Category Archives: Loss

The week-ish in review

It’s been a bit of a week.

I’ve been feeling very down. Much of it s work stuff that I can’t talk about here and friend stuff that I also can’t share. I had an online friend threatening suicide for several days and now… nothing. I’ve not seen a post from them in a couple days and I’m terribly worried but I have no way of contacting them so I don’t fucking know anything. I’ve had another friend check herself into the psych ward and I have so much respect and love for her strength and spirit and, well, everything. It was all I could do to visit her a couple of times, but I’m glad I went. And I walked down the sunlit halls of the hospital with a sense of deja-vu, to a different hospital but the same time of year, last year.

It hit me when I heard the steel doors close behind me, after visiting hours were over and I was politely but firmly ushered out.

This week, last year, was when my mom tried to die.

Just. ugh.

It was when I had to tell her to put clothes on and I was taking her to the hospital. She was still in her house coat and nearly out of her head with pain from a horrific allergic reaction to a lotion she’d put on her legs. I told her she had exactly as long as it took me to put my groceries away before she was headed to my parking spot, or I was calling 911 and she was riding in an ambulance.

She chose my truck.

I made the second of many, many drives to Providence Milwaukie just past noon on that bright spring day. We’d been to the ER once the week before for the same condition, but she didn’t do the instructed aftercare correctly and the burns on her legs had gotten worse. They were hot to the touch, excruciatingly painful, and were starting to smell.

I got this down to an art form, at this point.

Hwy 212 to Hwy 224, go past Bob’s Red Mill and then turn right on (I think) Harrison. It’s the intersections with Mike’s Drive In. Follow the signs to the Emergency Department. Pull in to the turnabout in front, turn off your engine so the escaping carbon monoxide doesn’t harm the other people visiting the facility. Find a wheelchair and a nurse. Get Mom inside the building, started on check-in, and leave to park the truck in the spaces designated for emergency patients and their visitors only. Cry a little in the parking lot, text your husband, his girlfriend, and your other partner that you’re at the hospital again. Take a deep breath and a gulp of water while you wish it was gin, square your shoulders, and walk inside.

Inside, your mom looks old and broken in her wheelchair. Something is funny with her blood pressure. It’s where a normal person’s should be, which is very high for her. You have the first argument of the afternoon when the admitting nurse shrugs it off and you insist that something is wrong. They have to look at her legs, which are feverish and leaking fluid all over the chucks pad they put on the wheelchair’s footrest. She screams and moans whenever she is touched. She is babbling incoherently and you have to translate for her; she’s your mother and her language is the first you ever learned and you can still speak it even when she makes no sense to others.

They refuse to give her pain medication.

They refuse to give her food or water.

Both of these are just in case she needs surgery.

Every time the medical staff leave the room, she begs you for crackers or some sprite. She’s dizzy, having been in too much pain to eat that day.

You have to say no.

You have to be the bully.

You have to be the parent.

She cries out of the same brown eyes you face every morning in the mirror. DeBord eyes, she calls them, from the French side of the family, and you are the only child of 5 to have gotten them.

Doctors come and go. Her heart rate is too high. They begin to pump her full of drugs to stabilize her. They can’t even worry about the infected wounds on her legs because her heart is trying to give up.

You ask to speak to the dr. You tell him she can’t go home; it’s not safe; she won’t care for herself there.

They agree to admit her. They give her food and water at some point. You drink a cup of hospital coffee and realize you’ve tasted better paint thinners, and it sits heavy and full of acid in your stomach.

Your husband’s girlfriend offers to bring home pizza for the kids. Your other partner offers to bring you dinner. When he asks where you are, you tell him it’s the only fucking hospital in Milwaukie and he needs to figure it out himself.

You get your mom checked in and the ward nurse is your best friend from grade school. Stress and fatigue is giving this whole day a nightmarish cast. Somewhere in there, you’ve told your boss that you have to take family leave. Again. Your boyfriend brings you a hamburger and a chocolate shake from Burger King that tastes like cardboard and sticks in your throat. Your husband texts you that the kids are fine. You sit in the cargo area of your SUV with your boyfriend until he has determined you can drive safely. Then you drive home.

