In the mood to have a cry

Thanksgiving was the Old Woman's favorite holiday.  Before they changed the date, it would sometimes fall on her birthday, which was a double bonus.  More than Christmas, not being the religious type, she wanted her family around for the feast and opportunity to spend time together.

She always made quite a feast.  I'm always amazed when I see other peoples' tables and there is MAYBE one green vegetable and 3-4 starches (potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, rice?).  The Old Woman's table was a study in the bounty of the garden.  We often had 5-6 vegetables plus a veggie tray.

Always, on her table would be two small, very old turkey candles.  Many years before, when her #3 son was just a tiny child, they were shopping for thanksgiving foods and he picked the two little candles up and asked if they could buy them.  They cost $0.15 for the pair, but being farmers, that was too much to spend on something they couldn't eat.  She had to explain to her little boy that they couldn't afford to buy them.  He fished around in his pockets, and came up with 15 cents that he'd saved from finding pennies and other dropped coins, and said that he could buy them for her.  The sweetness of his generosity and not understanding their poverty meant that the turkeys became a cherished part of the family celebrations.

Another way she made holidays festive was her special cut glass collection of drinking glasses.  They were acquired, one at a time, with green stamps and grocery store promotions.  No two were alike and the were all vibrant colors and featured various designs.  Most of us had a favorite we would claim, holiday after holiday.  Mine was a deep purple glass, which I recently "rescued" from the Old Folks' home after the Old Man moved west.

A few years ago, the Old Woman insisted that I stop coming home for thanksgiving because she feared that I would be utterly lost once she was gone if I never had the chance to make my own traditions first.

Now, my tradition is largely to stay at home, make a non-traditional meal, and cry over losing her.  I'm pretty sure she'd disapprove.

But, to not bring you down too, here's a picture of rosemary gougeres I made to nibble on.  This year, I'm doing a beef tenderloin roast with coffee chile rub, twice baked potatoes, spinach sauteed with shallots and garlic, parker house rolls, and a pumpkin pie.

Well, that is one bit of tradition from the Old Woman; getting up early and making a pie first thing.

It changes you

25 years ago, I made a new friend at work.  Her mother died shortly after we met.  She grieved for her mother for a very long time.  At the time her mother died, she had one young daughter and 2-3 older children (I can't remember exactly how many kids she has, as I've not met them all).  She told me, years later, that one of the reasons she "spoiled" her younger child was because she felt she'd emotionally cheated the child because of her grieving.  She said she felt like she spent about 10 years of her life being a zombie.  She was going through the motions, but was emotionally disconnected.

Not long ago, one of my co-workers experienced what could only be described as a "freak out."  During her "freak out" she said LOTS of things (rapid fire, bouncing from subject to subject, sort of random) some of which wasn't true, some was exaggeration, some total nonsense, but some probably grounded somewhere in the truth.  The theme seemed to be that I am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad "person."

Even though I could easily dismiss all of what she spouted as the product of a perfect storm of several very bad days, a couple of major screw ups, and personal issues, one can't completely forget such an attack.

Which has me thinking . . . I've found myself without friends lately.  Not the real friends .  .  . they still seem to think I'm worth knowing . . . but the more social/superficial friends seem to have decided to spend their energies else where.  And, frankly, I've not really been in the mood to go out of my way to be extra nice to anyone.

And then I started to wonder . . . has my grieving over the last three years (and the multiple hits of emotional firebombs) turned me into something of an emotionally distant zombie?  I suspect the answer is yes.  I'm not sure I actually want to do anything about it.  Although it was nice to have a lunch crowd, it was expensive. The feeling of belonging was cozy, but obviously temporary and fleeting.

Grieving changes you. I think I'm less willing to put up with BS and I have a shorter temper.  And, I should probably not take things so personally.  But, I think I'll concentrate on being grateful for the real, deep friends I still have.  At the end of your life, they are the ones that matter any way.

