Remainders, Reminders by Bruce D Snyder

Lyssum presses her fingers into her forehead, tries to push back the frown lines she can feel gathered like pleats behind her black round glasses. She scowls at the mail, grimaces at the news on her phone.  E-mail is worse, except for a funny note from her sister in Atlanta.  Catches herself, I’m the woman fed up with everything, she thinks. She drops her packages on the kitchen counter, a large garlic bulb rolls toward the sink; the green sheaf of parsley peeks damply from a sack. Lyssum sees herself reflected in the window: black hair pulled back severely and restrained with bands and clips, long dark clothes in layers set off by silver earrings and a pin. I look like a nun she thinks and pulls things loose so she can breathe.  

All day all night Marianne..,’ the song drifts through her mind as she washes her face. I’m beat she thinks. She’s visited eight homes, driving on the icy roads, white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Mrs. Deckel with her colostomy woes; Betsy McGowan’s gout and knee surgery; Tracy, her youngest client, burning through her MS with hourly doses of marijuana. 

She’s changed dressings, checked blood sugars, given lectures on smoking and diet, urged weight loss, urged exercise, counted pills, made coffee, called doctors and pharmacies and therapists and families, and listened and listened and listened. She’s smiled and hugged and dried tears, including some of her own.  Lyssum runs her bath and sets a glass of Cabernet on the rim of the tub. 

Thoughts ferret through her day plucking at the lint of things left partly done. She knows there’s more – scribbled notes and phone numbers temporarily lost in one of her bags. There’s always tomorrow, she sighs. She settles gingerly into the hot water, the little room dimly lit with lavender candles. Her sound machine mimics a summer storm, which is almost believable as the steam from the bath gathers in droplets on the walls and fixtures. Lyssum draws deep breaths, her breasts floating in the water, small islands emerging from a foaming sea. But her mind will not be still and tight bands encircle her temples. She sips her wine. Irritated she thinks of all the things she tells patients: try to relax; use imagery and remember to breathe; make time for yourself; use the meditation tapes. Try more B2 and B6; valerian and chamomile tea can help; cut down on the alcohol and caffeine. 

Then there are the aphorisms: ‘let go and let God’; ‘control is an illusion’, ‘trust in the spirit’. All of which she believes and knows to be true but tonight she can’t seem to get there herself.

She cradles her head in her hands and submerges, a long sigh bubbling up from her depths.  Some days I’m just like this, she thinks not liking the moment she’s stuck in. No one’s perfect. Not even me. She comes up, rubs the water from her eyes, tomorrow someone I know is going to be getting better, maybe even me.

Bruce D Snyder

Image: Pixabay.com – Bottle spilling out pills.