02 December 2009
Sometimes It's Not Pixie Dust
"Game on, 2009, you miserable bitch of a year. I'm gonna go barn-style, old-school: no blood, no foul; no clock; first one to "mercy" loses. Let's just see which one of us is standing on January 1st of next year--if I were you, I'd put my money on the chick with the white high-top Puma's who has a kid that's five feet tall." (Five Feet Tall)
* *
I wrote the above from a post in September. I expected, at that point, that things would get better this year.
Funny thing, expecting.
As the doctor was pausing in his speech, an "uh" and "well" and "um" too many, I interjected, "It's probably not from too much pixie dust, huh?"
And a laugh escaped and since he doesn't know me that well, he has no idea the power of my ability to laugh when the most inappropriate opportunities arise.
Humor, as a shield.
A smile, as a mask.
Sarcasm, an attraction and a trait and a weapon that I wield.
I think, for now, I shall just laugh. I mean, what the fuck did I expect? Him to hand me a rainbow and say, "Just paste this on your window. You'll feel better in no time." Since my brain functions, by this point, I knew better.
I don't know the answers; please don't ask.
I won't know for two weeks, at a minimum, and then I'm not sure that a doctor in Ann Arbor will realize the awesomeness of me without having been in my presence and may quite possibly put me off until the holidays are over.
I know you, aware of my charm, cannot imagine. It took about three seconds for me to as well.
These things take time when it seems like you have none. I am an impatient person. I am not lost on the irony.
I can control the time while I wait, and I will. I will watch my sister give birth to her daughter. I will wrap up with A this weekend and demand she do shit for me and play the sick card and she'll laugh and say, "Nice try bitch. Get me a beer." And we'll make one of the kids get them.
I'm done with work after tomorrow, except for reports. No more meetings. No more people for this year, except the ones I love the most.
I'll let Little A put on her own make-up and sing and shake to "Paparazzi" as many times as she wants.
I'll let Big A play Guitar Hero over and over and over and I'll sing.
I'll make Christmas cookies and Christmas cards and design with HRH a light plan to completely piss off our neighbors.
I'll go to church on Sundays and Wednesdays. I'll sleep in. I'll eat whatever the hell I want because I can't gain a pound to save my life. (Ha, gotcha. Nothings sacred, certainly not me.)
Sometimes it's not pixie dust. I'm okay with that.
Really, 2009? That's all that you've got?
Why, yes, those are Puma's I'm pulling out. I wasn't kidding about them.
Bring it, bitch.
* *
I wrote the above from a post in September. I expected, at that point, that things would get better this year.
Funny thing, expecting.
As the doctor was pausing in his speech, an "uh" and "well" and "um" too many, I interjected, "It's probably not from too much pixie dust, huh?"
And a laugh escaped and since he doesn't know me that well, he has no idea the power of my ability to laugh when the most inappropriate opportunities arise.
Humor, as a shield.
A smile, as a mask.
Sarcasm, an attraction and a trait and a weapon that I wield.
I think, for now, I shall just laugh. I mean, what the fuck did I expect? Him to hand me a rainbow and say, "Just paste this on your window. You'll feel better in no time." Since my brain functions, by this point, I knew better.
I don't know the answers; please don't ask.
I won't know for two weeks, at a minimum, and then I'm not sure that a doctor in Ann Arbor will realize the awesomeness of me without having been in my presence and may quite possibly put me off until the holidays are over.
I know you, aware of my charm, cannot imagine. It took about three seconds for me to as well.
These things take time when it seems like you have none. I am an impatient person. I am not lost on the irony.
I can control the time while I wait, and I will. I will watch my sister give birth to her daughter. I will wrap up with A this weekend and demand she do shit for me and play the sick card and she'll laugh and say, "Nice try bitch. Get me a beer." And we'll make one of the kids get them.
I'm done with work after tomorrow, except for reports. No more meetings. No more people for this year, except the ones I love the most.
I'll let Little A put on her own make-up and sing and shake to "Paparazzi" as many times as she wants.
I'll let Big A play Guitar Hero over and over and over and I'll sing.
I'll make Christmas cookies and Christmas cards and design with HRH a light plan to completely piss off our neighbors.
I'll go to church on Sundays and Wednesdays. I'll sleep in. I'll eat whatever the hell I want because I can't gain a pound to save my life. (Ha, gotcha. Nothings sacred, certainly not me.)
Sometimes it's not pixie dust. I'm okay with that.
Really, 2009? That's all that you've got?
Why, yes, those are Puma's I'm pulling out. I wasn't kidding about them.
Bring it, bitch.
30 November 2009
Post Mortem
I drove myself into the ER this morning having decided four days of 104-105 temps with a body wracked in pain was enough. (I remember my sister A had a t-shirt with a dead cow depicted, flat on its back, legs straight in the air. It said, "No really, I'm fine".)
Turns out I now have a severe kidney infection. Hospitalization severe, except I forgot that I had kids and wanted to come home. "How? How can I have this? Do you know how many anti-biotics I'm on?"
"You'll need to call your primary care physician, today. He needs these results."
In the meantime, IV Cipro, ten days of Cipro.
I'm tired now.
Not just in the physical sense but tired in a sense that I hate about me this year.
I was looking at my legs shaking on the table and realized how much muscle I've lost since my surgery. I haven't run much since. Hard to do when you are dragging a leg behind you. And I wondered then, "I wonder if he knew. If, in those last seconds, he put a hand to his chest and thought 'my body has betrayed me'."
When I was ten, my uncle died at the age of 26 while playing in a basketball tournament.
It was a cold, cold night in February and my parents had gone with my grandparents to the Valentine's Ball at the Lions Club. There were four of us then, four sisters. We were home with Aunt C when the phone rang.
A raced to get it and, still I see in slow motion, her pulling the phone from her ear, eyes wide, staring into mine, running to me. "It's Aunt M. She's screaming." She clung to my long nightgown, we had matching ones, as I pushed her behind me and turned to watch C fall to her knees, screaming, a howl I've heard from one human since.
I walked over to take the phone from her. M was still screaming on the other end. I quietly, softly tiptoed over and hung it up. C crawled to the couch and picked up her coat, "I need to go outside. It's OK, I need to go outside." And she smiled, a lie, in our honor, to shield us, to save us. It is now, recalling this, that I weep with her slow transition out of my life.
The Parent Trap was on. We watched the TV in horror, listening to her screams from our porch. I looked out at her, the clear sky, the bright moon shining down, on her knees, rocking, her breath visible in the air as it staggered, jagged and torn, from her chest.
I took the girls and I told them we were going to be OK. We would be safe. I got their pillows and our afghans and put them in the walk-in closet in the front room.
"Nothing bad will find us here," I promised. But it did.
My aunt M arrived, then another. Our parents did not. I directed the girls to change their prayers. The damn prayers of a Catholic. My parents were gone because I meant to run over A's foot with the Big Wheel. My parents were gone because I thought bad thoughts about my CCD teacher. I'm angry, still, that I didn't know a kinder God then.
"Please let it be anyone but mom and dad. Please let it be anyone but mom and dad."
Our hands clasped together, murmuring over and over, louder and louder as the sobs outside the door permeated within.
My mother walked in and got us out of the closet and put us into the bed that A and I shared. "Where is dad?" "He's here; he's outside." "What is happening mom?" She told us that our uncle was sick and kissed our foreheads.
A and I took turns crawling down the hall each time we heard a car, a new voice.
"The priest," She reported.
"A man with blond hair," I informed.
"They are talking about what to do with his dog and car," A whispered.
I crept down the stairs and finally saw my grandparents. She had on a long turquoise dress. She was shaking. We didn't go down again.