Foggy

There are losses you never actually stop grieving. I understand, deeply, when women express the difficulty of mourning their mothers.  I have a friend who has been at her dying mother's side this week.  We've not heard from her in a couple of days, so we suspect her mother has passed on.  She's pretty intensely private, so one has to read the signs with her.

Two years ago, when my dear friend died, it put me in a daze that lasted several weeks. More or less, I have no recollection of anything that happened between his death in August and the first of October.  Why the first of October?  Because today is the two year anniversary of the death of a good friend's mother.  Her mother had been very ill, the night before my friend had to sign papers for her mother to have surgery.  The situation was dire . . . she would die in a matter of hours without the surgery and might not live with the surgery.  Her mother lived through the night, and my friend awoke, on her birthday, to believe her mother would recover.  Only, a few hours later, her mother died.

Realizing my friend needed support jogged me out of my fog.  And, today, on that anniversary, when others are leaving sweet and joyous notes on her social media, I'm the one asking if she's got a plan to make it through the day . . . because I understand what it's like to be robbed of ever seeing one's birthday as a holiday and pure celebration.

Being grown up really does suck sometimes.

Pondering

A milestone date is coming up.  It is the birthday of the friend who died about a year and a half ago.  I was lucky to be able to spend his last birthday with him, but that also makes all subsequent birthdays more emotional for me.

This evening, I was contacted by one of his relatives.  She apologized because she only learned of his death several months after the fact and feels guilty that she wasn't able to "be there" for his family/loved ones.  She's asked for more information about his death.

This is a person I've known for many years, and most of them, I had most unpleasant opinions of her.  (She's not a terribly nice person, but she's had her own miseries in life.)  She's recently tried to be pleasant to me, which on one hand is nice but on the other tweaks my natural paranoia.  

So, do I fill her in on my friend's death?  Do I decide that she knows enough?  Do I dredge it all up, right when I'm already being mopey about it?  Do I take the opportunity to receive comfort when I need it?  

Sigh.

It doesn't get easier

I had already started the mental countdown to the anniversary of my friend's death.  The one year mark since he called me so he wouldn't be all alone in his decision.  The days of frantic phone calls and bargaining and begging.  The final, terrible, phone call.  Another call, a few days later from his father, in tears, wanted to know what to do next.  The box that arrived with his cook books and his art.  The endless days when not starting the day chatting with him reminded me of what is lost.

And, to make someone else's pain all about me, the suicide of Robin Williams is making it a whole lot harder for me to keep these tears in check.  The talk about suicide.  The updates from friends and the media.  The others who are making another's pain their moment to make the 24-hour news cycle.

The fact is, suicide is the last option.  My friend tried everything.  He lived on borrowed time for years, knowing the pain his suicide would cause.  He wanted the pieces to fall into place so that he could banish the idea of death.  He was in agonizing pain.  He had been for most of his life.  And, every day I hope, as hard as one can hope for such, that he isn't anymore.

Conflated

I have the irrational tendency to blend painful events together, especially when they happen within a similar time frame.  I think it gives me something tangible to be angry/sad/frustrated over when I feel helpless about life.

For example, several years ago, a person I thought of as a dear friend proved herself, in terrific fashion, to be anything but a friend.  She revealed herself not just to be not at all the person I believed her to be, but also she was vicious and horrible.  Shortly after this event, the Old Woman got sick and started her spiral towards her last days.  It was easier to be even MORE angry with my ex-friend than to shake my fists at the skies because one of the people I love most in the world was suffering.

Now that I have, pretty much, fully recovered from my bizarro medical issue, I find that not only do I have some delayed trauma reactions, but I've also tied, in my mind, some of the pain to the loss of my dear friend who committed suicide about a year ago.

In the last six months, I've experienced:

5 emergency room visits
2 ambulance transfers to another hospital
3 surgeries
3 CTs
3 radiology guided procedures
2 blood transfusions
10 staples
6 weeks of home health care
7 weeks with a wound-vac
4 hospital admissions totaling 18 days
and more needles, blood draws, IVs than I can count.

