Papa, it’s me, Vicki.It is not a good day. I just keep sleeping, and sleeping. Didn’t even hear the garbage trucks (which I delight to hear thru my open window). Dystonia is messing with my face, and FTD is making me stutter, and drag like a fishline on a submerged tree limb. You can’t see what is snagging it, not the trout you were angling for, and you can’t proceed until you either wade over to try to save your magic ‘fly’ or you accept it’s over, and cut the line, add new leader, new fly. And you pray it will become your new ‘old lucky fly’.
No, Papa, what bothers me is really very little. I don’t want to be on the computer, the tv was smote (you’d think the past tense would be smitten, but boy those 2 don’t go together!).
I have a feeling the disease is progressing, removing Annie Oakley from my spirit, Buttermilk tethered, eatin’ oats. My world gets smaller daily.
Just to write to you today took 2 hrs of looking at my turned off computer and the dead TV to muster up a prayer.
So, I ask as I do each day for mercy. I pray for all those afflicted with this disease, for my family, and good friends who, even when we aren’t in contact, I can feel their thoughts and prayers.
“This, too, shall pass.” I know that, what I don’t know is what we are passing into.
Papa, are you listening? It’s me, Vicki, and what is left of her.