We laid in that bed, hands, arms, legs entwined, waiting. We didn't know for what, but we waited.
My mother gathered us in the morning and took us to the couch. "I have to tell you something hard. Something sad."
I try to imagine looking into the eyes of my children now, to deliver to them what she had to say to us.
"Uncle K is gone." We sat.
"Uncle K died." We wailed.
She gathered us into our afghans and rocked us all.
My father came out, finally, and we watched from the kitchen. A man of little emotion, a rock. He picked up the phone to call the subcontractors that worked for the family business.
"Yeah, Bill, we, uh, we won't be, we aren't..." And the howling, the piercing scream, I heard again as he fell to his knees and my mother took the phone.
We looked amongst ourselves and we locked legs under the table.
Now, as an adult, I understand what happened next. The thought, quickly pushed away, the thought of that loss; I understand now.
I understood not then as we were divided amongst our mom's siblings and taken to their homes, screaming, pounding the windows, "No! No! We'll be good. We'll be quiet, please, no!" My eyes went from mom to A, our palms on the windows, our eyes locked.
I thought I would never see her again. I was insane with a new grief.
We didn't know of death until then, so this was confusing. Young people died? Why not Busi? Why not Dzia-Dzia? Why him? Are we next? Are mom and dad next? Who is next? How do you know? How do you sleep again? What if we never left the house? Would you die then? How do you dribble a basketball ever again?
I went back to school ten days later, a shell, I know of what I was.
I was in the third grade.
My best friend, Lill, sat in silence with me on the playground for days until one day we laughed.
I was in the third.grade.
We had selected poems to memorize and read aloud in January, in a different time, a different world.
I had selected "If Nancy Hanks Came To Town", a poem about what Abe Lincoln's mother would ask of him if she came back as a ghost. The opening stanza:
If Nancy Hanks
Came back as a ghost,
Seeking news
Of what she loved most,
She'd ask first
"Where's my son?
What's happened to Abe?
What's he done?"
It was the first time writing made me weep. My teacher, her small frame belying her large soul, pulled me aside. "I thought that maybe you would want to read this instead. You don't have to memorize it, you can just read it and be done, OK?" I nodded and began to read:
Whose woods these are, I think I know,
His house is in the village though....
It wasn't until years later that I understood exactly what she had done for me that day. How she had probably given it so much thought, how she somehow knew that one day I would still love to read so much that I would discover his words, too, spoke of death, of what lies ahead.
I thought of her and wept at her kindness and for the girl in her nightgown eager for a night with Aunt C, when for the first time, in the first home that I owned, I painted by hand that poem unto my wall.
It took me days.
It took me a lifetime.
I wonder now, my body once one that was strong and hard and muscled, what he thought then. If he ever understood what had happened. I hope not. I hope he thought, "Oh God, I'm going to fall," and began to laugh, never knowing there would be no arising from this faltering.
On my last day of third grade, my teacher handed me a folded paper. "I thought that someday you might understand this. I will never forget you."
In her perfect handwriting, I read:
To An Athlete Dying Young
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.
It meant something then. It means something now. They are different, those things, but they still hold me.
So I wonder tonight, shaking as I type, unable to stop the chills, unable to not write, unable to sit on my left leg, unable to recognize the shape in the mirror. Lighter, now on the scale than when at my prime health and ironically, I feel heavier.
But I won't, always. No matter what it takes, I won't. One day, maybe not this week, not this year, not in the thaw of the next, but one day, I will turn from my driveway, my steady pace comforting me and think not of what lies behind, but what lies ahead.
My face will turn to the sun. I am a runner. It is my turn to run.
Turns out I now have a severe kidney infection. Hospitalization severe, except I forgot that I had kids and wanted to come home. "How? How can I have this? Do you know how many anti-biotics I'm on?"
"You'll need to call your primary care physician, today. He needs these results."
In the meantime, IV Cipro, ten days of Cipro.
I'm tired now.
Not just in the physical sense but tired in a sense that I hate about me this year.
I was looking at my legs shaking on the table and realized how much muscle I've lost since my surgery. I haven't run much since. Hard to do when you are dragging a leg behind you. And I wondered then, "I wonder if he knew. If, in those last seconds, he put a hand to his chest and thought 'my body has betrayed me'."
When I was ten, my uncle died at the age of 26 while playing in a basketball tournament.
It was a cold, cold night in February and my parents had gone with my grandparents to the Valentine's Ball at the Lions Club. There were four of us then, four sisters. We were home with Aunt C when the phone rang.
A raced to get it and, still I see in slow motion, her pulling the phone from her ear, eyes wide, staring into mine, running to me. "It's Aunt M. She's screaming." She clung to my long nightgown, we had matching ones, as I pushed her behind me and turned to watch C fall to her knees, screaming, a howl I've heard from one human since.
I walked over to take the phone from her. M was still screaming on the other end. I quietly, softly tiptoed over and hung it up. C crawled to the couch and picked up her coat, "I need to go outside. It's OK, I need to go outside." And she smiled, a lie, in our honor, to shield us, to save us. It is now, recalling this, that I weep with her slow transition out of my life.
The Parent Trap was on. We watched the TV in horror, listening to her screams from our porch. I looked out at her, the clear sky, the bright moon shining down, on her knees, rocking, her breath visible in the air as it staggered, jagged and torn, from her chest.
I took the girls and I told them we were going to be OK. We would be safe. I got their pillows and our afghans and put them in the walk-in closet in the front room.
"Nothing bad will find us here," I promised. But it did.
My aunt M arrived, then another. Our parents did not. I directed the girls to change their prayers. The damn prayers of a Catholic. My parents were gone because I meant to run over A's foot with the Big Wheel. My parents were gone because I thought bad thoughts about my CCD teacher. I'm angry, still, that I didn't know a kinder God then.
"Please let it be anyone but mom and dad. Please let it be anyone but mom and dad."
Our hands clasped together, murmuring over and over, louder and louder as the sobs outside the door permeated within.
My mother walked in and got us out of the closet and put us into the bed that A and I shared. "Where is dad?" "He's here; he's outside." "What is happening mom?" She told us that our uncle was sick and kissed our foreheads.
A and I took turns crawling down the hall each time we heard a car, a new voice.
"The priest," She reported.
"A man with blond hair," I informed.
"They are talking about what to do with his dog and car," A whispered.
I crept down the stairs and finally saw my grandparents. She had on a long turquoise dress. She was shaking. We didn't go down again.
We laid in that bed, hands, arms, legs entwined, waiting. We didn't know for what, but we waited.
My mother gathered us in the morning and took us to the couch. "I have to tell you something hard. Something sad."
I try to imagine looking into the eyes of my children now, to deliver to them what she had to say to us.
"Uncle K is gone." We sat.
"Uncle K died." We wailed.
She gathered us into our afghans and rocked us all.
My father came out, finally, and we watched from the kitchen. A man of little emotion, a rock. He picked up the phone to call the subcontractors that worked for the family business.
"Yeah, Bill, we, uh, we won't be, we aren't..." And the howling, the piercing scream, I heard again as he fell to his knees and my mother took the phone.
We looked amongst ourselves and we locked legs under the table.
Now, as an adult, I understand what happened next. The thought, quickly pushed away, the thought of that loss; I understand now.
I understood not then as we were divided amongst our mom's siblings and taken to their homes, screaming, pounding the windows, "No! No! We'll be good. We'll be quiet, please, no!" My eyes went from mom to A, our palms on the windows, our eyes locked.
I thought I would never see her again. I was insane with a new grief.
