Category Archives: Uncategorized

An Imperfect Christmas Morning.

December 25, 2020addiction, Christianity, creative writing, grief, healing, human behavior, relationships, sociology, Uncategorizedruth ann scanzillo

The pajamas were red. That part she got right.

The rest was pretty much a bust.

This time, the title would come from her muse, Mr. Keillor. But, while his was Perfect, hers sounded much more like many others, perhaps for the first time in her own life.

Beyond piano or cello, writing was her succor. And, moments ago, clamoring to the keyboard of letters had been an act of quiet panic. Hurry, get it typed in, before you weep uncontrollably. That was the picture.

Sobbing the body needs, but the heart demands both an object and an outlet. She’d devoted hers, utterly, to someone who could not return to her love, whose ghosting absence was successfully crushing.

The reality that it had all happened on Christmas was just more proof of a level of oblivion; apparently, there were those to whom the holy observance was just another day. Or, an effective tool capable of sending one, life-draining message: I don’t. want. you.

Advice had come in droves, in direct proportion to blessing; those most blessed had the most to say. Blessing was proclaimed by the blessed. Only those who were actually in the gut-punch of bereft abandonment, these kept their advice to themselves.

The house was warm. The view, white and wondrous. The silence, frightening.

Her kitchen was stacked with boxes. Gifts, several, for the one who could not reciprocate. So many who would have felt her love had she redirected it not named among the packages. Loathing self now came to mind.

Those who got paid to define it all would say that thoughts were not us, that they may plague our heads but we’d have the power to at least subsume them. Not on Christmas Day. This day was all about feelings, and memories of feelings, and recollections of those who’d given us security and the belief that we would never be left alone. And, the best among them had encouraged us to accept that, even though we could neither see nor feel God, we were loved in ways that surpassed all human understanding.

A few of these had lived by example that to give was better, that to give all would bring not just the desires of the heart but fulfillment of every need. Her mother was one of these. She’d sacrificed her entire breath for others, pressing and plodding on until the tumor invaded the space where she formulated and articulated her thoughts and morphine carried her over while she slept. On this Christmas Day, random assignment of blessing and fulfillment felt far more believable. There was a certain clarity in this kind of logic.

Speaking of which, her body had chosen to take what it needed through the morning and into the afternoon. Like death, or coma, the merciful absence from less bearable reality was the gift of sleep. Perhaps the homeless understood.

Her heart felt homeless, today.

And now, in just a few more days, hundreds of thousands might be on the brink of being so. Responsible citizens, many with children, with no place to lay their heads. She’d been writing about her own life but, on this Christmas morning, now represented the impending innumerable.

God had spoken. Perhaps the All Knowing had chosen her to suffer these by feeling their need.

Redemption?

Might just have been right about that.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Protected: The New Top.

December 24, 2020contemplation, creative writing, human behavior, philosophy, psychology, relationships, short stories, sociology, Uncategorizedclarity during the pandemic, epiphanies during the pandemic, holiday ruminations during the pandemic, unmet needruth ann scanzillo

Letter to My Doctor.

December 24, 2020Uncategorizedruth ann scanzillo

Letters.

People don’t write them much, anymore. Back before we were thrust into this electronic life, the letter was that exquisite stage of polite hopefulness that protectively preceded use of the telephone. Phone calls were so irrevocable; nothing exchanged could ever be retracted, reconstituted, or dismissed, so we never took them lightly. Writing allowed us to take our time, and say what we actually meant.

So, I’ll just send myself back in time a bit, and pour out my heart in silence. By the time you open this, it’ll be Christmas Eve, and nobody’s going to be reading blogs, anyway. As I write, most people would have been wrapping presents; but, with this year having become the disaster we’re still enduring, many might just be wrapping up finalized plans to eke out something they’ll call Christmas for the children in their lives. I’m childless, so I play aunt by mail for the holidays.

So, you won’t know it’s you. You won’t. I’ve had so many. Doctors. And, lately, after one particular kidney stone debacle, this could be any one of you. It’s a risk of exposure I’m willing to take. Comes with the rank, after all; in many circles, I qualify as a senior citizen now and, in the East at least, with age comes a certain entitlement. In short, if I ever thought I had anything to claim, now I have absolutely nothing to lose.

Yes. This letter is for you. Call it a thank you note gone wild. If you haven’t stopped reading already, you’ll see.

I probably already did. Thank you. But, there is so much more that can be and should be said, and then the part that most everyone else might omit.

Perhaps the covid pandemic is the informing driver but I am compelled, and so you must be told.

You must be told that what you provide is far more than that for which you trained. Just as I believe diagnostic ability to be a gift, I see that which you embody. Compassion possesses you; your countenance bears it. An inborn tolerance for the needs of the other to express, to disclose, to carry on, to exhaust each option. A recognition that to be heard is first, and all. This is who you are.

I’ve been taken by every Machiavelli that ever crept out from under a rock. Gender unspecific. I’ve also known emotional tyrants, a couple of these from within my kin. Being totally open has its points, but successfully protecting self is not one of them. When one subjects oneself to another, on any level, the degree of confidence required is enormous; with a doctor, one’s very life is laid on their altar.

This pandemic has called from every physician every ounce of willingness to shed self. Whether treating infected patients directly, or practicing in tandem with those who do, you have reminded each of us daily, sometimes hourly, just how vital your commitment to protecting our lives is in each one of them.

I spent the last nearly four years at very close range with a registered nurse. In so doing, I learned the scene of the medical professional, nearly first hand. But, that time spent produced a certain discernment. Not every health care worker actually cares. Not every trained professional either listens or hears. And when, suddenly, every life potentially hangs in the balance, that distinction looms large.

Thankfully, though in the grand scheme comparatively brief, your encounter with me was redemptive. Without either knowing or intending, you provided. You didn’t just fulfill a requirement; you met a need. And, while that need was neither emergent nor critical, your role was essential. You represented yourself, authentically. In so doing, you earned that which I no longer give freely, least of all to any doctor: my trust.

I thank you, ever so much, to accept it.

Thus endeth the letter.

In utmost sincerity,

Your patient.

littlebarefeetblog.com