That night, your mom almost dies. Her roommate notices her acting funny and gets a nurse. Her blood pressure and pulse have dropped to terrifying levels. They tell you all of this the next day.

You spend the next 4 days arguing with your mother and the hospital staff. You live on Starbucks and snickers bars and you crochet endless green and blue granny squares. You keep your dentist appointment and find out that if you tell them your mother is in the hospital and you need them to be quick, they listen. You begin a long journey of hospital visits and wound care appointments and the crazy balance of full-time mom, full-time manager, and now full-time caretaker for an aging parent.

That was a year ago, this week. I know it because I just had my April dentist appointment a couple of days ago. And I looked at it like, holy shit, it’s been a year.

And my mom? She lived, but she lost that whole week. We were talking about it over lunch the other day. She has very few memories of that time, or of the few weeks following. And we’re starting the process of getting her into a retirement community now, because I can’t be on constant watch anymore. That awful week aged her and me both. Her memory has holes now. Her body is breaking down. I think, if I’m lucky, we might have another 5 years together, especially if she can go someplace with some extra care and services.

She doesn’t remember most of that week.

I remember every painful detail.

I think I always will.

 

 

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One AM in Tokyo

I was laying in my bed in a Tokyo AirBnB when I got the news that he had died.

And there is a sentence I never thought I would write, to start a story I never dreamed I’d live.

And yes, this is another post about someone dying. Mental illness is involved. People die in my life with alarming frequency, and if you are bothered by my talking about it, best you move on now.

So, let’s break this down.

I was in my bed in a Tokyo AirBnB…
Yes, I was in Tokyo, which is only a little (maybe, actually, a lot) related to this story in that it’s the setting for this news.

I was up late with a stomachache. Something in the Ramen we’d had for dinner hadn’t agreed with me. Considering my impressive list of food allergies and intolerances, I’m still amazed that that was the only meal that made me feel ill. And I remember the next day was supposed to be Tokyo Disney because I was trying desperately to sleep and I couldn’t.

I never thought I’d be in Tokyo and the whole trip felt unreal. I was there to visit my partner who is teaching English in northern Japan for a year. If you know me, then you know this trip was a triumph, a giant FUCK YOU to my mental illness. Scared of flying, scared of new experiences, but finally strong enough and driven enough to take a trip of a lifetime.

If it was the day before Tokyo Disney, that means (I think) we spent that day in Akihabara. Time gets a little blurry on vacation and it’s even worse when you’re seventeen hours off your home time zone. One AM in Tokyo is eight AM the previous day in Portland, just in time for my friends to be waking up and looking at their Facebook and Twitter accounts.

After untangling myself from my sleeping partner and digging my phone out from under the bed, I logged into Facebook.

I got the news that he died
There’s a cadence to social media posts, and if you spend any time at all on those annoying necessities of modern life, you start getting a feel for what’s happening even before you see the posts that actually spell it out.

At the top of my feed was expressions of shock. Disbelief. Concern.

I went cold and hot all at once.

I’ve been down this road before.

Penny. Slash. Mitch. Anne.

That ghostly shadow of death.

Thoughts and prayers. Gone too soon. So young. So sudden. What happened?

The news of an untimely death spreads like wildfire in a dry forest in this age of instant messaging and social media. I knew before I found his page, knew with a stomach-churning certainty, that he was gone.

I don’t remember a time when Brant wasn’t in my life. We were in every year of public school together, never close, but never not together. We did plays together, went to speech tournaments together, were in the school TAG program together. He was brilliant and funny and burned so damn blindingly bright. We made fun of the same teachers and stupid assemblies and talked about drugs and life. He was the reason I started listening to the Doors in middle school. I was the reason he got into the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

We fell out of touch for a bit. I got married, so did he, he went into the military around 9/11 and I moved to California. He had three kids, I had two kids. He got divorced, I bought my house near Portland and opened up my marriage. He was a knitter, too, and we’d talk about patterns and yarns and projects and he’d ask advice of me for colors for a scarf for his daughter and how to make a hat for his girlfriend. He read my blog and opened up to me privately about some struggles in his own life. We messaged back and forth often, but never had a chance to meet up.

