Hello, friends.
This week, I went to the doctor (last week I brought my father) and she thinks my high blood pressure, which we’ve been trying to manage since last year, may be anxiety more than anything else. So instead of upping the blood pressure medications, we’re upping my antidepressants. While we still can, anyway. Which, honestly, I feel like I need lately.
That’s a fun way to start the newsletter. Let’s get further in, shall we?
Welcome to the 114th installment of Gauthic Times, the newsletter about my writing, my life, and thoughts of my mother.
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Work on Project: Amusement Park continued. I got through about 60 pages of the book, trimming about 1,200 words from the novel. I added about 100, I think, at one point to tie a new idea in but the trimming continues. I have less than 150 pages left to revise. Since I’m working on this newsletter later than normal on Saturday, I won’t be able to work on the novel tonight. Ah, well.
Daily Progress updates on Patreon continue to happen, many times the day after I’d like to put them up. I guess no writers/creators read my newsletter because last week I asked if anyone had advice for keeping track of projects but haven’t heard anything. I may attempt it on social media, too, but the results will likely be the same.
I still need to record this week’s short video for Patreon. I wish I had an office.
Oh! And how do you like the new logo for Gauthic Times? I designed two last week and put it up on Patreon to be voted on.
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I’m still a little shaky as I sit and write this on Saturday afternoon. Let me explain.
This morning I went to my father’s apartment to bring his groceries, get his medications ready for the week, and do whatever else needed doing. He spent from mid-January through late-February in the hospital and then a care facility to get his strength back. He’s been home now since one of the last days of February.
Dad turns 84 this week. He was diagnosed with COPD years ago and it got really bad in 2021 when he got COVID. He has other issues regarding his lungs and has been on oxygen for years. First it was as needed, now it’s permanent. He lives in a third-floor apartment in a house we moved into in October of 1988, when I was 11 and my sister 7. He’s lived alone in the apartment officially since February 2019 when my mother died, but since she broke her ankle at the end of November or early in December 2018 and needed to stay in a care facility until her ankle healed or her insurance ran out (there’s a whole story there), he was effectively living in the apartment by himself since she broke her ankle. He has trouble coming and going. He really should have people come in and help things a few times a week. He really should take my sister up on her offer to go to Florida and live with her.
He’s basically refused all the help.
This week, he got a new oxygen concentrator that his doctor recommended to him to make him more mobile in the house and outside it. Instead of lugging around an oxygen tank when he goes out, or dealing with a 25 ft tube for the massive concentrator in the living room, he can put the mobile concentrator on like a satchel, and use that. He can use it plugged in with its nice long cord, he can use the car cord for driving, or he can use the battery pack.
He doesn’t want to use it in the house.
There’s no real reason other than the larger one, which doesn’t provide enough oxygen unless you up it because of the 25-ft tube, is what he’s used to. This other one is easy to use, highly portable and won’t run out of battery if he uses it plugged in as well as unplugged.
But he just won’t do it.
And this is the man who refuses help because he doesn’t want to be a bother. In case you can’t tell: I’m bothered.
What is it about asking for help—and receiving help—that’s so difficult for people?
I have a hard time asking for help. Most people I know do as well. Is it a learned behavior picked up from your surroundings? Growing up, the adults didn’t ask for help so now that I’m an adult I don’t?
Take my writing career as an example. I have an extremely difficult time reaching out to other writers and asking questions or for advice. There’s maybe one writer I know that I’m okay doing that with, but it’s because I’ve known him about 25 years and it’s only recently that I could work up the courage to do so. Or reaching out to places to try to get things going or whathaveyou.
Same at work, too. I literally have to work myself up in order to ask for help. It’s crazy.
Here’s where I’d normally put my theories or knowledge but I have neither. I assume it’s the internal wiring that some people have, some sort of martyr syndrome or pride that refuses to let one reach out for help, but I really don’t know. I just wish that if help was offered, some people (like my father) would accept it. And I wish that other people (me) could easily ask for help.
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Gautham: Bill Gauthier.com 
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