For the rest of my life.

Yes. Yes. I’m a pronoiac. I think that people are plotting to make me happy. They won’t allow me to be sad. It’s very, very difficult, if not impossible, for me to go into depression. I try. And fail.  Time after time.  Guess I have to accept the fact that I’m a natural born Pollyanna. An optimist. Always seeing the good and bright side of life. Even in hard times. I know. I know. I should feel downcast. As if the end of the world is coming. Like normal people. But I don’t want to be normal. I want to be happy 24/7.  With no break for a spell of sadness.  Makes me wonder. If I’m missing. Something that the rest of you have. Consternation. That something is about to go wrong. Instead, for me, everything seems to go right. It’s as if I’m blessed. In a world full of people who feel cursed. Occasionally, I have qualms of conscience. That I should be compelled. To feel sad. At least once a month. So that I could get a feel for sadness. Like the rest of you. You have that feel. I don’t. Makes me wonder. If I should feel envious of you.  And downright deprived. Instead, I merely continue to live life in a happy-go-lucky manner. And settle for being different. A romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. A writer. Guess I have to face reality. I’m addicted. To happy pursuits. I’m too old. To go in for treatment. I’ll have to stay happy. For the rest of my life. ---Jim Broede

One never knows.

I think. About what might cause the onset of Alzheimer’s. And whether it can be delayed. In some instances. Or even be prevented. Take dear Jeanne. I noticed a decline in her mental acuity. Around the time. That she had two hip replacement surgeries. Six months apart. Both times. Jeanne had a general anesthesia. Knocking her out. For several hours. Had I the opportunity to do it over again.  I’d insist on a local anesthesia. A spinal injection. Cutting off feeling to lower half of the body. But keeping her conscious. Throughout the surgery.  I’d insist, too, going into the surgery. With Jeanne. To hold her hand. To keep her relaxed. With soothing words. Creating a calming, almost hypnotic presence in the operating room. Yes, I’m leery of general anesthesia. I avoid them. Much rather put up with pain. There are studies. That support my bias. Of course, it could be. That Jeanne was predisposed to Alzheimer’s. It was in her genes. Her mother had Alzheimer’s. But still. Maybe the onset could have been delayed. Had she avoided the hip surgeries. One never knows. But it doesn’t hurt to speculate. --Jim Broede

A blessing. For sideline observers.

I was born. Despite the astronomical odds against it. An incredible amount of misfortune had to occur. To clear the way. I wouldn’t be. If my maternal grandmother hadn’t died (at age 26) of a mysterious bone disease.  Also, it was necessary for my maternal grandfather to die at a young age. Thereby leaving my mother. A lonely orphan. Prompting her. For survival sake. To enter a marriage of convenience. With my father.  A man she didn’t love. Lucky for me, though. Otherwise, I would never have been born. Meanwhile, the marriage didn’t last. Dad committed suicide. Another blessing, of sorts. For dear mother. She went on to a second marriage, and the happiest years of her life. Interesting, isn’t it? How human tragedy. Can be a blessing. From the perspective of sideline observers. --Jim Broede