I’ve always been a fast mover. I worked in a kitchen - lord, I’ve fired people for moving too slow, I really have. There’s no point in trying to work with someone that can not or will not move quickly in a culinary professional setting.
I walk fast, thank you New York City for teaching me how to walk like a proper human being. The rest of America, please learn from the best (jk, not really, but kinda, just walk faster people!).
People make fun of the fact that I’m not sharp in the morning - it’s really weird how morning people are often smug and superior about their morning-ness but a recent study shows that the world is actually rigged in their favor and our brains just function different so HA!
I do a LOT at night when most people are sluggish. I have to finish typing here, finish my broth - which I must eat slowly, obviously NOT EASY FOR ME - insert some B12 into a saline bag and if I want ANY of my routine to end up outside, I need to hustle. Though, I’m not sure I’ll get away from being far from a bathroom this evening so outside walk might be nixed.
I have to figure out a bunch of stuff about the house that I don’t know and only my Dad knows. We need a larger garbage can if he can’t take the extra garbage to the warehouse. We’re out of the bottled water, which is also at the warehouse. We need stuff from Costco - one of his favorite tasks. He’s not somebody who loves to shop (that’s my mom), but if I’ve EVER asked for anything from Costco, it’s there the next day. One of the very first Costcos is across the street from his warehouse, and I have no idea why but he loves going there.
So many things feel like they are moving too slow. I’ve worked SO hard these last few years to try and carve out some sort of work endeavor. An asshole on Fivrr destroyed one of my websites, another one try to bilk me out of money - that was when my mind was mush and I didn’t have my spidey sense on full alert.
I’m so upset about how my dad’s case has been handled, I can’t - or shouldn’t - write about it here….
I’m advocating for all ancillary services.
He is your IDEAL strong patient.
I’ve never felt like this before. I have moments of like yeah let’s kick some butt. Or, rage at some idiot who cuts me off on the road.
This is different.
I want to holler so loud.
How many times do I have to tell people we are DYING. Literally dying.
I get that not everyones * sees * it.
But when people treat ME like I’m the dummy for worrying about the 2018 election? Or the ACA repeal? Or whether our medical system will even survive the next couple of years?
(Does it make sense now why I’m so urgently running around trying to find MDs who will order what is necessary? And looking for sources of IV nutrition? When the whole thing goes…I must have things in place.)
So yeah, I’m scared but I’m not letting myself feel it right now.
Survival takes precedence.
It’s quite disturbing how few Americans have strong survival skills.
I mean their senses have dulled to the point that they can’t even sense danger, for themselves, for others. Instead, I’m standing with fire licking at my feet and hollering to them, begging for help, and they are like: Julie, what are you talking about! Stop you’re so dramatic.
And I’ve been patient for so long (have I? or maybe I haven’t? i don’t even know. Can’t remember!) - it FEELS like I’ve been patient for so long. I’m like: WHAT THE FUCK, my feet are starting to burn this winter! My dad is sicker than ever!
I wonder what it was like for the early pioneers. The peeps that came out west and screwed around all summer. That’s what so many able bodied people look like to me now.
I’m furiously canning food, chopping wood, fortifying my cabin for winter, hunting, and skinning and drying the meat.
And these city folk are going by in their wagon, saying: why you working so hard there mate!? It’s a beautiful summer day.
I barely glance up to respond.
There is too much to do.
And winter is definitely coming.
The smart ones will start paying attention and preparing as well.
The rest? Oh my.