For someone who loves language, to be reduced to a series of acronyms is beyond insulting. For the divine Bianca
Castafiore -- such a fate would be a horror, although I suppose it would ultimately be recuperated as
aria, as
Italian air
.Me, I do not often wake "in the morning," but to claim some measure of normality, I will prepositionally use the phrase
(precious, precious, much too precious).I'm sorry about that. I cannot, however, allow you to touch my sentence.
Get the hell away from my sentence!
Du calme, du calme, ma chère...
When I wake in the morning, there is no thunder of trumpets in my brain announcing the triumphant news that I remain the inimitable Bianca Castafiore -- as in "(blow blow flap lips) congratulations! you remain (lip buzz) Bianca Castafiore (slowly slide the pitch)!"
No, when I wake, I make no sudden sound, no sudden movement, and pray that none are made on or around me. The cats that have kept me safely in the bed all scatter, willing to let me face the risks of our little pocket of weak gravity in their strong feline hope of kibble. Bianca, she would break into song, she would dance the mirror before her Bianca-face, singing "ah, je ris de me voir si belle dans ce miroir..."
It is a rare woman who can bring off Faust before coffee.
My right hand snakes toward the bedside table and snags first the hillaryclinton.com red, white, and blue water bottle, and then the other (more amber) bottles of momentary import: of percocet, of ibuprofen.
There are days I need help taking the pills, and assistance drinking the water. But those days are rare. Mostly, I medicate myself by myself.
Not quite alone. There *are* those cats: Marmy, Dobby, and Sam-I-Am. Were my bed a raft out on the sea, those three would be... sharks, circling. They know from experience, though, that it will be a good half-hour before I budge, and they are kind. While we wait for the medicine to kick in, we gently pet, we purr. Yes, we vibrate!
Bianca Castafiore *only* sings L'air des bijoux of Marguerite from Gounod's Faust; She sings it loud and she sings it often. As she is not called on to sing a high C, we do not know if she can shatter glass. We do not know if *she* vibrates.
"Ah, je ris, de me voir si belle, dans ce miroir..." O! Marguerite! Beware! It is Méphistophélès who gives you jewels and a mirror! Infernal, insightful, so clever -- the devil. And there you are, decked out and loving what you see.
Looks can be deceiving. This post will bear the label of "The Acronyms." The acronyms to which I will usually be referring are:
SLE = Systemic Lupus Erythematosus
CRPS/RSD =Complex Regional Pain Syndrome/Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy
AVN = Avascular Necrosis
AI (times two: AI! AI!) = Adrenal Insufficiency & Aortic Insufficiency
Lupus is often treated with steroids, judiciously, it is hoped, as prolonged use of corticosteroids involves a good number of significant side effects. Somehow, I ended up on high doses of steroids over much too long a time. Not always for SLE. Sometimes for CHF. Sometimes for asthma.
As the kids say: Whatever.
It is possible, even probable, that treating my SLE in that manner resulted in a killer case of avascular necrosis, AVN. Don't suggest that to your average medico, though, as it will cause them to go dark and mutter something that sounds like "informedconsentinformedconsent..." and then they poop their pants.
AVN also serves as the acronym for an adult video organization. Porn. Not erotica. Pure unadulterated smut. The good stuff.
With AVN, the bones, in layman's terms, errr... well, they rot. They become necrotic.
(Yes, you genius! Exactly! As in necrosis. Very good. All of that Latin eventually pays off -- you can decipher much medical terminology thanks to the etymologies still swarming within the brain pan, that great bucket of os!)
It hurts quite a bit. Untreated, the involved joints eventually collapse. I had some joints replaced -- a few successfully -- a few badly. Then, when further treatment became impossible, my life was in large part subsumed by the pain of bone-on-bone. Bone-on-Bone like Stratford-on-Avon.
Ashton-under-Lyne. Bexhill-on-Sea. Stoke-on-Trent.
Where was I?
Tête de Hergé?
The arm that inches toward the water, the hand that pries the pills from their plastic home --they hurt more than I have the capacity to express.
The pain of AVN, though, pales next to the pain of CRPS/RSD.
There will be time for the packing and unpacking of these alphabets. For now, I am content to remember that first half hour, each minute that much closer to movement, to the chachacha of the hobble to the bathroom, the graceless kerplunk into the power chair.
Marmy, Dobby, and Sam-I-Am precede me and lead the way to good chow, good kibble, and mugs of snooty white liberal fair trade coffee, steaming. We are deceitful in our appearances; We hum as if we could sing; We smile as if we mean it; We feel so much more Bianca Castafiore now, and so much less a dumpy, dull, decrepit educator, retired.
"Ah, je ris de me voir si belle dans ce miroir..."
