Not Quite Mr. Buckley

Savant is going through a rough patch. Which means I'm distressed at my helplessness to fix it and make it better. We have been grateful for small signs that he may be becoming more mature. He's only 21, but his plate is pretty full and keeps shape-shifting. Lately, the symptoms of his illness have been stronger than his medicine.

When he is in this place he is so anxious and miserable. You never know what becomes part of a delusion. Something as simple as my earrings can feed into the delusions. I don't mind letting him inspect my ears for wires or devices that he thinks may be recording him as part of a conspiracy. I took them off so that he could stop worrying about it.

He had his job, earlier this summer, digging up skeletons, for four days. I was amazed that he went back after the first day. No coffins, just skeletons. He is afraid of a ghost that followed him home; a very white little girl dressed in white. There might be more, but he doesn't want to talk about it, he just wants to know how to make it go away. I told him he could try telling her to go toward the light that she had family waiting for her there. I saw that on TV. I don't believe in ghosts. He was worried that if her family frightened her, that it would make her more determined to stay with him. I suggested changing the wording to, you have loved ones waiting for you on the other side. I'm afraid he'll need to go back to the hospital if this gets worse; not that that would be a bad thing. Savant, my loved one, I wish I had the power to grant you peace.

A cherry in the yard. I had put my Sonic cherry limeade cup in the trash can outside without inspecting it for more cherries. A rain storm blew the trash can over and in the process, it's collection of cigarette butts, trash, Sonic cup, lime wedge and cherry ended up on the grass nearby. When Savant went out for a smoke, the sight of the cherry freaked him out. He saw it as a calling card, a la Kill Bill, from "Black Cherry". He is sure his life is in danger and is worried that we might become accidental targets as well. Black Cherry is the blog identity of someone he knows, but she is gentle and would never think of harming anyone. But, she is an expert at martial arts and dancing. This is further complicated by his reasoning that an expert assassin is the last person you would suspect.

His idiot doctor reduced his daily dose of one of his medicines a few months ago, just for the hell of it. Well... IT'S NOT WORKING! She won't give him anything for his anxiety either!

I know she won't talk to me, but I'm going to give her voice mail a piece of my mind! Husband is trying to teach me to keep my anger in check when leaving any messages or Dr Dumbshit might take it out on Savant. I know he's right.

Vicious Poodles

Fancy Dirt Definition For The Day

Vicious Poodle: a person who reminds you of one of those pampered little lap pets, that looks harmless and affectionate on it's owner's lap, but if you reach out to pet it, it will fly into a rage and try to chew your fingers off.

Look, Ma, I Have All My Fingers!

I like to look at the picture of my sister and me, that I have on my blog profile. So, I know that the most frequent visitor to my blog is me. One day after I put it up I realized that the fingers on my left hand were still intact back then. Hello, Finger Tips. Miss you. Then I thought about the quizzical little bit of a frown on my face. It has changed into a deep furrow as I've aged, so I must do that a lot. My sister is still very cute; in a slightly Sally Field sort of way. I thought I was the only one who had felt that comparison was a good one, but one of my kids said the same thing after they got the movie "Mrs. Doubtfire".

I haven't felt much like blogging this week. I'm sick and before that, I was doing too much yard work in the hot sun. This time it was me in the E.R. Usually I'm in the waiting room and Savant is the one in the bed. So until I feel better, I'll just sleep and read. I'm almost through with "Kim" by Rudyard Kipling. I finished "Night" by Elie Wiesel and the first five books in the Ender's Game series by Orson Scott Card and I really liked them. Proust (Swann's Way) got shoved in a drawer, unfinished. It's too bad babies can't read or it would be prescribed to put them to sleep. A few days ago Savant said "I wonder how Proust would describe a White Castle hamburger?" I said, I don't know, but it would probably take him about fourteen pages.