In the arms of the Angels

It's been really hot on our part of the planet for several days now. Really HOT.

Yesterday I get home from work and yet again it is too damn hot to sit outside let alone do any yard chores. We're sitting very still so as to maximize the effects of air conditioning. When Rich turns and says to me....

“Don't forget to wake me up tomorrow morning before you leave so I can make my tee time.”

I had to replay that statement several times in my head because I was having a hard time wrapping my brain around it. Allow me to explain.

The night before he actually opened up and told me how absolutely weak and miserable he feels and how bummed he is that he's not recuperating faster from this latest surgery. The man who NEVER complains is pouring it all out to me.

Have I mentioned how hot it's been?

And Today is supposed to top the charts. With the heat index they're predicting 110 F. “Hottest day in July in over sixteen years.” So when he tells me last night that he needs a wake up call for golf I'm in slow motion expectation of my head exploding.

The good news is that Radar is back on the job because 17 immediate responses came to mind, somewhat harsh and heavily laden with profanity but I said nothing. Rather than blurt out “are you fucking kidding me?!?!?!” or..... “I did not spend 26 days sitting vigil at your hospital bedside and burn through 3 months of unpaid FMLA so you could commit suicide on a fucking golf course.” OR “Fine, you flaming asshole, I signed the papers once to let you die, I can do it again.”

No. I took a deep breath and refilled my wine glass. And when I was able to achieve and maintain a calm, sweet voice I said: “Maybe golf isn't a good idea in 100 degree weather.”

Before I could fully plead my case he interrupts with what I can only guess was meant to be total assurance. He says, “No, it will be okay. I showed my golf partner how to use my cell phone, so he can get in touch with you in an emergency.”

The human body cannot consume enough alcohol to destroy as many brain cells as I lost at that moment.

Scrapper is chomping at the bit with “well here's the deal, numb-nuts. I'm 45 minutes away, so calling me shouldn't even be on the menu.” Thank heavens for Radar. I refilled my wine glass.

So this morning I get him up and make a last ditch effort to appeal to reason. Oh no. He'll be fine, because he's planning on taking some ice water. I swear to god I've got no response for any of this. I'm done. Then, as if he thinks he can distract me from insanity he begins to relate the latest episode of my sleep talking. He swears I talk in my sleep with perfect diction, so clear that he can't always be sure if I'm awake or asleep. He tells me that last night I kept saying “You've GOT to be kidding me.” and “You can NOT be serious!”

I just stared at him for a moment, gazing into his eyes, wondering if anyone was home. Finally I said “You've GOT to be kidding me. I can NOT imagine what prompted THAT dream.”

I gave him a big hug before I left for work and said, “if I don't see you again, I love you.”

He totally dismissed my concerns with, “I'll be okay, I'll be fine.”

I laughed. “I've no doubt. But I just might bite it today because I have every intention of dying before you and I have a plan.”

I drove to work feeling a bit concerned that I was not more concerned. The voices all debated the situation as per usual, and it was almost entertaining, but the bottom line is that I was disconnected from any panic and concern that would have seemed “normal”. There was a touch of sadness for that which I will have to explore later, and apparently I'm exhausted because I spend every night in raging debates and conversations. So I'm surrendering. He's in the arms of the angels.

P.S.
I got a text message at noon from him that “I played golf. I'm okay.” Well, zippity do dah. Life is good.

About that last blog....

That's what happens when Radar is on vacation.

Radar McGinnis, great nephew of Radar O'Reilly of M.A.S.H. Fame. Radar is the unsung hero of all the voices in the van. Radar runs the monitors; in charge of all in-coming data, filters input and assigns responses accordingly. Radar is the one who distracts Scrapper and Sniffles at every opportunity for the health and well-being of all concerned. Radar keeps an eye on the traffic while all the voices in the van are running amok. Radar passes out the assignments in a manner that allows us to function without physical harm or serious jail time.

Radar not only monitors, filters and distributes all incoming stimuli, he also exerts major censure skills as necessary. I miss him. The voices miss him, and everyone who has to have contact with me probably misses him too.

Radar keeps me from feeling overwhelmed, keeps me centered and grounded. He makes me feel I'm not alone in all this, and it's not just me versus the voices in the van. Not to mention the rest of the world.

I thought he went AWOL from the stress, so I went back on the happy pills, but he hasn't come back, so the happy pills aren't really helping. In response to his absence I sleep. Radar is my compass, my barometer and my homing device. Without him I'm adrift without a paddle.

I think I took Radar for granted—overworked and under-appreciated him. I've learned my lesson. When he comes back I will treat him better. Way—WAY--better working conditions, and more fringe benefits, including more time on the treadmill/Pilates gym/Yoga mat, more creative time, and/or a manicure/pedicure at least once every three months if at all possible.

Seriously. Radar, you have to come home because I can't handle all this without you. I SO get what an awesome job you do and going forward I WILL honor your work, efforts and contributions, and compensate you accordingly.

So Please, Radar....

Finish your Laphroig, douse the smoldering fire, come down from the hillside, bid the local wildlife and clouds above farewell and come home to me. Without you to cover my backside, I'm just another ass.

How does one put a huge sliver of their psyche on a milk carton?