Sure enough, that ball of dread was correct again.

He was dead.

And I cried. And I hurt. And I tried to wake my partner, who kindly but firmly told me he couldn’t deal with that right now baby-girl he needed sleep can it wait til the morning, just like that, one run-on sentence mumbled into his pillow, and he started snoring again and I was left alone in a foreign city with the knowledge that my childhood pal was gone.

One AM. Daybreak in Portland, so I messaged my husband.

“Remember my friend Brant? He died yesterday. Today. Erm. Anyhow, he’s dead. I don’t know yet. I’m trying to find out. I’m gonna message someone else, she probably knows. No, I don’t need to call. It’s the middle of the night here and I don’t want to wake anyone up.”

I was restless but uninterested in walking, knowing I’d get lost, not trusting my scarce knowledge of the streets in our neighborhood or the complete lack of knowledge of the native language. I wanted a bath, maybe, but likewise didn’t trust my rudimentary knowledge of Japanese plumbing, not matter how nominally Westernized our little bathroom was.

So, I sat on the toilet and cried and messaged with my husband and another friend of mine who I knew would be awake because she has a toddler and, even better, she knew Brant and could maybe, possibly tell me what happened.

Really, she didn’t have more answers than I, except he was struggling with his own demons. And it’s not my story to tell, not this one, but it seems his demons won.

And another of my fellows-in-arms against that fucking Bitch of mental illness had fallen.

And like a switch, I flipped from sorrow to anger and then guilt.

I have survived when so many people have not.

What makes me so special?

Here I am, winning my battle, or at least winning it a little, enjoying the hard-won freedom of a foreign vacation, and he fucking dies. How selfish of him.

I’m sorry, he wasn’t selfish, he was broken.

It could have been me.

But it wasn’t.

I feel guilty that it wasn’t.

His kids are the same age as mine. What are they going to do without a dad?

I’m glad my kids still have a mom.

What makes me so special that I get to survive this hell and others don’t?

Why has my ideation never turned to action?

Why am I strong enough right now to fight?

Why wasn’t he?

The hamster wheel of my thoughts turning and turning.

One AM in Tokyo. Disney in a few hours. My first glimpse of the other side of the Pacific. Many adventures still ahead, a life change that I’d never dreamed of which I’ll write about another time. Each moment a giant middle finger to that Bitch that still lays in wait in the corner of my mind.

I knew I couldn’t process his death. That would come later. If I stopped to grieve then, my trip would be ruined. So, I boxed it up and packed it away, to deal with again on American soil in the weeks following my vacation.

I took an Ativan and matched my breathing to my partner’s as I big-spooned around him, my feet finding a perfect tangle with his and my breasts against his ribs.

Finally, just after one, the ghosts fell silent for a short time, and I fell asleep.

 


February 1st 2017

There’s a spot on my drive to work where reflective thoughts always seem to hit me.

The route is simple. I leave my house, and I often stop for coffee on the way. I chat a moment with my favorite cashier at New Seasons, if he’s working, then straight down my road to the freeway and then I’m at work. If I catch it just right, and the day is perfectly clear, I can see Mount Hood to my right, Mount St Helens straight ahead, and OHSU and Portland’s West Hills to my left.

I don’t remember what I saw that morning.

I wore a dress to work that day, though I couldn’t tell you now which one it was. But I wrote in my journal about an icy wind against my legs.

It’s an easy drive, usually the traffic is light, and I can let my mind wander as I drive.

Unbidden, a thought of you lodged in my brain. And I missed you with a fierce ache, though it had been years since I’d seen you and months since our most recent Facebook conversation. I thought of our first date, at a yarn shop in Sellwood, long since closed down. My daughter was 2, so it was 2009, I think? I had the driest coffee cake I’d ever eaten and you ordered a plate of apple slices and brie. You were unconventionally beautiful. Slightly crossed golden brown eyes behind thick glasses. A mop of curly brown and henna hair. You laughed that the brie and apples were perfect for you, made a comment about them being a favorite snack. I showed you my new tattoo. It was my ladybug, the first one I got. Which puts us for sure in 2009, as I was 29 when I got that tattoo.

