4am I want to be dead i say silently

4.30 am is not Dawn

an old dog and a sick woman2009
i was left for dead then,i am left for dead now.
uk doctors gave me back some semblance of living until HSE smashed all that

4.30 am is not Dawn.  It is not even early morning.  It’s dead at night.

One bright young Chihuahua had heard something outside and I was suffering pain inside.

I slip off the bed.

It is too silent for me by far and I hear my own teardrops and the crying inside, the weeping outside and the snippy barking beside.

Two little girls are lifted off the bed, one light and one heavy.

They eagerly want to leg it up the garden path.

Something is prowling they try to tell me.  I pretend I understand.

They go for it.

Flash zipping past a naked old lady they fly.  I certainly do not.

The air feels wonderful on my achy body, naked.  I listen for human life, there is no one.

I move back in and find a light switch, a cup of tea will go down nicely, this I do know.

The Chihuahuas patter back in.  Their paws pattering with scrappy claws always make me giggle.

They come to an abrupt full stop by my toes.   I look into alarmingly cute big eyes looking up at me like innocent children who have been naughty and fear being caught.

I laugh.

They get their piddle treat, and if they don’t know the connection I do not mind, the piddle is done they get the reward.

I can only presume though.

I don’t go chasing phantom intruders or puddles of piddle.

I am utterly weary and spent.

My back hurts and the bed is very uncomfortable.

I am on fire all over and I am bone weary of my life right now.

The expectancy that it could be any different has too been the phantom of ten years.

The Santa Claus has been around and brought not the gift of my life back in total.  L I would ask each year, and am exceedingly disappointed.

It’s not up to Santa, we know.  But we can hope that by even wishing on that star something might fall into my lap.  (Life).

All seems to crumble year after year.

Tea in hand, Chihuahuas on bed again nestling and burrowing into fluffy blankets I clamber on board and find my own space between dominant bodies already deposited with ease.

‘I want to die,’ I exclaim out loud to no one in particular.

‘I just do’.

The rest of the night is fitful and teary.

I ache for dawn and hope by then the deep depression will have subsided. It hasn’t. In fact it has worsened as the day breaks.

The sky is blood red and beautiful.   My soul and my experience match it not.

‘I just want to die right now’.

A mournful piece this, I think as I tap.

It is for sure and ten years of mourning would be right so can I type that? I decide I can and I will.    With the Santa in between and the birthdays and the days, and the nights and all those tears, an awful lot of experience, all negative.

Can I take much more of this I ask myself and start to say I simply cannot.

I tap frantically on to the mediator.  “No more,” “No more.”  “I cannot take any more.”

Evil words for an this system follow fast and furious.

We have a heinous beauty in our midst.  It is a beast of a caretaker more of graves, than births.

Abandoned is the role of succor and security, calm and soothing, giving and nurturing and holding sick and vulnerable.

The caretaker walked off the job and left the wolves to the pickings as they crashed into the life of a person who is too ill to run far.

‘This is an obscenity’ I mutter.  All know this but few are brave to change it.

Notice comes quickly apace my flying words via broadband.

The emails are met with further unsettling thoughts from another and the mediator is not happy with the way my psychological state is reacting to the way this is all going.

The advocates name it for what it is, torture for two, they say.

It has been and it is.

Ten years of it.

Never ever get angry with the caretaker.

But get angry at your country for allowing such abuse to occur all too readily and pervasively.

We have absolute undesirables in our midst.

An organization as powerful as the mafia exists on this fair land of ours.   The leprechaun land,  full of large leprechauns and little ones.

If you are a little one you have no hopes here.

If you are a large one, lets not forget other countries recognize leprechauns incredibly well.   They recognize the myth of it all and the derogatory intonation and words once the labeling has taken place.

Leprechaun thinking

Leprechaun country

Land of the ‘do-lally leprechauns’.

They are right!

I do feel sorry for the little ones all the same.

The message has been typed out and it turns a page or so in my head and that of others.

We all have reached that point of anger so great no one can take this a another day.

It is all obscene.   All knowing that line of civility has passed and we realize that a different way needs to be taken on this case.

Elderly women should not have to endure a week more of this indecency, all agree.

The ultimatum was thrown down yesterday – deliver the promised thus far or we will not attend on Monday.

That is actually quite a stance in light of no delivery and little leprechauns against pretty big ones.

We get armed for a fight second to none, the nonsense done, the delivery none.

We arrange for assessment tools that are healthier than ‘is she able to button her clothes.’

We seek out assessment tools for living, for quality of living, for need over pathetic obligations of buttoning clothes, washing hair and wiping up after toileting.

Living is made of Living we say.

Not having your life sliced up into hour-by-hour, basic tasks and numbered and fractioned into help given if any at all after the tools have been assessed.

It doesn’t matter to me when I eat, whether I dribble, wash, button or I can swipe a wipe.

What matters is to laugh again, run with help and be engaged in the land of the living.

Not in the caretaker’s bone yard with one foot in the grave.

I weep again more at the closed off room at the top of the stairs with the psychologist.

‘Have you got assessment tools for quality of life?’ I ask.  She bustles off.  I limp my ataxic waddle to the toilet. No need of her help to blush and flush.

We sit down with three sets of tools.

PTSD, alongside quality of life along with one or two more.  Measuring normality against the obscenity we both are going through right now.

Assessment tool for the dead:

What time do you get up?

What time do you have lunch?

Will you need help chopping your food?

To be replaced with:

When I am old, I shall wear purple, and spit.

I shall sit down on the pavement when tired and I shall rattle my stick along the railings.

In other words, I care not a toss about you knowing when I arise and when I am full and when I am dirty or clean.

No, it also is not normal having three professionals glare by the doorway to my bedroom at my own private sleeping arrangements.  Three people who are not relatives, who couldn’t care a toss and have less skills then they believe.

They are doing ‘an assessment’ of need.

I ask ‘is this normal?’

“Would you have three people standing in your bedroom discussing a bed with you or do you get a measuring tape and decide on the bed and then get it?” I ask angrily.

“Do you need three medical (sic) professionals to consider where the furniture goes?”

‘No,’ they admit.

“This isn’t normal behavior,” I say.

I want them gone.

A letter is swiftly written when they depart.

“No health official enters this home of mine again without permission.”  I bang down the keys. 

I feel good.  They are gone.  I have stopped it.  It’s really good.

As far as this old lady feels right now, this moment in time.

I am tired of them all, and beg to be released a relationship of complete dysfunction and disharmony.

This is the land of leprechauns like none other, in a world where time stood still and a land forgotten stuck in a time warp of incredible ignorance and a notion of grandeur beyond their station.

A Macbeth like moment I scream inside with determined defiance “out damn spot, OUT damn spot” and lets hope I won’t go mad rubbing the skin off the wasted bones.  

Ann do not end poetry with the word, wanton!