And, as I start to think about just exactly how serious my condition was, I find myself thinking more and more about how much I miss my friend.  Allowing myself to be sad over his death seems to be protecting me from being too freaked out about thinking about my whole abdomen being opened up.

Damn I miss my friend.

In memory

Several years ago, when the Bestie and I first came to NOLA together, we decided to get tattoos.  At the time, we were a tad drunk and it was the middle of the night.  I couldn't find a design I liked in their catalog and she wanted custom work they wouldn't do on the fly.

Fast forward, and we still wanted tattoos on this trip.  Only, this time, I'd asked my dear friend to design something for me.  Sadly, my friend died last year before fulfilling this promise.  I went through pages and pages and pages of his art work, looking for something usable.  Then, I found a piece of a larger design that had some "it came from beyond" attachments to it.  But, the tattoo place we'd picked out said they could only do the design HUGE . . . like wrapped around my arm.

I was ready to forgo the tat, until I found a doodle in a letter he sent me about a year before he died.  (Yeah, we still wrote old fashioned letters to each other, we're cool like that.)

Here is my new tattoo:

(Notice the really excellent shave job on my arm?  Totally human like.)

Right now, it's in "recovery" but it will soon just be a part of me . . . like my friend.

Strange turn of events

Or, how I know I'm a grown up.

When I was a young monkey, I attended the local public school like any human child would.  And, as any human child did, I experienced some level of teasing and/or meanness from some of the other students.

One of the more perplexing incidents was a pretty mean rumor that was spread about me.  It was one of those rumors that had the right blend of sex and scandal and person you wouldn't expect getting caught that the student body seemed to really take hold of it . . . for about two weeks until squirrels distracted them or something.

Being young, I was distraught.  (Especially because no part of the rumor was true.  And, being young, I assumed this would forever color my life.  Whew.)  I consulted my friends to find out who started the rumor.  During lunch, one day, a friend pointed out the "source" of the rumor to me.  It was a girl I didn't know, didn't have any classes with, and had no idea how on earth she would think to know anything about what I did away from school.

Knowing the rumor came from a near stranger helped me realize how silly it was to fret about it.  But, I've always had a level of dislike or distrust of this person.

Fast forward to the present day.  In the hoopla of facebook, many of the people who attend my school, especially my graduating classmates, rushed to friend everyone else who attended our school or was in my class.  Thus, I find my self "facebook friends" with this rumor-starter.  I'm pretty sure she has no recollection of being the source of two weeks of angst in my young life.

She recently experienced the death of her mother.  Her grief is overwhelming.  And, I find myself offering her messages of comfort (like going out of my way to send her private messages) and sympathy.  I'm not quite sure why I'm drawn to her grieving . . . except that perhaps it hits close to home.

Still, I wonder if she remembers the days when she was number one enemy?  Strange, this growing up.  Some grudges you can let go . . . others we wear like armor.

All Done

but the drinking.

All the cakes are made.  The bourbon balls rolled.  All gifts have been ordered and shipped.  All I have to do is sit back and drink myself deeper into or out of this funk.

The mood from Thanksgiving is lingering in various levels.  ESK is feeling it too for her own reasons.  I suspect this will continue for a while yet . . . even beyond the holidays.

I'm delightful, damnit.

battle armor

We're going to a party tonight.  I've never really been very good at the party thing.  Truth be told, I'm pretty happy staying home.  But, it's the holiday season and we're expected.

I've not been out "socially" since my friend's death.  Plus, there's been more bad news within my inner circle.  So, I'm feeling a bit like I don't much want to answer a bunch of questions.

So, I have battle armor on.  A kicky outfit that is somewhat out of character for me.  And LOTS of SHINY jewelry.  Humans are easily distracted by shiny things.  Hopefully, this will keep the conversation superficial.

