When I hear others talk about how they long for time alone, their families are too demanding, work too boring or intensive, I am jealous; but not for reasons other than the yearning for family too close to me, too involved in my life, too...there (although I am sure that wears thin very quickly ((*_*)) ). Or work, too tedious, too demanding, too much work.
I had to change a lightbulb. Normally that is an easy task but for someone short and the ceiling high, it was difficult, something nice to have a hubby around for. But it was something doable.
Other house problems can be daunting, when left to your own devices, but I get a lot of it done. The rest I leave, hoping the house leprechauns will come in during the night and do it for me. (they haven't yet but here's hoping.)
This is morbid - but I do worry. What if something happens to me? No one will know for days.
Betty, from church, has made it her job to check for me each Sunday. If I miss 2 weeks in a row she vows she will call to check on me. And a few weeks back she did. Someone noticing my absence and being concerned is not something I have known for a very long time (even when my parents were alive it was rare, a story for another time. Maybe.). It was so kind and a wonderful feeling to think that someone cared enough to worry.
At any rate, what brought me to writing this post today was finding an alone fear of which I had no awareness.
I had to turn down the stimulation in my implant when, for some reason it 'exploded' for lack of a better term, setting off an extremely unpleasant feeling, definitely the sensation of the stimulation, x 100.,
The sensation was so large, the fear and surprise of it so great, it took a few seconds, maybe more, before my mind found a place of sensibility and screamed at me, "Turn it down!"
I did and I was quickly fine. Everyday or so since I have turned down the level of stimulation further. As I got down to 0.05, almost off completely, I became aware I had been turning off the computer (my major form of eye usage) and leaving it off instead of coming back to it later.
The pain was getting worse.
It was never a problem for me to change the rate, amount of stimulation, or the polarities of the implant. Until now. I walked into my bedroom to get the programmer, intending to turn the level up. I stopped in midstep. I could not go further. I was too afraid to even consider changing it.
I talked with the company representative about coming into the office to have them check it out. I realized as I talked to her that my fear was based on the aloneness, of the having no one here.
What if I turned it up and I got that horrid sensation again? How would I turn it off quickly? Could I? Would the fear get in my way? I was afraid because there was no one I had in the house, or I could even ask, to be here in case I needed a fast hand to turn the machine off.
Of all the reasons why the separateness of my life has been so hurtful, this aspect of being alone had ever happened before. After all, I went through the last 9 brain surgeries alone. What could be more fearsome than that?
Now I know the answer.