Frustration, So Very Much Frustration

I know it’s weird, but my mom and W are pretty close to the same age. Yes, that’s what marrying someone so much older than yourself brings – a husband and mother in the same peer group. Fun times.

They are both of similar age, and yet one is so much more active than the other. Neither exercises per se. However, one gets up every day to cook and clean and babysit and teach music lessons. The other occasionally does a load of laundry and plays a helluva lotta solitaire on the PC. Guess which one I’d rather have living in my house?

I have just about had it up to here (picture me standing in front of you gesturing with my hand palm down just above my head in the universal “up to here” gesture) with W. Now that he doesn’t drive he has abdicated even more responsibilities than ever before. Now that he can’t drive N to practice or to the library or to a friend’s house or anywhere else, one might be tempted to think he would have more time on his hands so that he might be able to take on a few additional household responsibilities. Not so! As a matter of fact he now must sit around and wait for me to play taxi driver on my off hours to take him where he needs to go. Not that he can’t take the bus. He can. He does. But sometimes that’s just so much less convenient than having your own personal driver who will take you, wait for you, and bring you back all on your own schedule.

It isn’t his health either. Although he had some bad times earlier in the year, an adjustment of meds and some other medical intervention has him back on his feet again, feeling better than he has in a long time.

So what’s his excuse? Well, he does as much as he can he says. He’s very busy he says. Yet N complains that W is always on the ‘puter playing solitaire. TS2 has mentioned how W seems to spend a lot of time playing solitaire on the ‘puter. I’ve noticed W playing lots of solitaire on the ‘puter.



Sigh. . .



The more things change, the more they stay the same.

More Irrational Anger

A third death on top of the first two is just too damned much. This time it is my cousin’s mother-in-law. Now I know that doesn’t sound like a very close relationship to me. However, when we lived in LOH we hung out with my cousin’s family a lot, and his MIL was often around. I got to know her, not terribly well, but well enough to know what a wonderful, caring mother and grandmother she was.

Just a couple of months ago she was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. It was fast moving, painful, and debilitating. Nothing could be done but treat the pain and wait. Wait for her to die. Many friends and family came to see her in her last months. My cousin’s family life was thrown into upheaval. It has been a whirlwind.

There are so many things for which I am angry, some big, some small, some petty as hell. Sometimes I think it is just easier to be angry about the petty things than to face the big things. We focus on petty little shit because it doesn’t feel quite as scary as the big stuff. For instance, I am pissed off that due to her death, my cousin will not be able to make a visit to see me and attend an event with me as planned. It’s easy to be angry about that. It’s easy to focus on poor me, and oh we’ll be missing out on all the fun we would have had. It’s harder to focus on the unfairness of ten adolescents and children losing their grandmother who loved them, who loved to watch them as they are growing into fine young adults. That is just too big for me to wrap my head around.

While we’re talking about petty let’s talk about how I feel one death keeps upstaging the last one, like somehow we need to be done grieving grandmother to grieve father and then finish grieving father so we can grieve with and comfort cousin and his family on their loss. I know intellectually that isn’t how it is, and that there’s room for all the grief to coexist, but somehow emotionally it just feels like in order not to become overwhelmed you just have to drop one to move on to the next. Rational? No, but that is the feeling I have.

Truth be told I just want people I care about to stop dying.

And one last thing to get off my chest for right now. I know there is a certain segment of Christianity that rejoices in the death of a loved one because that loved one is now with Jesus. That’s fine if that’s how they want to deal with it for themselves and their loved ones. However, when sending “condolences” to me don’t tell me that I should be rejoicing now that Dad is with Jesus. I am not rejoicing. I will not rejoice at Dad’s death no matter what spin you put on it. Dad may well be with Jesus now and may be in a better place and may be without pain and sorrows, and that’s great for Dad. That’s great for Jesus because I’m sure He’ll enjoy Dad’s company. And it still means I’m left here without my Daddy. And it hurts. And I grieve. And I don’t rejoice at all that God took Dad home to be with Him. I may find some small comfort in knowing those things, but I surely don’t and won’t rejoice. I’ll surely remember, though, who those people are who have told me to rejoice and rest assured I’ll rejoice, maybe even dance on their graves, when they die and go to be with God.

White Hot Anger

Both Pastor and Freud have now made suggestions to me that I write about my feelings either in a journal or in letters to people that will never be mailed. So here I am. My deepest darkest thoughts always go here in my anonymous blog where they are read only by anonymous internet people. Just because my deepest darkest thoughts no longer have to do with infidelity and indiscretion doesn’t mean they are fit for public consumption in the light of day so they seem to be appropriate here.

