snow and death

"It snowed upon the living, it snowed upon the dead" - James Joyce, in some short story.

The snow was melting yesterday, the water running into the drains like the blood in "Psycho." I thought of the Beatles "Here Comes the Sun" as winter strains against Spring. But I want everything frozen and covered over, like the real me that has been suffocated by pain, yet leaps to life the minute the terrible pressure in my body abates. For now, I want everything frozen until I can live again.

I can't breathe, I've found out. I have what is called sleep apnea, in which the throught is cut off from breathing by soft tissue which blocks breathing during sleep when relaxed.

That's right, relaxation is bad, and will kill me if I continue trying to sleep with blocked airways. Another doctor told me I had massive cholesterol levels. I am not long for this world, it seems.

This is too bad, for when I can get enough oxygen, I feel like me again. Confident, competent, and joking. The difference is night and day. If I had the confidence to know I could maintain it, what a wonderful world it could be. Otherwise, I have to resign myself to an early death or a nightmare half-life of suffering sleeplessness and pain. This is what I've dealt with for 20 years. I've had enough.

The real me, though, comes back so quickly when I can breathe that I miss normal life so much. To sleep deeply, to make love with enjoyment. To exist without pain, the ability to relax without penalty. This is all I ask. Yet somehow God or whomever above has chosen to deny it to me. What did I do to deserve this? I guess this is the eternal question of man.

So, with my 44th birthday approaching, I find nothing to celebrate. If and when I recover, will it be so late that anything approaching family, career, and children are out of the picture, or even a female mate? The sands of time, like the melting snow, are disappearing down the drain. Bring on the night, bring on the winter until I can feel a springtime in me for real this time.