We didn't know of death until then, so this was confusing. Young people died? Why not Busi? Why not Dzia-Dzia? Why him? Are we next? Are mom and dad next? Who is next? How do you know? How do you sleep again? What if we never left the house? Would you die then? How do you dribble a basketball ever again?
I went back to school ten days later, a shell, I know of what I was.
I was in the third grade.
My best friend, Lill, sat in silence with me on the playground for days until one day we laughed.
I was in the third.grade.
We had selected poems to memorize and read aloud in January, in a different time, a different world.
I had selected "If Nancy Hanks Came To Town", a poem about what Abe Lincoln's mother would ask of him if she came back as a ghost. The opening stanza:
If Nancy Hanks
Came back as a ghost,
Seeking news
Of what she loved most,
She'd ask first
"Where's my son?
What's happened to Abe?
What's he done?"
It was the first time writing made me weep. My teacher, her small frame belying her large soul, pulled me aside. "I thought that maybe you would want to read this instead. You don't have to memorize it, you can just read it and be done, OK?" I nodded and began to read:
Whose woods these are, I think I know,
His house is in the village though....
It wasn't until years later that I understood exactly what she had done for me that day. How she had probably given it so much thought, how she somehow knew that one day I would still love to read so much that I would discover his words, too, spoke of death, of what lies ahead.
I thought of her and wept at her kindness and for the girl in her nightgown eager for a night with Aunt C, when for the first time, in the first home that I owned, I painted by hand that poem unto my wall.
It took me days.
It took me a lifetime.
I wonder now, my body once one that was strong and hard and muscled, what he thought then. If he ever understood what had happened. I hope not. I hope he thought, "Oh God, I'm going to fall," and began to laugh, never knowing there would be no arising from this faltering.
On my last day of third grade, my teacher handed me a folded paper. "I thought that someday you might understand this. I will never forget you."
In her perfect handwriting, I read:
To An Athlete Dying Young
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.
It meant something then. It means something now. They are different, those things, but they still hold me.
So I wonder tonight, shaking as I type, unable to stop the chills, unable to not write, unable to sit on my left leg, unable to recognize the shape in the mirror. Lighter, now on the scale than when at my prime health and ironically, I feel heavier.
But I won't, always. No matter what it takes, I won't. One day, maybe not this week, not this year, not in the thaw of the next, but one day, I will turn from my driveway, my steady pace comforting me and think not of what lies behind, but what lies ahead.
My face will turn to the sun. I am a runner. It is my turn to run.
29 November 2009
I got Kidney Stones for Thanksgiving & Other Holiday Miracles
This year while my relatives were gathered over a fowl and ten different desserts, I was huddled under my blankets, chattering profusely, willing the narcotics to work already. Oh, and peeing into a screen; I don't mean to leave out the fun parts.
I've yet to eat one single piece of pie and I'm bitter, so bitter that I took a banana pudding cup and mixed it with cool whip and after two bites, decided it wasn't a great idea and gave it to the dog instead.
I bided my time between pee breaks by reading magazines, surfing the net and taking part in telephone conversations that I most likely won't recall, except for my conversation with my sister A, who said, "So you're not going to remember what I'm going to tell you then?" To which I told her yes I would and I typed up notes that now are quite humorous to read and were helpful in recollecting our little chat.
****
One of the last stops on the net that I found one evening was this one: http://twilightsaga.wikia.com/wiki/Category:Twilight_Saga_Characters
I went there because earlier in the week, I had watched both of the movies that are out and learned the following vampire "facts" from Adriana:
****
According to my emails, I made only one on-line purchase during this three day period and actually needed what I ordered.
****
By Friday/Saturday early hours, my thought process was like this:
ME: Need to get up and pee.
ME: I am not moving again. I'll just pee the bed.
ME: How can I have the flu and kidney stones when I'm on a gazillion anti-biotics.
ME: Need to get up and pee.
ME: Fine.
ME: OMG. It hurts to move. Why are my clothes soaking wet? Did I pee the bed?
ME: From your fever, you asshole.
ME: I hope to God there are no vampires out there.
Exciting, I know.
****
My sisters that lack the mental fortitude that my sister S and I share went Christmas shopping on Friday morning with mom at like 4:00 a.m. or something. They openly admitted they accomplished almost nothing, to which S and I laughed smugly amongst ourselves until I reviewed my notes and found that A had to wrap Christmas presents, which meant that some were purchased. I suck at note-taking.
****
Today I am not taking any narcotics to see if I am actually still in pain or just high to the point of assuming I'm in pain, so then manifesting the symptoms of pain upon myself.
And today, the first being that revealed to me that there was a love more fierce than what I felt for my parents and siblings turned eight.teen.
From this:
To this:
Without so much as a warning. A bit of wisdom for you Bosh, as you venture into this thing called adulthood:
It's not the vampires, it's Time.
I've yet to eat one single piece of pie and I'm bitter, so bitter that I took a banana pudding cup and mixed it with cool whip and after two bites, decided it wasn't a great idea and gave it to the dog instead.
I bided my time between pee breaks by reading magazines, surfing the net and taking part in telephone conversations that I most likely won't recall, except for my conversation with my sister A, who said, "So you're not going to remember what I'm going to tell you then?" To which I told her yes I would and I typed up notes that now are quite humorous to read and were helpful in recollecting our little chat.
****
One of the last stops on the net that I found one evening was this one: http://twilightsaga.wikia.com/wiki/Category:Twilight_Saga_Characters
I went there because earlier in the week, I had watched both of the movies that are out and learned the following vampire "facts" from Adriana:
- Vampires CAN go out during the day, but they have to avoid direct sunlight, NOT because they burn, but because they shine, like diamonds, and are easily identified from the beauty of the moment.
- Despite my old school training regarding vampires, garlic, crosses and getting stabbed through the heart are not effective when killing a vampire or keeping it away. The only way to kill a vampire is to rip it apart, limb by limb, and then burn those limbs.
- How did they get through airport security? On two continents?
- Why didn't they just fly themselves, like through the air?
- How did they get a rental car that fast, because we all know that is impossible?
- If I agree to become a vampire, can I too own only very cool cars?
****
According to my emails, I made only one on-line purchase during this three day period and actually needed what I ordered.
****
By Friday/Saturday early hours, my thought process was like this:
ME: Need to get up and pee.
ME: I am not moving again. I'll just pee the bed.
ME: How can I have the flu and kidney stones when I'm on a gazillion anti-biotics.
ME: Need to get up and pee.
ME: Fine.
ME: OMG. It hurts to move. Why are my clothes soaking wet? Did I pee the bed?
ME: From your fever, you asshole.
ME: I hope to God there are no vampires out there.
Exciting, I know.
****
My sisters that lack the mental fortitude that my sister S and I share went Christmas shopping on Friday morning with mom at like 4:00 a.m. or something. They openly admitted they accomplished almost nothing, to which S and I laughed smugly amongst ourselves until I reviewed my notes and found that A had to wrap Christmas presents, which meant that some were purchased. I suck at note-taking.
****
Today I am not taking any narcotics to see if I am actually still in pain or just high to the point of assuming I'm in pain, so then manifesting the symptoms of pain upon myself.
And today, the first being that revealed to me that there was a love more fierce than what I felt for my parents and siblings turned eight.teen.
From this:
To this:
Without so much as a warning. A bit of wisdom for you Bosh, as you venture into this thing called adulthood:
It's not the vampires, it's Time.
23 November 2009
Writer
What it meant today was different than what it meant two weeks ago. This grief changes shape so easily while I feel so unable to move.
