My Head Hurts

This new “life” is taking its toll

Another day in Paradise. Another day filled with death and destruction and lies and deceit and the burning question: When will this be over?

From what the “experts” say, not anytime soon. We’re going to helplessly stand by, masks in place (for some of us), hand sanitizer at the ready, as summer burns out and is replaced by a new season rife with the same old shit.

Only worse.

Yes. Thanks to the inbred lunatics who refuse to take precautions, like at the recent Michigan rally for the Criminal-in-Chief, Covid-19 is going to claim even more lives. Thanks to those who just have to gather in restaurants and parks and on beaches, this virus is going to continue to kill people who, like the rest of us, just want to live their lives. See their kids grow up. And their grandkids. Sit on their front porches and watch the squirrels scoot up trees, chattering all the while.

When did something so simple become so unattainable?

All this unnecessary death. All this waste. All this pain as people watch their loved ones breathe their last on FaceTime.

“Thank you, Donald Trump. I hope you get sick. I hope you get sick and die.”

I suppose I could soften that and instead say, that I hope he “gets sick and never recovers,” but what’s the point? It’s all the same in the end, right?

Undoubtedly, that sounds horrid and I’ll probably turn some readers off by my statement, but Herr Trump is responsible for the senseless deaths of thousands, and there will be thousands more to come.

If God strikes me dead for that, at least it will serve as proof that he exists. But as it stands…

Looking at my husband makes my head throb. He is miserable. Possibly more so than I am and I can’t help him. I’ve tried.

“It is what it is,” right, folks? Is that not our throwaway line of the decade, or what?

Thank heaven for our three cats. I often feel that if it wasn’t for them, I’d go mad. They give me a reason to go on.

I lied before. I’m just as miserable as my husband is, but I hide it better. I’ve become very good at it. I would have made a damn fine actress. The “Mistress of Subterfuge.”

Shoulda. Woulda. Coulda.

As I write this, I’m squinting at the monitor thanks to the “baby cataracts” that have mysteriously developed in my eyes.

When my ophthalmologist broke the news, I wondered, “Baby cataracts? What the hell? Should I burp them?”

My last visit, he suggested that perhaps, I should consider attending to them, meaning the dreaded “cataract surgery.”

The mere thought of lying back in a chair with my eye propped open as a surgeon fiddles around in there sends my anxiety through the roof. As many times as people have told me, “it’s nothing,” I still can’t fathom it.

What a coward I am. My late parents both had their cataracts removed and my sister told me they sailed through it. Even my mom, who famously avoided doctors and medical procedures at all costs.

But you see, I basically have one “good eye,” as the other has significant astigmatism, and the doctor assured me that it would be okay, as they’d put a “clear lens” over the eye.

I think that’s when my mind went blank. But that said, as my headaches are increasing and I want…need…you know, to see, I’m going to have to do something and soon.

What a scary life this is. Was it this way before the pandemic? Before the rioting and constant discourse and fighting amongst one’s neighbors?

Last night, in bed, as I was reading my Kindle, I heard the intermittent rumbling of souped-up engines as the speedsters came out in full force.

I considered calling the police, again, but my husband discouraged me and turned up our sound machine. That helped some. A babbling brook. Frogs doing what frogs do. A gentle breeze rustling through the trees.

That helped some and not long after, I fell asleep. But this morning, as beautiful as it is now, in Chicagoland, with the promise of fall in the air, I didn’t want to get out of bed. But our cats were calling to Mommy to feed them and so I got up and went through the motions.

I spooned food into their bowls, went outside and watered my wilting basil plant, drank my coffee, and watched my husband gaze out the deck doors, looking for the Hummingbird that has graced us with its presence. More than one, actually.

These smallest of birds, so graceful, so ethereal, light at the feeder, their tiny wings beating so quickly, they barely seem real. But real they are. A gift, actually. And I’ll take it.

And here I am now, spilling my guts to you all. I’m not looking for sympathy as I’m certain many of you are feeling as I am. Emotions all over the lot. Happy and sad. Terrified and stoic. Optimistic…and fatalistic.

Maybe you’re churlish with your partners or your kids as you wonder when the hell life will begin again. When your life will begin again.

Or, if you live alone, maybe you’re thinking “Fuck it. I’m going to go out and live. Take my chances.”

We’re all dealing with this in our own way, but I have to wonder, what will be the ultimate toll, physically and emotionally, once we awaken from this nightmare? Once we emerge “on the other side?”

What will happen in November, if the Monster is allowed to continue on his path to destruction?

I can’t think that far ahead not now. Instead, I’ll think about the plumber, who is coming tomorrow to fix two of our toilets that run constantly.

You know that trickling sound? From that bloody running john? It’s driving me crazy. And my head hurts. Regardless. I can take it. Why?

Plumbers. And Hummingbirds. Little bits of “normalcy.”

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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