Heart of Gold

On August 17, 2014, my sweet little grandma passed away. She passed away while I was laying in a bed in Santorini, Greece. I went outside and watched the Aegean Sea. Out of my control, halfway across the world, I could only have tears and nausea. If I was home, I would've gotten there in time to hold her hands (such soft hands), to sing to her, to touch her head, to kiss her, to comfort her. 

I wasn't home, though. So many things out of my control. Quiet on such a big, black sea, just before the sun came up. I could hear the water on the rocks and against the boats below. I felt incredibly small and outside of myself. I fear she died afraid and unnecessarily.

She was a 92 year old German woman and stubborn about getting the help that she needed. One pacemaker, but otherwise, strong for her 4'9" body. She had to have been in so much pain to have called my uncle for help. Physical pain, as well as emotional. I think her spirit broke when she finally called him, and I think she was finally allowed to call for help.

Over the years, she refused nursing homes, assisted living, and home health care because she feared abuse. She always refused to live with any of us because she was afraid to leave what she knew. 

She didn't always weigh 70 pounds, but she did when she died. When my uncle came to her, she was in pain from a fall (which happened days before), and she had been sleeping on the floor for who knows how long. She refused to be carried to my uncle's car. She somehow still walked herself to the car, somehow regaining some pride. When she got to the hospital, a bed sore on her tailbone was found, she couldn't talk much, and her hair was matted down from years of hairspray (Aqua Net - I can always smell the Aqua Net), so they had to cut it. My grandma's wild hair was a trademark. Loved that hair.

You could say she should've called for help sooner. But I don't know if she could've. No doubt, she would've been alive today if she could've and/or would've called sooner. Even at 92, I believe she'd still be alive and thriving minus some unsavory circumstances in her life. Her daughter was living with her, someone capable of calling for help for my grandma. But she didn't. She was allowing my grandma to stay on the floor, allowing the pain. And my grandma was clearly not eating. The food thing had gone on for years with food being withheld, so I'm certain it continued while my grandma was on the floor. I never want to believe someone is this terrible, and I've tried to shake it. But I haven't been able to yet.

And so I'm sad for my grandma and how she passed, an abusive situation after all. 

I couldn't be there for her last breaths and mumbled words. I know that she loved me so much, and so I know I could've helped her where possible by just being there. Sounds full of myself. It can sound that way. But I knew how she cared about her grandkids; I knew how she felt about me. I was able to know that at a young age. So I know it would've comforted her if I was there, and that's all I'm saying.

But there I was, overlooking a dark Aegean Sea with absolutely no power to help her. Like being swallowed. I felt consumed because I could do nothing for her. It taught me things.

She's out of pain now, so there's always that. And that will probably move me through this.

Cut

Nastiness: a symptom of depression. Said some lady in my mom's group therapy class. Or is it just that the depressed person has been passive and hasn't communicated effectively over years of silent treatment? And then the explosion. And then depression is blamed for the cruelty that falls from my mom's lips. I don't believe depression forces someone to be terrible toward other human beings, toward daughters. Crabby or unhappy? Sure. Manipulative and dirty? Absolutely not. The techniques my mom uses when she's having a less-than stellar day are misguided defense mechanisms she's learned over the years. She can change these things. Depression doesn't mean it's impossible to be kind, to be nice. It doesn't give rights to express yourself however it comes out of your mouth. That's absurd. And it's false. Nastiness is a choice. Quote me on that.

Wait It Out

Where do we go from here? 
How do we carry on? 
I can't get beyond the questions. 
Clambering for the scraps 
In the shatter of us collapsed- 
It cuts me with every could-have-been. 

Pain on pain on play, repeating 
With the backup makeshift life in waiting. 

Everybody says time heals everything. 
But what of the wretched hollow? 
The endless in-between? 
Are we just going to wait it out? 

There's nothing to see here now, 
Turning the sign around; 
We're closed to the Earth 'til further notice. 
A stumbling cliche case,
Crumpled and puffy-faced,
Dead in the stare of a thousand miles.

All-out one, only one, street-level miracle. 
I'll be an out-and-out, born-again from none more cynical. 

Everybody says that time heals everything. 
But what of the wretched hollow? 
The endless in-between? 
Are we just going to wait it out? 

And sit here cold? 
We'll be long gone by then. 
And lackluster in dust we lay 
around old magazines,
Fluorescent lighting sets the scene,
For all we could and should be being 
In the one life that we've got. 

Everybody says that time heals everything. 
And what of the wretched hollow? 
The endless in-between? 

Are we just going to wait it out?
And sit here. 
Just going to wait it out? 
Sit here cold.
Just going to sweat it out? 
Wait it out.


-------------------------------------------


Dramatic if I post the lyrics to this song. Yes. But I can't really care whether or not it looks or is that way. The truth is that it is dramatic, and I don't feel like I have much control over it. The song weighs on me. I gave it a thumbs-up on my Pandora a long time ago, and so Pandora does its job by replaying the good ones just for me. 


And how's this for timing, Pandora? 


