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Fri
3
Jul '09

On My Own

I had a moment of fear late yesterday afternoon when I began having a throbbing pain around my right ear. As the pain grew my thoughts turned to the worst case scenario — I may have a brain tumor, possible aneurism or something of the sort. I do not have a tendency towards hypochondria, either. My fear comes from living alone for the first time and wondering what would happen should I have an accident or, Goddess forbid, die in The Flat. I started having these thoughts after first moving in and slipped in the bath tub. I was not hurt, but what if I had been? I am not working right now, so no one expects me any where at any particular time, and my friends think nothing of NOT hearing from me for several days. So I decided to make note of my symptoms in the event something happened and no one found me for a few days.
This is what I wrote:

If anything weird should happen, today (7/02/09) I have been having pulsing pain around my right ear. Not like a headache or allergy/sinus. It is intermittent, not constant, and has grown worse as the day has passed. It makes me wince and the area of pain seems to be growing larger, surrounding the right ear area.

I am not trying to be dramatic. I am thinking about Eugene Satani. I did not know him in person and only have second hand knowledge, but I did live, for a time, in the house where he died. My understanding is that Mr. Satani was a violinist for the Houston Symphony Orchestra in the 1980’s. I do not know if he was still performing when he died, but what I do know is the morning after moving in, my grandfather’s fiddle, which was packed in a box in its case, was laying on the dining room table. I questioned everyone involved in the move and no one owned the "joke". My son was old enough for a prank of this magnitude, but he was freaked out. I, on the other hand, was fascinated. Was his ghost lingering? I put the fiddle back in the case and never had anything of the sort happen again in the two years we lived in this home. I did, on occasion, pour an extra glass of wine and leave it for him, more in tribute rather than a serious feeling of him lurking.
So why am I telling you about Mr. Satani? He died alone, in the upstairs bath tub, and was not found for several days. He had a dog. The dog got hungry. Need I say more?
So while this pain in my head is growing worse, I wrote my note and then sat down for a serious conversation with dawg-daughter, Remy. In all seriousness, I asked her to please not eat me if I die in The Flat. We went over how to open her food container and, in this instance only, she has my dying permission to stand at the dining room window and raise holy hell.
I finally ended up taking four Advil and by the time I went to sleep last night, the pain had subsided, but as I sit here typing, I have noticed its return. Very mild, but still a painful pulse that concerns me enough to make note of it should anything occur.
It makes me realize, while there are many advantages, there are certain hazards to living alone and I need a plan.

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