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Notes on a hospitalized pregnant woman Pt. 44

The Existential Mom

October 1st, Saturday: Dakota is 36 weeks and one day. She is about the size of a Swiss chard. We are both trying to stay patient. A nurse suggests I make a paper chain to count down the days.

Signs of a good nurse: she tells you the generic names when giving you pills; she remembers all of the pills and gives them to you at the right times; she’s personable; she asks if there’s anything more she can do for you and makes sure your water is filled. An even better nurse will get you coffee in the morning and tell you something interesting. She’ll be personable but also really mean it because she’s just that invested in the wellbeing of her patients. Lauren, my nurse this morning, did none of these things. She seemed to be here for the work, not the meaning it could give her.

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If the Automobile

manufacturers were not in trouble, how could they afford to offer leases of $47/month on the Eastcoast and $79/month on the Westcoast?

See ElectricVehicleMarket.Club …

See Due Diligence.

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Alone/Lonely

“We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and — in spite of True Romance magazines — we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely — at least, not all the time — but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.” Hunter S. Thompson

I should start by saying that being alone and feeling lonely are separated by one thing: your perception of the situation. Which, of course, can be changed, but most of the times is a subconscious decision that appears to be out of your control.

My own loneliness is a contradictory issue. I have to be alone, I need to be alone, and I love being alone. I can write, I can enjoy the silence for longer periods of time than almost anyone else I ever met. I can only find myself when I am all alone in a silent room. I go out with people, act silly and whatnot for a couple of hours, all the while longing to go back home and be all by myself. I’ve been at parties and wanted nothing more than to go home, where there’s no one waiting but the hope of finding myself again.

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Mary peered down at the murky, gray-green water, pondering the cities and bodies that had slipped beneath its sallow, rippling surface during the night. All around her, a fetid wind whipped and whistled, mocking whispers in the faltering light.
“You failed,” those sneering voices seemed to say. “Before you even realized anything was wrong, you failed.”

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on the path to love

quartet love

motherhood

From as far back as I can remember, she hated me.

She never made me breakfast or lunch.  Cooked dinner was a rarity.  Midnight fast food runs were more common.

When she looked at me, it was always with anger and she never spoke softly.  She was loud, harsh and mean.  She often slapped me in the face just for breathing.  She made me her personal servant. “Go get me this, get me that”.  Years ago, kids were allowed to buy cigarettes.  I was her cigarette runner, neighbor-sugar-borrower and everything else.  I was scared of her.  I lived like a mouse whenever she was around.  She was an alcoholic and drug addict.  The alcohol caused her to be even more cruel with her words.  The drugs caused her to be absent in my presence.

When she left me alone, I would spend hours listening to her tapes on an 8-track…

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