I cleaned the litter box today.  I mean CLEANED it.  I had to because when I got back from the marathon which was the trip to my mailbox, I was overwhelmed by the smell of cat pee. Once I finished with this task, I had to sit on the couch to catch my breath and I almost took a nap, but I'd already done that earlier in the morning so I fought the urge.  I'm so tired of being tired.

Today I removed all of the clumping litter in the main litter box and the non-clumping litter in the back up litter box.  Then I washed the litter boxes and put the back up in storage and put fresh litter in the covered (main) litter box.   I thought to myself I really must apologize to my friend and her husband who stopped by to visit me last night because it must have reeked.  I didn't know because I haven't ventured outside of my apartment since July 18th and even then it was for medical purposes.

I think my mistake was not putting the used litter in separate bags.  Probably 30 lbs. total which I dumped into a garbage bag. Then I lifted it again to double bag it. THEN I put it in an empty box marked "FRAGILE".  As a means of completing the irony, I carried that box of two garbage bags worth of cat crap out to the dumpster which was not only further away than the mailbox in the mail room, but was going to require me to lift it up to my shoulders and heave into something that smelled worse than my apartment did.

Why did I do perform this herculean task of ridiculous non-necessity?  Because in the time I have been sitting at home, I've had too much time to think, to over think.  I have finally almost allowed myself to acknowledge that when I feel like this, like I have for two weeks now, I cannot focus well and I am quite likely to pass out. But despite kind of maybe knowing that fact about myself, I still can't give myself permission to not do for myself.  I think this comes from years of having to rely solely on myself for my care.

I'm not saying that no one helps.  I've had friends and family swing by to do little odds and ends things for me. One of my friends took all of my dirty laundry and washed it for me.  This same friend even contacted me today to see if I needed help with anything.  I gave her some bullshit about needing to get a check deposited into my bank account, but I neglected, willfully, to mention the issue with the cat shit.  I had no problems with her washing my underwear, but had problems with her wrestling 30 lbs. of feline excrement to the dumpster.  If my laundry bag had broken open, that would have been an inconvenience for her, but if my doubly bagged box of cat feces had broken open, that would have just been gross.  Did I mention that last week when she was helping me out, she scooped the litter boxes?  I should also mention that she's allergic to cats and that she is my heroine and that her name is Carrie Michael Nowlin and that I am grateful for her willingness to step in and help in any capacity she can.

I am a bad friend and family member because I'm not always gracious about accepting aid. But, I now also better understand my father and his reluctance to admit he needs help.  It is hard to let go of doing things for yourself especially when you are unable to do them for yourself.  It's giving away autonomy and recognizing that you really don't have control over your things in your life.

In my case, I don't currently have control over my body.  My heart has finally stopped playing Hide and Seek with my doctors and showed that the ventricles have a tendency to contract prematurely.  It only took about five or six negative Holter monitors over the course of sixteen years for this to finally come out in the most recent one.  Tomorrow I have to go for a tilt table test, the second one in fourteen years.  I can't wait to see what my heart does then.

Truly, I cannot wait to see what happens tomorrow.  I know that there is something weird going on with my heart, some kind of disconnect or crossed wire or something.  Now that the doctors know about the PVCs, when they purposely make me faint tomorrow, they'll be looking to see what my heart is (or isn't) doing when I pass out.

In the meantime, I feel sheepishly delighted that I didn't give myself a heart attack or keel over from the activity today.  I was also relieved when one of my neighbors saw me as I was stumbling back to my apartment and said, "Are you OK?  You don't look too good...or happy...or well."

I still have difficulty focusing.  I'm still struggling to find words and to type them out.  But my heart didn't explode and I remained upright albeit seated.  Sadly, I still feel like I'm not pushing myself enough.  Ironically, even though I sincerely believe the words of the previous sentence to be true, a part of me would love to have someone drop off a chicken dinner from Boston Market...and maybe cut the meat off the bone for me because I'm exhausted.  (Stupid smelly litter box.  Stupid recalcitrant Suz.)

Lately I've been having a lot of dreams about being "home", my childhood home back on Hickory Street in Owosso, Michigan.  That's where home still is for me. Home is where the mom is and I've been missing her a lot lately because I feel helpless.  There's nothing like helplessness to make an adult want their mommy.

You must understand that for the past 15 years or so, my mommy spent a lot of time feeling helpless.  Emphysema sapped her strength and quieted her voice.  There were days when she couldn't speak much and we knew she was feeling poorly because if there was one thing she enjoyed, it was talking.

She was quick to give her opinion regardless of whether or not it was requested or if the advice she offered was pertinent to the situation.  She did it out of love, out of wanting to make the people she loved into better people.  "What you ought to do is..."  I miss hearing that.  I miss getting angry about the words that usually followed the ellipsis, wisdom for a different age and other circumstances.

One thing I could always count on her for was comfort when she knew I was ill.  There were times she doubted that my symptoms were part of an actual illness or condition.  Chronic appendicitis garnered me an angry, "If there's nothing wrong with you, I'm taking the fee for this one out of your hide."  But when Dr. Brown told her I was borderline with appendicitis, her attitude turned 180 degrees and we spent the weekend with her watching over me and after I was put in the hospital for the appendectomy, she walked to the hospital to visit me.  And that was a pretty big deal for my mom, a woman who battled agoraphobia for a time, to walk about half a mile by herself.  She was remorseful, but she set aside any self-pity to take care of me.

I think part of the reason I feel so badly about feeling so badly is that she would be telling me to suck it up and get back to work.  She's not here so I'm having to nag myself and I end up arguing with myself that if I go in to work, I'll pass out.  And there is no one who can supplement my income when I have to take time off.  I've had  a rough year with a condition that is best described as my heart and brain don't communicate as they should.  (Medical condition imitating life.)  I have exhausted my paid time off, but due to having FMLA (Family Medical Leave Act) I can take the time off, but I won't get paid.

I can hear my mother telling me to write.  I've been trying to write, but the preceding paragraphs took me close to an hour to write because focus is exhausting.  I woke up this morning and took a nap, but I could still hear Mom's voice telling me to write, to do something, anything lest my brain atrophy further.  And even though I know this is drivel not worthy of being read, I'm going to publish it anyway because it's a start.  Maybe I can shut off Mom's voice in my head despite the fact that we sounded a lot alike.  I'll try to remember to speak her words of encouragement and not her words of criticism.  But I will long for her hands stroking my hair as she rocked me.  It isn't soothing to sing to myself even though I have her voice.  Still, I hear her, "Stop crying, baby girl. You've got work to do."