Grief. One of the stages of grief (and they aren’t linear you know but more like a spiral) is anger, and oh boy do I have a whole lotta anger going on lately. There are very few with whom I am not angry, and my anger gets pointed in many directions. My writings now and at least for a while are going to be my expressions of all the anger I have so that I can work my way through it. It may get ugly. It may not always make sense. It may seem ridiculous. That’s okay. It’s all just me being me and trying to come out the other side a little saner and hopefully a lot less angry.

At the core of the anger is that I hate not being in control. I am a control freak. I like everything just the way I like it. Death very clearly removes any illusions a person may have about being in control. If I were in control I certainly wouldn’t have allowed Dad to die within two months after my grandmother died. That is just not fair. It is not fair at all that just a few weeks after burying her mother my mom had to bury her husband. Life is not fair, and that just pisses me off. I am angry. I know that there is nothing I can do to change the way things are, and that makes me angry. I am angry at the world. I am angry at God.

I am angry at everybody who expects me to just pick up and move on. I got the three day bereavement leave at work, and then I’m expected to be back at it. That’s it. Suck it up buttercup and get your work done. Well, sorry but it doesn’t work out that easily. I’m distracted. My mind wanders. I have moments of overwhelming sadness. I have moments of clarity and focus, but they are fewer and farther between than they need to be for normal functioning. I’m told by those who know – like Pastor and Freud and by others who have lost a parent – that what I’m going through is normal, that I should be easy on myself and not expect myself to be okay yet. Well, sure, but they aren’t my bosses. They aren’t the people that expect me to just keep on keepin’ on.

I am angry at W because he doesn’t cut me any slack either. All of the little things and big things that annoy me are magnified, and it makes me angry, and he doesn’t get it, and he wants me to cut him some slack because he’s grieving. Sorry buddy, but it’s my dad that just died, not yours. You have got to stop expecting me to do everything just like normal and to react just like normal and take care of things just like normal. When the fuck does it ever get to be my turn to be the mess, to need help, to be taken care of? WHEN?

Anger.

It is so overwhelming right now, the one overriding emotion that is swallowing me whole.

Possibly Thinking Too Much

First, I want to say a big thanks to all of you for your condolence messages, here and elsewhere. Hugs, both physical and virtual, have been mighty helpful to me through all of this. No matter the emotional upheaval that can ensue from romantic entanglements (and you know I’ve had plenty of those) it doesn’t come close to losing a parent.

There have been a number of thoughts that have struck me over the last few weeks since Dad’s death, and I am going to share those in this post. I’m sure I’ll have more thoughts later, but these are the ones that hit early on and stayed with me.

I was surprised and somewhat amused at something I learned from Mom on the drive to the funeral. As we passed a jogger, I said what I always say, “Run! Run for your life!” Mom told me that Dad never passed a jogger without saying, “He/she must be being chased by somebody.” I found it interesting that, even though different, we both had standard sayings for the passing of a jogger.

I come from a long line of oh-don’t-bother-yourself-about-me types, and I have come to the conclusion that we are just a bit too much that way after Mom told me that she woke to find Dad dead in the wee hours of the morning but didn’t call anyone (including myself or FU) except the hospice nurse until after 7:00 a.m. which she figured was a decent hour for making and receiving phone calls. Really Mom? You didn’t want to bother anybody? Really? Actually, I can kind of see her not calling me as I’m a few hours away and not able to get there very soon, but FU is a few minutes away. I know he would have wanted to go over and sit with her as she waited for the hospice nurse and the funeral home personnel (or whoever it is that comes for the body). But no. She took care of it all by herself and then started making calls once it was acceptably late in the morning. (Though really, if it isn’t a serious situation don’t call me at 7:00 a.m., okay? Thanks.)

This whole oh-don’t-bother-yourself-about-me thing is something I have been dealing with in my therapy sessions with Freud for several months now. He said to me at one point (jokingly), “I do believe if you went to the ER gushing blood from a severed artery, and some guy came in with a possibly sprained ankle, you’d tell the ER personnel ‘no, no I’ll be fine, take care of him first.’” I replied (only half joking), “Well, of course, I could just tie a tourniquet around my arm and wait my turn. I don’t want to be pushy.” And now? I haven’t been to therapy since August. I screwed up, and didn’t get appointments scheduled ahead of time, and he got all booked up for September so I don’t go back until mid-October. Now, some might think that the death of a close family member would be reason enough to call one’s therapist to see if one could get squeezed in for a session without having to wait another month, but not me. Nope. Even though I feel like it might do me some good to talk with Freud I just don’t want to be a bother to him or his office staff by asking for special favors EVEN THOUGH he has encouraged me to do just that in the past when I’ve been going through rough patches. Part of me keeps saying “CALL! You need to talk to someone about this.” The other part says, “Well, you’ve waited this long so you might as well wait until your next scheduled appointment.” I will say that I did call my pastor the morning Dad died, and I did go spend two hours with her that day pouring out my emotions so it isn’t as though I haven’t had someone to talk to although I felt really bad about taking up so much of her time.