Hopefully.

Waking up

I wrote earlier about my weird inability to judge time.  (and portion . . . but that's a bonus for all the hungry humans in my life.)

Another side effect of the grieving I've been doing is that I either have not been paying attention to anything or anyone around me for a few months now . . . or someone (cough, cough ESK) is gaslighting me.

Earlier this week, we were talking about the annual "Parade of Homes" and Christmas Show that is a fundraiser in our community.  ESK and other members of the SMLF will set up a table and sell handicrafts.  For the past several years, one of the visitors has been a couple who we all know, superficially.  They are a curious couple . . . and tend to over share.  Like, the year the wife demonstrated her many hiding places for tucking a gun on her person . . . and then invited ESK to feel how warm the gun that came from her thigh holster was from her body heat.  And, that was the mildest of the options.

In the conversation this week, I mused about what other sorts of over-sharing might happen this year, when ESK commented that the Christmas Show wouldn't be the same without the pistol-packin' mama.  I asked why she wouldn't be there, and how did ESK know this already?

And, ESK informed me that she'd died.  Just a few weeks after my friend's death.  AND I HAD NO RECOGNITION OR RECALL of this fact.  ESK swears that she told me when it happened.

Phenom, bless his heart, says she's gaslighting me.  One of the quirks of our relationship is that we rush to inform each other of deaths.  Major celebrities . . . friends . . . relatives of people we knew 20 years ago.  Phenom says that surely, if ESK had told me of Over-Share's death, I would have shared that info. at home.

Still, it's a tad weird to wonder what else I might have totally missed out on this fall.

And time stood still

I've always had difficulty with estimating time.  I think, sometimes, it is related to my total inability to judge portion.  But, it probably has to do with long term effects with lab-induced trauma.

When I was a young monkey, I could give you dates of significant events.  But, if you asked me how much time elapsed between the dates, I couldn't tell 2 months from 6 months.  Even if I'd just rattled off the dates to you.

This condition exists today.  And, even though I know, intellectually, that I'm in error, I don't much care to fix it.

See, if you ask me about my recent bereavement . . . I will say "in the last year, I've lost two of the most significant relationships in my life."  Only, the Old Woman died over a year ago.  And, my dearest friend and buddy died in August.  They died within the same year of each other . . . but I think for a while yet, it will be within the last year in my own mind.

As this family oriented holiday approaches . . . I spend more time wishing I believed in heaven . . . because then I could imagine the Old Woman and my buddy together.  Then, I remember I don't believe in heaven.  And it sucks.

A Tradition of Non-Tradition

Thanksgiving was the Old Woman's favorite holiday.  The heavy work on the farm was usually complete.  And, sometimes Thanksgiving fell on her birthday.  (This year, it falls the day after what would have been her 92nd.)  But, she also really liked that there were no gifts to fuss and worry over . . . just food.  And, being on a farm, food wasn't a problem.

Quite a few years ago, the Old Woman insisted that I stop coming home for Thanksgiving.  Her logic was that I needed to create my own traditions . . . so that after she died, I wouldn't find myself utterly lost on the holiday.  It makes sense, right?  And, in the years leading up to her death, it was easy to see which of our friends and colleagues were hanging about for the holiday, and have a party.

Last year was the first year after her death.  I have no memory of what we did for the holiday.  Honestly.  I imagine I could look backwards in this blog or ask around . . . but right now, thinking about it, it's as if it didn't happen.

I've already started getting weepy about this year.  It didn't help that I watched part of a program on public television about thanksgiving traditions and damn! every single person referenced their grandmother in discussing their recipe or traditions.

So, I'm going for as non-traditional as I can get this year.  My menu:

Mexican Deviled Eggs (with jalapeno and avocado)
Grilled Tamarind Chicken Tacos
Homemade Refried Beans
Rice
Guacamole
Pumpkin Pie
Margaritas

We've invited a friend.  He has family in NYC, but doesn't know if he's traveling or not.  I'll get up early to make the pie. . . and that's where the tradition will end.  I may spend part of the afternoon rolling bourbon balls.