Two stones, in our yard. Two markers, covered in flowers picked from all of our tear-stained hands. Two stones, "Peace" and "Love". Two stones, anchoring a part of me that I've yet been able to express adequately. Two lives, loved so very much and gone so very differently.
One ripped from me by a force that still leaves me with one hand tapping my chest or rubbing my neck or twisting my legs somehow. Anything to avoid the still, the quiet, the knowledge that there will no longer be the "one, two, three. pause. one, two, three. pause" drinks from her water dish at night. There will be no more three circles and a black body cradled to me under the covers, just her nose reaching out for air.
I wish I remembered now if I'd made HRH turn her three times before he laid her to rest. That thought bothers me a lot. A lot more than it should, I know. But there are parts of my brain that don't stop working no matter how loudly I demand them to.
One broken, willing herself to stay, out of the sheer love that she had for me. I never would have thought that I had it within me--to hold the body of my best friend who doesn't want to leave and look into her beautiful brown eyes and know this is it, this is goodbye? I think now that I didn't have it in me, and I will be realizing that slowly, each time my hand reaches for her at my side, for many years.
What it meant today as I was facing down deadlines and calendars and thinking of the presents that I needed to buy was that for the first time in 16 years, there will be no gifts for The Smoosh and Jessie under our tree.
And there shall be no gifts for my grandfather under a tree hundreds of miles away, but that is another story.
This year meant to me a lot of loss; painful, wounding, sobbing on your knees loss. So much loss at times that I was afraid to face the next day, wondering what it would bring.
But still, I'm here. Not the same; I'll never be the same. But still, I'm here.
I feel that this year has written upon me "grief", over and over. I believe that I will recall this year always and feel cold and wrap my arms around myself.
I feel that this upcoming year, I shall write upon it instead "joy", over and over. I believe that I will recall next year always and tilt my face to the sky to greet the sun when I do.
I am a writer. And it is my turn to write.
Two stones, in our yard. Two markers, covered in flowers picked from all of our tear-stained hands. Two stones, "Peace" and "Love". Two stones, anchoring a part of me that I've yet been able to express adequately. Two lives, loved so very much and gone so very differently.
One ripped from me by a force that still leaves me with one hand tapping my chest or rubbing my neck or twisting my legs somehow. Anything to avoid the still, the quiet, the knowledge that there will no longer be the "one, two, three. pause. one, two, three. pause" drinks from her water dish at night. There will be no more three circles and a black body cradled to me under the covers, just her nose reaching out for air.
She would sleep like that all night.
I wish I remembered now if I'd made HRH turn her three times before he laid her to rest. That thought bothers me a lot. A lot more than it should, I know. But there are parts of my brain that don't stop working no matter how loudly I demand them to.
One broken, willing herself to stay, out of the sheer love that she had for me. I never would have thought that I had it within me--to hold the body of my best friend who doesn't want to leave and look into her beautiful brown eyes and know this is it, this is goodbye? I think now that I didn't have it in me, and I will be realizing that slowly, each time my hand reaches for her at my side, for many years.
She took many beautiful photos, but this was one of my favorites:
I titled it, "Constant Companion".
Wherever I was, she was as well.
Until the day I sent her from me.
Wherever I was, she was as well.
Until the day I sent her from me.
What it meant today as I was facing down deadlines and calendars and thinking of the presents that I needed to buy was that for the first time in 16 years, there will be no gifts for The Smoosh and Jessie under our tree.
And there shall be no gifts for my grandfather under a tree hundreds of miles away, but that is another story.
This year meant to me a lot of loss; painful, wounding, sobbing on your knees loss. So much loss at times that I was afraid to face the next day, wondering what it would bring.
But still, I'm here. Not the same; I'll never be the same. But still, I'm here.
I feel that this year has written upon me "grief", over and over. I believe that I will recall this year always and feel cold and wrap my arms around myself.
I feel that this upcoming year, I shall write upon it instead "joy", over and over. I believe that I will recall next year always and tilt my face to the sky to greet the sun when I do.
I am a writer. And it is my turn to write.
11 November 2009
An Open Letter to Rick Reilly & The Subscription Guilt People
It happened again the other day. There, in my mail, in my nephew's innocent handwriting:
"Please, help our school."
By ordering magazines, mind you. Last year I told my sister A that I already had 73 magazines coming to my house and besides, I didn't have time to read them all anyway. To which she exclaimed, "But Rick Reilly went to ESPN!"
I looked at her in severe doubt, debating whether this was an excellent selling tactic or the truth.
A little background on Mr. Reilly: He wrote for Sports Illustrated for, like, ever. He wrote articles that I would frequently rip out off the back page and tape randomly around the house.
Which initially really pissed off my dad, since I happened to be a child living in his home when that started and it was technically his magazine.
That he hadn't read yet.
A typical Wednesday evening in our home usually included the following quote from our father: "Where the hell is my Sports Illustrated?" I digress.
The point is that his writing moved me. He wrote of sports, and little people, and the way that sports moved them, what it meant to them. He wrote of kids dying in car accidents and fathers playing golf in their honor, refs that made bad calls that altered their lives, what he would do if he had a year left to live.
I thought of him this year on a particularly sunny day this past summer after I hung up the phone with my grandmother who had said, "Those damn Tigers...".
And suddenly, the thought of her there alone, in a home that once housed her nine children, countless grandchildren, a house where I'd spent a good portion of my childhood propped up on my elbows, watching the Tigers, a house so full of life now suddenly left with her as the sole occupant, watching the Tigers alone; that thought broke my heart all over again.
When the Queens and I moved, I would very randomly get my Sports Illustrated. Big A and I were quite sure that the neighbor living in his dad's condo was taking it. We spent a lot of nights plotting big plans on how to catch him.
Then, one morning, as I was loading them into my car, the neighbor said, "Hey, wanna know a sign that the apocalypse is gonna happen"?
Except he pronounced "apocalypse" like: ap-ock-al-lips-see.
I stopped dead in my tracks. Big A, smelling blood, stepped out of the car. "This Weeks Sign That the Apocalypse is Upon Us" is a small box in Sports Illustrated that features some remarkably idiotic act or quote by an athlete or someone prominent in athletics.
He rattled off something, to which I said, "Huh. I used to read that in Sports Illustrated, but I never get mine anymore." And I got into my car to face an extremely disappointed Big A.
Big A: Mom, you had him! Why didn't you just tell him you know he's been taking your magazine! He didn't even say the word right!
Me: Something about having read somewhere that the true sign of power is having the ability to crush someone and not wielding it.
Big A: Yeah, well you won't be reading that from Sports Illustrated. Don't ever talk to me again about busting him. Ever.
My Sports Illustrated came in the following week, and there was no Rick Reilly on the back page, which made the other pages a little less readable.
And so, back to last year, there A sat, telling me that Rick Reilly was going to be writing for ESPN. I ordered the magazine.
And called her every.single.time. it arrived in my mailbox without one Rick Reilly featured within it.
And then, one day, there he was, on the back page, a beautiful article about his father and golf and faults and lessons.
The thing is, the point of this entire post is, that was the last moving article I've read by him. I haven't torn out any back pages and taped them to the fridge. He's written things that have been funny (and I get self-deprecation and laughter as a shield, I really do) but nothing that resembles the man I loved to read.
Now he writes a lot about things big sports stars have said to him, how he had fun hanging with Lance Armstrong or Kobe Bryant, or how he totally sucked on his ESPN TV debut or how he was a mess announcing a horse race, but nothing about the little people so much anymore. Like we don't even exist in his new world.
I'm going to re-order ESPN, one more time. I'm going to give it one more year. Everyone deserves a shot at redemption, right Rick? Better yet, your chance at redemption includes helping out a school that my nephew, who loves baseball more than life, attends.
