrong fix, but I know
things won't change if I go
to Spain or take up fencing.
I'd be the same wincing
Adrienne, only armed
or in Spain. What harm
in staying by the window
to think, wish, swallow
pellets of hope, and not eat?
I'm not unrequited, don't need
company, haven't lost friend
or family. I just tend
to be a sick plant,
and no antidepressant
can shield me from the sun's
burning; leaves drop one
by one to the sill. I'll win
my war yet. My angel isn't
dead, just lost on the moon
or snowed in, gone but soon
to come, nudged out of sight
by another sleep's night.
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| I like it sprinkled on my Cheerios in the morning |
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