I was in the kitchen preparing freezer meals, chopping onions or peppers (something that freezes well), just trying to keep my hands moving like everyone else's. It was May 5, and everyone else had lives that kept moving forward. I didn't know why I was surprised. I believed the world would stop for even a minute to take things in with me, to breathe with me. Or to make me feel less alone. People were still waking up, working; they were still breathing, eating. I guessed I could believe it. But I couldn't. And it wasn't like people were still going on - it was that they were doing it so quickly, with super speed. And I couldn't believe that. Just the day before, I had written these things down on a post-it while I functioned at work. And as I chopped and bagged vegetables the very next day, a Saturday, I knew the world wasn't going to stop. So I played the game where I busied my mind and hands, just in case I had to think. 


And Imogen shuffled into my headphones. Wait It Out. But that wasn't all. It accompanied the text message that my mom was being life-flighted for overdosing again. March 24 was the latest date of overdose, and after the ICU, behavioral unit, and discharge, I wanted to move forward. But clearly it was going to take more time. Another attempt so quickly? I wanted to feel red, the burning, that my sisters were spewing, but I didn't feel anything except some kind of fog. I sat on the kitchen floor until Ren found me and picked me up. I remember all of it. I didn't zone out or anything. I simply didn't feel, and that must've included my legs. I tried crying for the sake of crying. But really what I was was tired. And this is the kind of tired that's been going on for 30 years. 


These attempts are not new to me. In fact, they're so natural that I don't feel much when I get the calls. I assume there's something wrong with me when I stop being shocked by my mom's illness and attempts. I make that assumption because of the distress I see on peoples' faces, and I reflect only to find that I don't feel the wreck that they're experiencing. The only explanation is that I'm simply used to this. But as time passes, and the episodes begin to fade, I start digging, and I never find solace with anything the way it is. I don't stay apathetic. Perhaps it's some kind of coping mechanism when I'm in the moment. Whatever it is, it doesn't stay forever. Yet I'm still not as torn-up as I "should" be. That's not to say that I've always been this way. It's just taken 30 years to form my skin.


I don't want to air the family laundry. In fact, my mom would be incredibly embarrassed if she read this. She doesn't use computers because they make her nervous, so I doubt she'll ever see these words. That's ok. I also don't think many people view this, so therein is safety. I post these things to educate people, not to embarrass my mom. That's my intention, anyway. Read this for juicy gossip, but at least make yourself less naive by reading. I don't pretend to be a doctor or a therapist. I have facts and feelings about this particular case; however, I realize that every person is different, every brain is unique. My experience may not relate to everyone who deals with mental illness, but it may resonate to someone. Although I am at a point where I'm on auto-pilot because my feelings have seemed to allude me, that doesn't mean I've never felt. And I fully anticipate feeling more and more each day. I guess at this point, if I had to pick a feeling, I would choose the feeling of fatigue. But I continue on. I'll try to let you know about it as time goes on. 

Run, run, run...

I'll indulge you that you never spoke truer.

I'll helplessly hand it to you.

Because I always dejectedly handed it to you.

My soul, my breath.

Solely because it was right, that's what you said.

...for doing the right thing.

Because that's what I do.

The right for all of the wrong reasons.

And I still wear the sorrow.

Inside and outside of my sleeve.

Scowl all you want, please. Me, too.

Eet

Sometimes dreams are easier to live in. They're so short-lived. And full.

I have to wonder if we'd start getting bored with them because they're now our "real lives."

And it seems my dreams can take whatever direction I really want. Or whatever my subconscious wants. Some would argue that our actual lives can be directed however we really want, too. I disagree. My dreams seem to have much more color and life, passion, feeling. And I don't seem to break a sweat.

Generally, my dreams produce some kind of peace. Then I wake up to start real life. All over again.

Sam's Song

Is this time of year hard on anyone else?? I'm sure. Let's say it's the cold weather. And how it keeps seeping through the cracks of our awesome apartment door. We've got to get that fixed. On a good note, our landlord takes requests like no one's business. A plus. Does it counteract the upstairs neighbors who tromp around? Not really... squeaky floors and giants (yes, they're tall) walking on them. At three in the morning every night/morning. Well, I did go and talk to them, and the girl is pleasant. Someday I'll get this house where it's never cold and the doors are tight. And there will be no upstairs neighbor issue! Did I mention it won't be cold? I mean, it won't be cold outside, either. This time of year makes me want to throw up. And my throat gets all tight. Let's say it's that I'm not getting enough vitamin d because the sun is farther away from where I am. Let's say it's that.

So for Thanksgiving, we're going to a place that has snow. Who's idea was this? I think it was mine. But it was only so that I could see family. And Kristi's husband can go skiing, but I will refuse. The location wasn't booked, and it's a halfway point-ish between us and Kristi. And that was why I had this brilliant idea to spend Thanksgiving there. I'm sure it will be fine-as long as I don't go out much.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Last Time He Saw Dorie

He's in love with tragedy,

In love with tragedy.
She was a wreck, but he loved her.
She was a wreck, but so was he.
And the last time he saw Dorie,

He didn't know what to say
But "Thank you because you loved me. It's all on me
Cause I didn't want to stay, I didn't want to stay..."

Live, live, live,

Live because you love, love, love.
And love will make you give, give, give.
And give in when you break, break, break.
But you just want to fix yourself...
Just to break again...

Copeland