Please, make good on it. For all of us little people.
"Please, help our school."
By ordering magazines, mind you. Last year I told my sister A that I already had 73 magazines coming to my house and besides, I didn't have time to read them all anyway. To which she exclaimed, "But Rick Reilly went to ESPN!"
I looked at her in severe doubt, debating whether this was an excellent selling tactic or the truth.
A little background on Mr. Reilly: He wrote for Sports Illustrated for, like, ever. He wrote articles that I would frequently rip out off the back page and tape randomly around the house.
Which initially really pissed off my dad, since I happened to be a child living in his home when that started and it was technically his magazine.
That he hadn't read yet.
A typical Wednesday evening in our home usually included the following quote from our father: "Where the hell is my Sports Illustrated?" I digress.
The point is that his writing moved me. He wrote of sports, and little people, and the way that sports moved them, what it meant to them. He wrote of kids dying in car accidents and fathers playing golf in their honor, refs that made bad calls that altered their lives, what he would do if he had a year left to live.
I thought of him this year on a particularly sunny day this past summer after I hung up the phone with my grandmother who had said, "Those damn Tigers...".
And suddenly, the thought of her there alone, in a home that once housed her nine children, countless grandchildren, a house where I'd spent a good portion of my childhood propped up on my elbows, watching the Tigers, a house so full of life now suddenly left with her as the sole occupant, watching the Tigers alone; that thought broke my heart all over again.
When the Queens and I moved, I would very randomly get my Sports Illustrated. Big A and I were quite sure that the neighbor living in his dad's condo was taking it. We spent a lot of nights plotting big plans on how to catch him.
Then, one morning, as I was loading them into my car, the neighbor said, "Hey, wanna know a sign that the apocalypse is gonna happen"?
Except he pronounced "apocalypse" like: ap-ock-al-lips-see.
I stopped dead in my tracks. Big A, smelling blood, stepped out of the car. "This Weeks Sign That the Apocalypse is Upon Us" is a small box in Sports Illustrated that features some remarkably idiotic act or quote by an athlete or someone prominent in athletics.
He rattled off something, to which I said, "Huh. I used to read that in Sports Illustrated, but I never get mine anymore." And I got into my car to face an extremely disappointed Big A.
Big A: Mom, you had him! Why didn't you just tell him you know he's been taking your magazine! He didn't even say the word right!
Me: Something about having read somewhere that the true sign of power is having the ability to crush someone and not wielding it.
Big A: Yeah, well you won't be reading that from Sports Illustrated. Don't ever talk to me again about busting him. Ever.
My Sports Illustrated came in the following week, and there was no Rick Reilly on the back page, which made the other pages a little less readable.
And so, back to last year, there A sat, telling me that Rick Reilly was going to be writing for ESPN. I ordered the magazine.
And called her every.single.time. it arrived in my mailbox without one Rick Reilly featured within it.
And then, one day, there he was, on the back page, a beautiful article about his father and golf and faults and lessons.
The thing is, the point of this entire post is, that was the last moving article I've read by him. I haven't torn out any back pages and taped them to the fridge. He's written things that have been funny (and I get self-deprecation and laughter as a shield, I really do) but nothing that resembles the man I loved to read.
Now he writes a lot about things big sports stars have said to him, how he had fun hanging with Lance Armstrong or Kobe Bryant, or how he totally sucked on his ESPN TV debut or how he was a mess announcing a horse race, but nothing about the little people so much anymore. Like we don't even exist in his new world.
I'm going to re-order ESPN, one more time. I'm going to give it one more year. Everyone deserves a shot at redemption, right Rick? Better yet, your chance at redemption includes helping out a school that my nephew, who loves baseball more than life, attends.
Please, make good on it. For all of us little people.
05 November 2009
To A, My Sister, Whom I Slept With
"Write," She says. "When are you going to write?" And so, I am going to write, Andrea. Write the things that go through my head of late. Things of you, things of I, things or our children, our lives, our loves.
So there we were, you and I and Mom and the typical courthouse players, and you were called to the stand and I flinched in my seat and stared intently at you.
"This marriage is broken beyond repair, correct?"
A nod from you.
"And this marriage was established on July 4, XXXX, correct?"
"Yes, that is true."
"And from this marriage, you bore two children, did you not?"
And there it was, the deal breaker. The moment you reached for your tissue and the minute I stood to rise while mom's hand held mine down. And I thought, "I hope my daughters love one another as much one day."
And yet you made it, standing, younger again in your years. And our lunch: "How, how do they do that?" I know I can say that to you anytime, anywhere and we shall both love and laugh and remember.
And then today, back to the grind. Your classes, my clients, my freaking' I.V. into the whole bone marrow thing. P.S., it sucked worse than I planned on. Which, knowing me, you know was worse than well, a lot.
First, there aren't any like, numbing agents. OK, remember how when you're pregnant and you read the books and you are in a state of total shock and go, "Um, no fucking way am I shitting on a table in front of strangers", so you decide to not eat three weeks before your due date, but then your damn kid shows up way early? And you've already explicitly stated that you will never, ever, lay on all fours, bare ass in the air, allowing strangers to stare at your crotch? And then how when the moment come, you're all like, "I don't give a fuck, cut off my ears and eyes, remove this being from my body?"
It was pretty much like that except without a cute little life to take home with you except yourself and your life ain't looking all that cute, so pretty much, it doesn't really count.
And then you have to go to Kroger's with the societies unwanted shopping and are told by a vagabond to be careful with that Soy Milk, "it gives men titties." I didn't respond. What do you say to that? To someone so obviously desolate and alone and lets face it, not too bright. Until my husband starts growing boobs and then I start rethinking the physicians that I see.
And how I think about all the time how we'd fall asleep together listening to Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With night after night and laughed at the reality of it all--the beatings, the threats, the pleas.
And how I wish that we lived closer. Like next to each other, not just in mind and heart, but shared a fence and yard work and could grow old together and ague over whose Depends were whose.
Mostly, Andrea, I wish you love. A love as fierce as the love that I have for you. I wish you Story People each day and laughter each night.
Mostly, Andrea, I wish you hope. A hope that you know how much I love you. How much I'd do anything for you. A hope that you believe in hope.
Mostly, Andrea, I am buoyed by the belief that somewhere along the line that you recognized that on those nights we spent huddled together in our bed, our souls were out dancing, intertwined in ways that they couldn't extract themselves and came back to us, more whole than they ever were.
I love you. You make me proud. You inspire me. You are a wonderful mother. You are my best friend. You are my silver cord.
So there we were, you and I and Mom and the typical courthouse players, and you were called to the stand and I flinched in my seat and stared intently at you.
"This marriage is broken beyond repair, correct?"
A nod from you.
"And this marriage was established on July 4, XXXX, correct?"
"Yes, that is true."
"And from this marriage, you bore two children, did you not?"
And there it was, the deal breaker. The moment you reached for your tissue and the minute I stood to rise while mom's hand held mine down. And I thought, "I hope my daughters love one another as much one day."
And yet you made it, standing, younger again in your years. And our lunch: "How, how do they do that?" I know I can say that to you anytime, anywhere and we shall both love and laugh and remember.
And then today, back to the grind. Your classes, my clients, my freaking' I.V. into the whole bone marrow thing. P.S., it sucked worse than I planned on. Which, knowing me, you know was worse than well, a lot.
First, there aren't any like, numbing agents. OK, remember how when you're pregnant and you read the books and you are in a state of total shock and go, "Um, no fucking way am I shitting on a table in front of strangers", so you decide to not eat three weeks before your due date, but then your damn kid shows up way early? And you've already explicitly stated that you will never, ever, lay on all fours, bare ass in the air, allowing strangers to stare at your crotch? And then how when the moment come, you're all like, "I don't give a fuck, cut off my ears and eyes, remove this being from my body?"