And, I suspect that this time next year, I won't remember this holiday either.  We can hope.

Little Reminders

Earlier this week, I was on the phone with the frickin' phone company and typing away on a report on my computer when I looked up and saw a piece of notebook paper sticking out from a binder on my desk.  Since we don't actually use notebook paper in my office, I pulled it out to see what it was.  It was a letter from my friend who died in August.  The short note had accompanied the drawing of Ganesh he'd made me for a gift.  It is still sitting on top of my desk and I have read over it quite a few times this week.

Then, last night I had one of those experiences that could either be totally flaky or deeply meaningful.

During shavasana, while clearing my mind, I had a vision of a lotus flower.  At the time I thought it was cool that I had been able to clear my mind of the work week stresses.

Later, after dinner, I picked up a cookbook to look up a recipe for a friend.  One of the cookbooks I received after my friend's death was a, now out of print, book on southeast Asian cooking.  This was his go-to book most of the time, and we'd talked about it several times while swapping food stories.  There are several tabbed pages, bookmarks, and notes written on his favorite recipes.  As I thumbed through, one of his drawings flitted out . . . and smack in the middle of the drawing was a lotus flower.

Several months before his death, he'd promised to design a tattoo for me.  He never managed to design something that he liked, although he'd made a few attempts.  After his death, when his father sent me a box of his old self-published magazines and art, I looked through them hoping to find a small design I could turn into a tattoo, but didn't.  Now, I have my tattoo design from him.

Now, I just need to make plans to hook up with my oldest/dearest pal so we can get tats together.

Sad Songs

It started about a year and a half ago, when one of my dearest friends died of a sudden heart attack.  At his memorial gathering, we sang this hymn, one of his favorites.  It is also one of my favorite songs, and so now I will always, and forever, think of him when I hear it.



Then, a year ago last week, the Old Woman died.  The end of her life was anticipated, and for her something of a release from a condition she would have, if in her right mind, viewed as something worse than dying.  She wasn't much into music, but as her illness progressed, this song would turn me into a sobbing, weeping mess.



And, as if I weren't enough of a mess last week, the anniversary of the Old Woman's death was followed with the one month mark since my beloved friend's suicide.  Pretty much, last week, I was a mess.  Hell, I'm still a mess.  My friend introduced me to lots of music, specifically, the Pogues.  This is the song I, and his brother, thought of as an appropriate send off for him.



Last night, I talked with a college friend.  Her mother is dying.  She's scared.  She doesn't think she can do "this" (life) without her mother.  I hate that there is nothing I can do that will truly lessen the hurt she's facing.

The Impossible Question

This weekend, I read about a baby elephant that "cried for hours" after being attacked and rejected by its' mother.  That led to other references to "do animals feel" stories.  Of course we feel.  There is a very thin line between ya'll and us.

I feel like all the grief I'd gotten a handle on since the Old Woman's death has come flooding right back  . . . with some differences . . . but grief is still all consuming.

Intellectually, I understand that suicide is something one person cannot prevent another person from doing if they truly want to kill themselves.  We might delay it.  We might argue against it.  But a person who has come to the place in their lives where life is not worth living is very different from a person who just wants it to change.

Still, I can't help but spend hours and days mulling over in my mind . . . couldn't something have been done, by any of us, to help our friend see out of his fortress of pain?  He was loved, but didn't feel it.  He was respected and admired, but didn't know it.  He assumed he had no impact on our lives, but he's left a big gap that will never be filled back in.  Surely, one of us could have said or done SOMETHING . . . anything. . . to give him reason to believe that he mattered?  While I know that each of us is responsible for our own lives, I also truly believe that we are our fellow animals' keeper.  When you hurt, we should feel it.  When you are tired, we should share the load.  And, when you find peace, we should be glad.