W and N were both real torn up over Dad’s death. N’s reaction didn’t surprise me much. Under his tough young teen veneer is a very emotional core. I know this. When he told me, “This is too hard. I can’t live through this.” I was actually prepared. I told him that I understand it feels that way, but that we can and will get through it, that we’ll always miss Grandpa but the pain will not always feel as sharp and the only thing we can do is allow ourselves to feel the pain in order to work our way through to the other side. W surprised me by telling me that he felt that my dad was more of a dad to him than his own ever was. He said his dad was rarely around and seldom did they ever talk. It was the first time I ever heard him say anything about his family that was less than glowing. It took me aback just how much W has grieved and continues to grieve the loss of my dad. I have spent a good deal of time trying to help both N and W through their grief, so much so that I sometimes wonder when it will be my turn to grieve and receive comfort from them, or W at least. In one of my less than stellar moments recently I even said to W, “You know. He was my dad. It would be nice if I could be the one that can be all broken up about for a while instead of the one who has to go around comforting everybody else all the time.”

My concentration level is down to near nothing since Dad died. Also, insomnia has become my constant companion which I’m sure doesn’t help the concentration level. When I do manage to get to sleep I dream wild, vivid dreams like the one a few nights ago where I was doing water ballet and having to perform my first solo. Strange.

I have more thoughts than time right now so I’ll stop. For now. More later. Maybe.

Well, Obviously

My dad died recently.

There I said it. Bluntly. Plainly. No easing the pain, no toning down the wording. He is dead. Gone. He was not immortal. He is not coming back.

I will never again see this imposing man. I will never again hear his voice.

When I first found out I was in a bit of shock. W had to remind me that it would be good to call work to let them know I wouldn’t be in that day. It hadn’t at first occurred to me that I wouldn’t go to work that day, the day my mom woke much too early to find my dad had slipped away during the night. Even once W suggested it I sat and pondered for a few minutes whether or not I should go to work that day. Looking back, it seems obvious that I wouldn’t be going to work that day, but in the moment it wasn’t obvious to me at all.

Once I got beyond that paralysis and started to process the words my mom had spoken to me when she called, I cried. I cried and cried and cried. So did W. So did N. We, all three of us, laid on my bed and cried. The thought crossed my mind at that time that we would never stop crying, that it would just go on forever. Looking back, it seems obvious that of course we would eventually stop crying, but in the moment it wasn’t obvious to me at all.

Over the next several days, our lives revolved around handling the practical matters at hand – letting people know we’d be gone and why, packing to head to my mom’s house, driving, buying N a new suit, getting the car fixed (well, sure the car should’ve known this was not the time for a breakdown, but it didn’t and therefore I spent some five hours in a waiting room that smelled like the garage to which it was attached watching inane daytime TV so I could spend several hundred dollars on this lovely little car of mine), gathering photographs to display during visitation, helping mom with anything and everything she needed. Looking back, it seems obvious that we were all numb and not really fully feeling the enormity of my dad’s death, but in the moment it wasn’t obvious to me at all.

On the day of the funeral we arrived at the appointed time. We set about making sure all was set up properly and that Dad looked how he should as he laid peacefully in his casket. We was dressed just as I had seen him every day when he was a teacher – suit and tie. He wore his glasses, just as we all agreed was proper since we was never without them while living. He didn’t have on his toupee which pleased me greatly as it never looked natural and wasn’t how I remembered my daddy. He really only wore it to keep his head warm, and now that didn’t seem to be much of an issue.

During the service, I cried. Not the wailing sobs of days before but silent tears welling in my eyes, spilling over my cheeks as one and another said wonderful things about Dad. I measured everything that went on at the service by what Dad would think of it – the interminably long visitation time prior to the service, the beautiful music selected for the service because they were hymns he loved, the long windedness of one of the speakers, the inclusion of stories of activities that Dad loved. Everything that went on would make me think “What would Dad think of this?” When I could honestly answer that he would have been pleased it pleased me. When I honestly thought he wouldn’t have liked something I couldn’t help but hate it myself. I wanted that service to be perfect, and the way I defined perfect was that it be perfect to Dad if he were there in more than body alone.