It was pretty much like that except without a cute little life to take home with you except yourself and your life ain't looking all that cute, so pretty much, it doesn't really count.
And then you have to go to Kroger's with the societies unwanted shopping and are told by a vagabond to be careful with that Soy Milk, "it gives men titties." I didn't respond. What do you say to that? To someone so obviously desolate and alone and lets face it, not too bright. Until my husband starts growing boobs and then I start rethinking the physicians that I see.
And how I think about all the time how we'd fall asleep together listening to Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With night after night and laughed at the reality of it all--the beatings, the threats, the pleas.
And how I wish that we lived closer. Like next to each other, not just in mind and heart, but shared a fence and yard work and could grow old together and ague over whose Depends were whose.
Mostly, Andrea, I wish you love. A love as fierce as the love that I have for you. I wish you Story People each day and laughter each night.
Mostly, Andrea, I wish you hope. A hope that you know how much I love you. How much I'd do anything for you. A hope that you believe in hope.
Mostly, Andrea, I am buoyed by the belief that somewhere along the line that you recognized that on those nights we spent huddled together in our bed, our souls were out dancing, intertwined in ways that they couldn't extract themselves and came back to us, more whole than they ever were.
I love you. You make me proud. You inspire me. You are a wonderful mother. You are my best friend. You are my silver cord.
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25 September 2009
Goodbye, Again
I don't know how to write about today.
If there are words for this kind of sorrow, I've not learned them yet.
I've willed her to go quietly in the night, but the constant companion and faithful friend that she is, she remains. Not who she once was, but still, who is?
I've finally come to a point where I cannot watch the indignity of what is to come any longer and cannot accept the pain in her life to delay pain in mine. Our vet will be here tonight, after her clinic closes, so that Jessie can be home with us when she leaves this world and so much of my world leaves me.
Until then, she and I are heading outside and taking in this perfect fall day together like we've done so many times in the past 16 years, slower, with less ground covered, but together, until Goodbye.
03 September 2009
Five Feet Tall
We've begun a tradition in our home: on the first of each month, we measure the Queens. Today, HRH measured them while I was at work and I heard the reports at dinner.
Little A: Yep. I weally tall ta-day. Wike so tall. Hey, Ma, 'member when I was a wittle girl and I went outside and I picked up 'da 'fing and 'den 'dere was a bird and I want ta go see Smoosh in Doggy Heaven, Ma, 'cause I miss her so much and you sayed 'dat she was 'dere and 'den I had-ed a dream and she was 'dere! And 'dere was so many dogs 'dere! And 'dey was so happy, Ma. Yep. 'Dey all had wings and Smoosh is gonna fly down from Heaven and see us. Yep. I tall ta-day Ma.
Big A: (Staring, appalled at the complete lack of structure and point in the above mentioned update) Well, I'm five feet tall.
Jesus Christ, what was that? No, what the hell was that? I recovered quickly from the sound of something moving within and looked to HRH for confirmation. "Is she really that tall"? He was cautious with his answer--he's smart--he knows any answer could be the wrong one. "Yes," spoken softly, gently; a scream whispered.
- - - -
I don't think that I wrote about my panic attack? How I calmly said I was going to drive myself to the ER, for I was certain I was having a heart attack and about to die and my feet and hands kept turning pure white and aching and I was sure that it was because my blood wasn't flowing properly and I kept telling myself that nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong, but my heart kept racing anyways and I could.not.breathe. and since I was able to tell myself that I knew I could physically breathe but still couldn't breathe, then I was probably in the throes of death and I should just get to the ER and hope I arrived in time for them to save me and I did and as I sat unable to stop wringing my hands and tapping my chest the doctor told me that no I wasn't dying that day and no I didn't have any auto-immune disease that was causing my feet and hands to do what they were doing and what I was suffering from was not a heart attack, but an anxiety attack and this is what sometimes happens to people who are under stress--are you under stress--are you depressed--have you had any life-altering changes lately--and a bitter laugh escaped with my tears and you should see your family physician and take these Xanax and you should try to sleep? No, I didn't mention that?
- - - -
That's probably because I'm ashamed of it, I think. Ashamed that I have this beautiful life and yet I cannot quit crying a lot of the time.
I remember the day that it started; it was cold and wintry and the sun was very bright and I was sitting on a bed, trying to weep quietly so as not to disturb anyone outside the door, but my niece came in anyway and soon HRH was up there, inquiring.
And for the first time ever, I was enraged with his concern, (my grandfather is fucking dead! can i not sit here and cry if i fucking want to! do i have to explain every detail of my goddamn life to everyone! can i not just have a few moments of peace where i can cry and not answer to anyone!) but I didn't say so. Instead I mumbled something and I buried it within me, and at times now I think that on that day, at that moment, I planted a seed and a monster has grown from it.
I had to keep myself in check, for Big A's eyes were upon me--if I acted as I wanted to, it would scare her. It would make her weep harder. It would make her ask questions that I couldn't answer.
And so we drove to the church that day, and I wept silently in the front seat as she and HRH chatted and I sat in the pew and dug my nails deeply within me and bit my lips and pushed away the hand that was trying to hold mine because I was afraid of what would happen to me if I held it instead.
About a month later, one day I was checking my email and realized that, no, there would be no more messages from him; I hadn't even really been aware that I was still looking for them. I tried, I really, really tried to stay focused on the good, on all I had, on the memories--but at the end of the day--actually, the beginnings of the days, for that is the only time I could cry, protected by the sound of the shower and the fan and the closed door--the loss was a truth I didn't know how to face: I'd never lost someone that I had loved so much. I didn't know how to explain that I was sadder now than I had been then, and so I explained nothing.
It was a few weeks later that I got hurt and it took almost six weeks before I could have surgery, so in that time, I could blame my state on the pain--it was searing--and the drugs--they altered me. The length of my recovery and the well-documented pain that I would be in during that time provided an additional crutch for my tears...you'd cry too if you were in this much pain! You'd cry too if you had to take these medications! You'd cry too if you wanted to get off the medications and were dealing with withdrawals! You'd cry too if you had to go to rehab and be unable to even move your arm to your side! (You'd cry too if you weren't really sure why you were crying.)
- - - -
And then Smoosh died. And the hours that followed: the screaming, the weeping, the frantic calls to my mother, the call to my sister where I just sat wailing into the phone, the call to my other sister, who brought out drugs, sweet drugs, and tried to hold my hand that I needed to keep twisting the fabric of my pants with in order to keep breathing and who had to sit with me on the floor as I told her the awful, gruesome details that I will not repeat ever again, to anyone, but for some reason needed to keep telling her, over and over, even though I knew each time I said them that it was causing her physical pain, and finally, the the last recollection of that day, her saying to HRH, "This hopefully will knock her out," as I swallowed another pill and prayed for the dark.
I stayed in bed for days. I don't remember them, but I know I did. I remember going in the bathroom, looking in the mirror, thinking to myself, "I need to brush my hair," and then saying aloud to the image looking back at me, "Fuck off." And I went back to bed.
- - - -
And finally, two weeks ago, I took Jessie back to the vet. She won't quit pacing. Her breathing is rapid. She is in a state of nearly constant panic. I wanted medication to calm her. I wanted stronger pain medications to ease her.
I couldn't stop weeping.
"I think you've really got to consider helping her out soon," she said as softly as possible, her hand on my shaking leg. "I know, it must seem unbearable right now, but I know how much you love her and that you want to do the right thing by her."
