I believe I am.

I just put my son to bed and with his bottom sheet twisted around his knees, I said, " you didn't pull up your sheet" he insisted beforehand that he tucked himself in, he proclaimed, sheepishly and tired, " I tried ". After pulling up his sheet I covered him with his big, orange, puffy-fat quilt and touched his forehead as I usually do, then shut of his bedroom lamp, then leaned against the back of his chair and prayed. Out loud I asked the Lord for thanks for taking care of Grampa and Gramma, for taking care of his sister and his brother and his mother(ex), I asked that he take care of everyone we loved, then asked for strength. Now, I am sitting here in the dark, at my computer, thinking about my son's voice and what he said "I tried" and hearing it over and over. How insignificant a struggle is, I thought, if it is not your own. Its late and in my own search tonight, I try to answer a post from friends in a newsgroup. Why ? I guess I am looking for some kind of connection, some sort of link to another form, some sort of validation, that I am. Although, I am deep within the dragons breath, having felt the first rush of meds like a sickly vapor of heat running over my flesh, on my face causing pangs of nauseous sweat. I am reaching with question, greedy needs, maybe, I am greedy, maybe for company, maybe, or I am trying to remain, where we are, and trying not to end up, alone, so alone, I will not be, as, where "WE" are. Are we all sane here? Am I the only one who seems to be parting fast from the " hang in there request " ? I could not fathom not having my son around, who mixes my day with 10,000 questions, a 100 requests of, I am hungry, do you want to play ball, can I open that, what is this, can I have it, all of it, what are we going to do today, tonight, tomorrow? Dad, dad, dad. I am, and, only, you all here know this, but I am, I exist. The pain knows I am here. I live on the top, corner floors of my building, with windows facing south-east and north-west, so the whole City is at my viewing bequest. The streets below with its massive Elm trees towering four stories tall if not more. The lanes and park benches are strewn with curled, brittle gold leaf leaves and the Cafe's below fill with them, blowing about, those Cafe's still fill everyday with University students, nurses and doctors, who exist. The old antique avenues of shoppers, who exist, even as they pass strangers who seem to exist. From my bedroom windows I see clearly the very near great river in its valley and just on its other side atop is our downtown skyline and for miles and miles the lights of tall buildings show off an existence, each light a window like mine, each like mine an existence, yet, I struggle to be as one person noticed, noted, notable. I wrote in this blog sometime ago, that some people believe that, it is not nice to stare at someone who struggles or at someone who is disabled, but I think if you don't stare long enough, you may have missed their smile. I notice when we take our walks on the old shopping, hip, hippy, most sought after afternoon walks of the first avenues, almost no one looks at us, or me. It is like, " I AM NOT "! But I am, I must be, if this morphine is really cursing and I mean cursing threw my veins, then I must be. I believe I am.