I know the answer.  But I want one that is tidier.  One that results in him not being miserable.  One that gives him back to my life.  I'm selfish.  I know.

Sigh

How humans memorialize their dearly departed varies.  Headstones? Statues? Collections of flowers/crosses/teddy bears left at the scene of a tragic end?  Online memorials?

This morning, I discovered that the facebook page for my friend who died last month has been deleted. There were some wonderful memorials and pictures on his page.  It was nice to look it up and see new comments people who also loved him had left.

There isn't a grave I can visit.  There won't be any statues.  Now, his digital footprint is receding.  And, I understand better why humans want something tangible to associate with those they've lost forever.

Tense

Two weeks, give or take a day. . . that's how long before I could return to my new normal.  I'm going to yoga.  I'm going to work.  I'm cooking again.

But, my mind isn't very far from turning my friend's suicide over and over in my mind.  Some moments, I can understand that my friend had tried everything everyone told him would make his life comfortable, easy, livable.  He exercised.  He ate right.  He stayed away from booze and pills.  He worked on his art.  He tried, hard, to find work.  He kept in touch with loved ones.  And, in the end, nothing brought him joy.  Nothing felt like living.  I get that.  But I don't.  But, did I truly expect him to continue on being miserable because it was easier for me?  Not really.  But.  BUT.

I hung his art up in my home.  I love them.  But, I'd give them up happily if he could have found some peace while living.

What I really struggle with is word tense.  I cannot, just like with the Old Woman, bring myself to refer to him in the past tense.  I know it is the appropriate thing to do . . . and largely, it's selfish on my part . . . I fear I'll start crying if I use the past tense.  But, even while I use the present tense, my mind tells me that the past is appropriate . . . and I have to swallow hard to hold it together.

My new normal.

Funk

I got a box of items that once belong to or were created by my now dead friend in the mail.  The box just kind of sits in my living room.  I'll eventually hang the pictures and put away the books.  But, we're all a bit inert right now.

After several days of "wishing I was anywhere but here" and being constantly on the verge (if not actually in) of tears, I then moved into what can only be called the "physical manifestation of grief."  Pretty much everything hurt.

We have now resumed something that, to the outside, resembles normal functioning.  Most visitors to my office don't see me looking at the drawing of Ganesh that my friend gave me on our most recent shared birthday.  No one catches me checking his face book page, as if there might be something new.  My co-workers don't know that I spend 20 minutes each morning waiting for my friend to sign on to facebook before I remember it isn't going to happen.

Fortunately, I'm not the only one wallowing in the grief.  My friend's father and brother are too.  That makes us family, right?

Comforting

The Old Woman was a peace loving human.  And, she had very definite ideas about right and wrong.  And, oh my goodness could she keep a tirade going.  Most often they were directed at me, and aimed at correcting that in me which she felt needed serious attention.  (To be fair, monkeys are frequently naughty.)  Even after I ventured away from their home, into the world, I would still hear her voice.  I think humans refer to this phenomena as one's "moral compass."

Friends who have never met her, feel as if they know her as well as their own relations because of the stories and nuggets of wisdom I have stored up from her.  I suspect a couple friends hear not only their own mother's voices but also the Old Woman's in their heads.

I mentioned that after she died last year, the Old Man took a picture of her that was probably 40-50 years old of her (interestingly, one taken when she was already a grandmother and not one of her as a young woman) and had multiple copies made of various sizes and had them framed and has them all over the house.   I think my specific observation was that if any thing were to inspire her to haunt him, it would be the 16X24 framed copy of this picture that greets everyone as they come in the front door . . . and the many other copies throughout the house.

On my last visit, the Old Man gave me a 5X7 copy of this picture.  He'd made several copies and was making sure everyone had a copy.  I put mine on the fridge, about eye-level.  It is comforting to have her "present" in my kitchen to go along with her voice in my head/heart.