His voice drifted lightly to where I was sitting. Melodic poetry swirled around me from the kitchen, where he was singing as he cooked. Van Morrison, I suspected. It was, after all, one of those days. A day full of cooking and music while I sat uselessly in a chair trying to forget about harsh and ugly words. Those which had flown so easily from my lips to lash at him.
And now he was in the kitchen, singing what I was certain was Van Morrison’s songs while he prepared what sounded like enough food to last at least a month. Van, after all, was skilled at putting poetry to music and Beloved was nothing if not a lover of poetry and music. He also happens to not be a bad signer, having spent time with choirs in a previous life. Me, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket and I have been offered money to not sing.
The four-footed one happens to be a lover of music, well at least fond of music. She is a lover of food and will endure even my version of singing if it means a scrap of food might come her way. She is also no fool, she could sense this mood that had drifted down upon me sometime while I slept and thus had given me a wide berth all day long. She and Beloved are no fools, opting to provide me with my own space and ignoring my mood.
It is hard, these times, when I realize just how little I energy or strength to do anything. It is hard to allow that lupus has found an upper hand again and now I must sit and rest, waiting until I had found the way through this latest downturn. While Beloved had to manage the house, the dog, his needs and mine all on his own. Not that he complains, not ever, which makes it even worse somehow. As though he is above this, saintly next to my dark sinned filled wretched soul.
The harsh, ugly words had been hurled his way after he told me to get some rest when he brought me a book to read, a knowing smile just about there on his lips. I had wanted to throw that book at him. Truthfully I wanted him to have to sit in the chair, rest while the world went on all around him. I’d not ask him to sit like that for long, just enough for him to see what it was like for me as fun went on where he was not. (Not that my singing would entice even the most deaf of demons to come into where I was, but it you get the idea.)
I knew, as the last lines of a song hung gently in the air, that soon he’d come to see if I wanted help heading up to bed. As if I were a small child who needed to be told to go to bed, or worse needed to be carried to bed . Oh yes, this then is lupus at its worst. While not the disease, no the disease can be so much worse. Rather this is me at my worst, Beloved and the four-footed one being targets of my rage since I cannot throw a book or toss harsh words at lupus in any way that causes any damage.