"It's too much," I sobbed into the phone to my mom. "It's too much."
- - - -
And so I went home that night, and I rolled a medication bottle in my hand. And I debated with myself over and over and over again. And I put it back in the drawer where I had stored it, and picked it up again a few times.
And ultimately, I opened it up and I swallowed a pill. And I smiled a bit when I thought to myself, "Tom Cruise would so not approve."
- - - -
And so that brings us back to tonight and a scream disguised as a whisper, one daughter rambling of her bygone days as a 'wittle girl, another daughter five feet tall, a husband on edge, afraid to give a simple answer of, "yes," and a woman absorbing that confirmation, not by getting up from the table and going into the bathroom to weep, but instead by smiling a wistful smile and thinking, "I can do this."
- - - -
Big A is five feet tall.
I miss my grandfather.
Big A is five feet tall.
I miss Smoosh and everything about her and I wish I could erase the memory of her last minute on this earth, but I can't.
Big A is five feet tall.
I don't want to let go of Jessie.
Big A is five feet tall.
I need to show her how to stand as such, and I cannot do that from my knees.
Big A is five feet tall.
But I am taller. For now. And I'll be damned if she thinks that just because she's going to be taller than me someday that she will ever beat me at a game of hoops.
- - - -
Game on, 2009, you miserable bitch of a year. I'm gonna go barn-style, old-school: no blood, no foul; no clock; first one to "mercy" loses. Let's just see which one of us is standing on January 1st of next year--if I were you, I'd put my money on the chick with the white high-top Puma's who has a kid that's five feet tall.
Little A: Yep. I weally tall ta-day. Wike so tall. Hey, Ma, 'member when I was a wittle girl and I went outside and I picked up 'da 'fing and 'den 'dere was a bird and I want ta go see Smoosh in Doggy Heaven, Ma, 'cause I miss her so much and you sayed 'dat she was 'dere and 'den I had-ed a dream and she was 'dere! And 'dere was so many dogs 'dere! And 'dey was so happy, Ma. Yep. 'Dey all had wings and Smoosh is gonna fly down from Heaven and see us. Yep. I tall ta-day Ma.
Big A: (Staring, appalled at the complete lack of structure and point in the above mentioned update) Well, I'm five feet tall.
Jesus Christ, what was that? No, what the hell was that? I recovered quickly from the sound of something moving within and looked to HRH for confirmation. "Is she really that tall"? He was cautious with his answer--he's smart--he knows any answer could be the wrong one. "Yes," spoken softly, gently; a scream whispered.
- - - -
I don't think that I wrote about my panic attack? How I calmly said I was going to drive myself to the ER, for I was certain I was having a heart attack and about to die and my feet and hands kept turning pure white and aching and I was sure that it was because my blood wasn't flowing properly and I kept telling myself that nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong, but my heart kept racing anyways and I could.not.breathe. and since I was able to tell myself that I knew I could physically breathe but still couldn't breathe, then I was probably in the throes of death and I should just get to the ER and hope I arrived in time for them to save me and I did and as I sat unable to stop wringing my hands and tapping my chest the doctor told me that no I wasn't dying that day and no I didn't have any auto-immune disease that was causing my feet and hands to do what they were doing and what I was suffering from was not a heart attack, but an anxiety attack and this is what sometimes happens to people who are under stress--are you under stress--are you depressed--have you had any life-altering changes lately--and a bitter laugh escaped with my tears and you should see your family physician and take these Xanax and you should try to sleep? No, I didn't mention that?
- - - -
That's probably because I'm ashamed of it, I think. Ashamed that I have this beautiful life and yet I cannot quit crying a lot of the time.
I remember the day that it started; it was cold and wintry and the sun was very bright and I was sitting on a bed, trying to weep quietly so as not to disturb anyone outside the door, but my niece came in anyway and soon HRH was up there, inquiring.
And for the first time ever, I was enraged with his concern, (my grandfather is fucking dead! can i not sit here and cry if i fucking want to! do i have to explain every detail of my goddamn life to everyone! can i not just have a few moments of peace where i can cry and not answer to anyone!) but I didn't say so. Instead I mumbled something and I buried it within me, and at times now I think that on that day, at that moment, I planted a seed and a monster has grown from it.
I had to keep myself in check, for Big A's eyes were upon me--if I acted as I wanted to, it would scare her. It would make her weep harder. It would make her ask questions that I couldn't answer.
And so we drove to the church that day, and I wept silently in the front seat as she and HRH chatted and I sat in the pew and dug my nails deeply within me and bit my lips and pushed away the hand that was trying to hold mine because I was afraid of what would happen to me if I held it instead.
About a month later, one day I was checking my email and realized that, no, there would be no more messages from him; I hadn't even really been aware that I was still looking for them. I tried, I really, really tried to stay focused on the good, on all I had, on the memories--but at the end of the day--actually, the beginnings of the days, for that is the only time I could cry, protected by the sound of the shower and the fan and the closed door--the loss was a truth I didn't know how to face: I'd never lost someone that I had loved so much. I didn't know how to explain that I was sadder now than I had been then, and so I explained nothing.
It was a few weeks later that I got hurt and it took almost six weeks before I could have surgery, so in that time, I could blame my state on the pain--it was searing--and the drugs--they altered me. The length of my recovery and the well-documented pain that I would be in during that time provided an additional crutch for my tears...you'd cry too if you were in this much pain! You'd cry too if you had to take these medications! You'd cry too if you wanted to get off the medications and were dealing with withdrawals! You'd cry too if you had to go to rehab and be unable to even move your arm to your side! (You'd cry too if you weren't really sure why you were crying.)
- - - -
And then Smoosh died. And the hours that followed: the screaming, the weeping, the frantic calls to my mother, the call to my sister where I just sat wailing into the phone, the call to my other sister, who brought out drugs, sweet drugs, and tried to hold my hand that I needed to keep twisting the fabric of my pants with in order to keep breathing and who had to sit with me on the floor as I told her the awful, gruesome details that I will not repeat ever again, to anyone, but for some reason needed to keep telling her, over and over, even though I knew each time I said them that it was causing her physical pain, and finally, the the last recollection of that day, her saying to HRH, "This hopefully will knock her out," as I swallowed another pill and prayed for the dark.
I stayed in bed for days. I don't remember them, but I know I did. I remember going in the bathroom, looking in the mirror, thinking to myself, "I need to brush my hair," and then saying aloud to the image looking back at me, "Fuck off." And I went back to bed.
- - - -
And finally, two weeks ago, I took Jessie back to the vet. She won't quit pacing. Her breathing is rapid. She is in a state of nearly constant panic. I wanted medication to calm her. I wanted stronger pain medications to ease her.
I couldn't stop weeping.
"I think you've really got to consider helping her out soon," she said as softly as possible, her hand on my shaking leg. "I know, it must seem unbearable right now, but I know how much you love her and that you want to do the right thing by her."
"It's too much," I sobbed into the phone to my mom. "It's too much."
- - - -
And so I went home that night, and I rolled a medication bottle in my hand. And I debated with myself over and over and over again. And I put it back in the drawer where I had stored it, and picked it up again a few times.
And ultimately, I opened it up and I swallowed a pill. And I smiled a bit when I thought to myself, "Tom Cruise would so not approve."
- - - -
And so that brings us back to tonight and a scream disguised as a whisper, one daughter rambling of her bygone days as a 'wittle girl, another daughter five feet tall, a husband on edge, afraid to give a simple answer of, "yes," and a woman absorbing that confirmation, not by getting up from the table and going into the bathroom to weep, but instead by smiling a wistful smile and thinking, "I can do this."