After it was all over, a group of extended family went to dinner together at one of Dad’s favorite restaurants. About the only time I see my favorite relatives is when someone dies. That isn’t good. I need to take time and make time to see people who are important to me. That seems pretty obvious to me as I write it and yet on a day to day basis it isn’t obvious to me at all.

Grab the Popcorn, Coke, and Milk Duds. . .

Because I desperately need some mindless fluff in my life I decided to do this week's Sunday Stealing meme.  It's all about movies.  Plenty of mindless fluff there, right?

1. Movie you love with a passion.  Gone With the Wind -- Rhett Butler is one of the most level-headed, street-wisest men I've ever seen.  I idolize him.  I also love Melly.  She is everything I want to be (except sickly; I don't want to be sickly).

2. Movie you vow to never watch.  Friday the Thirteenth, Part anything -- Never seen any of these.  Never will.  Hate horror movies.

3. Movie that literally left you speechless.  Silent Movie

4. Movie you always recommend.  Any movie with Katherine Hepburn in it, but particularly The Philadelphia Story.  If you haven't seen it, please do.  It is wonderful.

5. Actor/actress you always watch, no matter how crappy the movie.  George Clooney.  After all, you can just get lost in his looks, his voice, his charm.  Who cares what the movie is about?

6. Actor/actress you don’t get the appeal for.  Justin Timberlake.  SNL?  LOVE HIM!! Movies? Can barely stand him.  I just don't think it's the right genre for him.

7. Actor/actress, living or dead, you’d love to meet.  I think it'd be creepy to meet a dead person, even if they were an actor/actress so I'll pick someone living.  I would love to meet Tom Hanks.  He seems very genuine to me, and I think we could have an intelligent conversation.

8. Sexiest actor/actress you’ve seen. (Picture required!)  Goodness, I just don't know.  I've always drooled a bit over Josh Duhamel.  Sorry but I can't do the picture thing on the 'puter I'm using right at the moment.  Just Google him.  You'll find plenty.

9. Dream cast.  Me and my theater friends from high school.  Just waiting to get that call. . .

10. Favorite actor pairing.  Tracy and Hepburn.  Classic.

11. Favorite movie setting.  Hard to say.  The setting needs to fit the movie.

12. Favorite decade for movies.  Probably the 1930s or 1940s.  I love the old classics.

13. Chick flick or action movie?  Chick flick.  Well, I am a chick after all.

14. Hero, villain or anti-hero?  What is an anti-hero?  How is it different from a villain?  How can I answer this question without answers to my questions?  Tune in next time to see if I've figured it out.
15. Black and white or color?  Depends on the movie.

Update on the Mission Trip

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. Well, no it wasn’t really either of those things. The trip, like most things in life, had its ups and downs. To make things easy I’ve split my report into two lists the Ups and the Downs. There are plenty of both.

UPS
Freedom! Freedom from motherhood, freedom from W’s health concerns, freedom from worrying about the job situation. Hallelujah for freedom.

I met some of the greatest people in the world. People who work in programs like the ones where we volunteered are people with passion for what they do. They care deeply about those whom they serve. The people who are served by these programs are, for the most part, exceedingly grateful for the assistance they receive. They are people who are not all that different from us (sometimes frighteningly so), but for one reason or another, have made bad choices or just had bad luck.

I learned a lot about homelessness, more than I have time to share here and now, but suffice to say that I do feel like I have a deeper understanding of some of the issues, and they are many and varied, that lead to and perpetuate homelessness.

I made some wonderful new friends and became better acquainted with others.

Twin size air mattresses are pretty darned comfortable, once inflated adequately.

Starbucks just one block away from the church where we stayed!


DOWNS
I don’t caravan well. I get on the road, and I want to just go at my own speed and meet you at the end point. Also, the more you try to force me, the more I will balk. I am a Taurus after all, and Tauruses are known to be mighty stubborn.

While I understand that the behind the scenes administrative tasks are essential I was disappointed at how little time there was for me to have actual interaction with the people we were serving. Perhaps I was assigned tasks based on the knowledge that I’m not the most outgoing of people, and maybe that was interpreted as me desiring to be more behind the scenes. However, that is not the case, and it would have been nice to have been asked rather than it being assumed and would have been nicer if the behind the scenes tasks and the out front tasks could have been more evenly distributed among the participants.

What we, and the organizations with which we volunteered, were doing was like dragging drowning people out of the river. What we as a society need to do is find out how those people ended up in the river in the first place and prevent them from ending up there, which feels like such a huge and daunting task as to be overwhelming.

A bad navigator is worse than no navigator at all.