- - - -
Big A is five feet tall.
I miss my grandfather.
Big A is five feet tall.
I miss Smoosh and everything about her and I wish I could erase the memory of her last minute on this earth, but I can't.
Big A is five feet tall.
I don't want to let go of Jessie.
Big A is five feet tall.
I need to show her how to stand as such, and I cannot do that from my knees.
Big A is five feet tall.
But I am taller. For now. And I'll be damned if she thinks that just because she's going to be taller than me someday that she will ever beat me at a game of hoops.
- - - -
Game on, 2009, you miserable bitch of a year. I'm gonna go barn-style, old-school: no blood, no foul; no clock; first one to "mercy" loses. Let's just see which one of us is standing on January 1st of next year--if I were you, I'd put my money on the chick with the white high-top Puma's who has a kid that's five feet tall.
12 August 2009
Signs, Hope, Angels-Not Always What We Think
All around us, I know that they are; I just forget that sometimes, especially lately.
Remember him? It's OK, I wouldn't blame you if you'd forgotten--he'd crossed my mind now and then, but as of late, mostly then. I happened to check an old email account yesterday when I came across this message that had been sent to me two days ago:
Remember him? It's OK, I wouldn't blame you if you'd forgotten--he'd crossed my mind now and then, but as of late, mostly then. I happened to check an old email account yesterday when I came across this message that had been sent to me two days ago:
On Sat, Aug 8, 2009 at 9:37 AM, wrote:
Hi Jenn,
I am sorry if I am wrong but I think you were they Good Samaritan that picked me off of US 127 heading south sometimes around June 2008.
I was going to the court in Ithaca and my engine blew up. I was driving a navy blue Audi Quattro car. You stopped and not only did you take me to Ithaca but you went inside the court house with me to testify as to the fact that my engine did blow up. This was something I will live to remember!!!!
I was going through my files this morning and I saw a complementary card which I guess was the same one you gave me at the court house when you were leaving. If you were not the person I am thinking you are, I am sorry to have bothered you.
I wish you a nice weekend.
Hi Jenn,
I am so glad we were able to reconnect after such a long time. You know people talk about Angels as if they are invisible entities. You were my Angel that day and the fact you went inside the court house with me was like a miracle. I strongly believe in what goes round comes round. There is nothing I can do for you that can repay your good did. No money, which unfortunately I don’t even have (lol) would be enough to show my appreciation. Everywhere you go, I wish you compassion and favor in multiple folds of the one you showed toward me.
I read Physics at both undergraduate and graduate but presently taking graduate classes in Computer Science to have another graduate degree in Computer Science. I also work as an IT person with the District Library. If you ever need my assistance in any way or form, please do not hesitate to let me know.
I also hope we’ll keep the line of communication opened.
Signs, angels, hope--all around--turns out maybe I wasn't the savior that day.
02 August 2009
Gone.
Yesterday, she was here. Today, no matter how many times I've begged it not to be so, she is gone.
I know, of course, that when you get to the age 0f 16 and you are classified as a dog, each moment is a gift. It's just that while I knew that the time left was small, I assumed that the goodbye would be on my terms; when I was ready, when I was able to know absolutely in my heart that letting go was the only honorable option left.
This was not meant to be.
If I told you her story before yesterday, before that moment, I would tell it to you laughing, as would anyone who knew her. She always looked like she was smiling, her tail was always wagging, she was still certain that she could field her duck that she caught mid-air each time it was thrown, and for the most part, she did. She still wrestled with the pups like she was one of them and she still lolly-gagged with Jessie like the true companion that she was.
After dinner, I walked outside to give her and Jessie their medicine. She was on her bed in the garage. I petted her head, rubbed her ear and said, "Oh, Smoosh". I gave Jessie her medicines and sang, "Jessie is a beauty queen" while I waited for her to swallow. Then I went back into the house to get Little A's P.J.'s on and stand at the window and wave goodbye to Gram and Gramps.
Three, maybe five minutes passed. I heard a yelp--the sound that Smoosh makes when the pups have caught her and she is telling them to back off. I started to the door with a smile on my face, until I heard my mother-in-law scream. I dropped Little A and ran down the stairs as she was running in, "Don't go out there." "No! No!" I screamed as I hit her arm and pushed her out of my way, stumbling out into the place where I saw Smoosh lying by their tire.
HRH grabbed me and said, "No", but I pushed him and dove to the ground and finally crawled to the spot where she laid, her last reflexes leaving her body. "DO SOMETHING!" I screamed at him, "Please! Please! No, Please do something!" I took her broken body and tried to put it back together with my hands, thinking, of course, that somehow, this would mend her.
I don't know how long I laid there, sobbing on top of her, begging God, damning God, saying no, saying please. Later I was told that our neighbors had come running over; they had heard my screams, but I don't remember that happening.
HRH went to get a blanket and carried her into the garage as I stumbled behind them. Little A went with her grandparents and I began to search for the things that needed to be with her when she finally was placed to rest.
I found her pink afghan my mother had knitted her, easily located her yellow, tattered duck-it was right under her bed-and found some pictures of the three dogs together. HRH and I went outside to find a spot to bury her; he carried my unwilling body to a couple of different spots, but we both knew where she belonged. In the circular part of our drive, each day when we arrived home, there she would be, laying under the trees in the grass.
The world began to weep and HRH dug her grave in the rain as I whispered my final goodbye to her. I wrapped her in her afghan and my blue Michigan blanket, with her duck tucked between her chin and chest. Jessie nuzzled her, one last time, then slowly made her way to the furthest part of the garage. I kissed her one last time and covered up her sweet face as HRH and I laid, sobbing, over her; neither of us able to comfort the other.
He carefully lifted her up and carried her to her grave. On our knees, we placed handfuls of dirt above her, shards of myself ripping from me and falling to the spot where she laid, then we buried her there. Rather, HRH buried her there as I sat on my knees and sobbed.
I want to tell you something happy about her. I want to tell you something to make you smile. I want to tell you that everyone she met said she was the happiest and sweetest dog they'd ever seen. I want you to know that she was always smiling, and I need to remind myself of this to get through the days that lie ahead.
God Speed, Smoosh. I will love you until the day that I see you again.
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Although these writings are created by a lowly servant, they still belong to me.
Please, don't take them,
or it's off with your head.
Jenn's Profile
Although these writings are created by a lowly servant, they still belong to me.
Please, don't take them,
or it's off with your head.
Two Years: The Dime StoryThree
Four
Ten
Eleven
Impostor
Signs: Corner of Mt. Hope
HRH: The Lowdown
Fathers: The Truth
*And Then, The World Changed Me*
What I'd Give Her
Tribute: Of America & Heroes
R: The Final Post
Daddy
Dear Santa
Lines
Correspondence
In Memoriam
The God Factor
Super. Human.
Postcard From the Edge
Help Wanted
There's A Girl
Conversations With Girl
Goodbye Girl
Farkin FunnyPost Secret
Ashley's Closet
Bgrateful
Breed 'Em And Weep
Crib Chronicles
Crow's Nest
Don't Take the Repeats
Fluttercrafts
In the Trenches
Loralee's
Mrs. Chicken
Lawyer Mama
Mama Goose
Motherhood Uncensored
Oh, the Joys
One Plus Two
Painted Maypole
Petroville
Redsy
Single Mom Seeking
Slouching Mom
Spinning Yellow
Suburban Bliss
Suburban Turmoil
The Notorious BHJ
T With Honey
The Mother Load
The Redneck Mommy
The Wink
Watch Me
Where's My Cape
Cost of the War in Iraq
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