And that was it, just that little brush of a happy memory.

I got to work and turned off the alarm and turned on the lights and since I had several minutes to spare, I did what I often do on the mornings I don’t stop for coffee; I started a cup of tea for myself and sat down to check my social media feeds on my phone.

And it was there my worlds came crashing down; the first post on my Facebook was the news that you had died.

My heart contracted painfully and suddenly my stomach hurt. I knew without a doubt that the brush of a memory as I travelled to work was your soul’s final kiss before you moved on. I heard a whisper of a giggle, and felt the brief tickle of your lips upon my neck in that spot where you used to love to kiss me. You’d sneak up behind and nibble that soft skin and whisper wicked things in my ear and giggle and leave me aching as you danced away to tend to the children or some other minutia of your ever-busy life.

And you were gone. Just like that. The biggest heart I’d ever known had simply stopped.

You were there, in the front row for my second coming out. When Jas and I decided to live open and poly, you were my first serious relationship outside of my marriage and the first relationship with a woman since my teens. I still remember the smell of you on my fingers and the apricot color of your nipples and the long scar on your chest from when your childhood doctors bought you enough time to make your world collide with mine for a breathless year early in the fresh milenium.

I was careless with that fragile heart as I fought my own demons. You begged me to come out of my closet, teased me bitterly when I wouldn’t and I said I couldn’t and you began to call it my walk-in closet for all the time I spent in there and how I welcomed other people to join me but I refused to leave. You loved me without reserve. I couldn’t do the same for you, not then, and that is something I always have felt sorrow over.

You taught me so much about love and about life. We stayed friends after we broke up in 2011. I was the one who broke up with you, unhappy with myself and unable to voice it. I lacked the words for my needs and I know I screwed up and I’m certain I hurt you, but there it is. I can’t take it back now. And in your love, you gave me the most precious gift.

You gave me freedom.

I learned to love the broken in myself. To see the sacred in everything. To cherish the love I was and am gifted with on a daily basis. We would talk via Facebook on occasion. I know you followed this blog and you would send me encouraging notes.

My last messages from you were about how proud you were of me for getting treatment for my mental health, how happy you were to hear I was taking care of myself.

The last picture I saw of you was from the Women’s march, just a few days before you died. You in your pink hat that I know you knitted yourself. Your sons with you, tall and strong and beautiful.

I’ve moved through the last year feeling rather numb. It’s been a huge year of growth and change for me, and I’ve wanted to reach out to you so many times, only to find a vastly empty space where you used to be. I think you’d be proud to know I’ve finally destroyed that walk-in closet. I’m finally comfortable in my own skin and in my own mind. I am building a life I love, a life that was changed by the tickle of your lips on mine and the contented sighs you would make when you’d snuggle into my embrace.

My dearest, I shall miss you always. You are always with me.

Thank you for the time you spent here, for the lessons taught, and for the legacy of strength and love you left behind.


bad brain

For clarity, my long distance boyfriend decided he liked the idea of me calling him Ziggy, here. I will update the cast of characters accordingly, when I get around to it. I hope.

Ziggy has ADD. This is helpful, as he is pretty understanding about what it’s like to deal with mental issues and the ins and outs of daily medication. He’s also gifted my life with a phrase that I really love.

Bad brain day. This is, for me, a day when things are off. When the meds aren’t quite cutting it. When the world is a little blue, and everything is a bit muddy and weird.

Today is a bad brain day, and I’m not really sure why.

I feel tired, foggy, grumpy, and a little blue. The tasks on my plate seem too big, too hard, too much.

And I’m ok. The best thing about bad brain days is that they simply are days. I can get through them. I’m at ronger and better than I was. I have tools at my disposal, and friends to help when the tools aren’t enough. Hell, even just writing all this down is helping a lot. 

Why am I sad? I don’t know. My cat died last week. David Bowie and Alan Rickman both died. And old friend of my husband’s is sick with cancer and in the hospital. Work yesterday was really tough. I’m in the middle of an extremely painful cycle this month. The yarn I ordered isn’t here yet. I had to take Ziggy to the airport this morning. I feel my son growing up and growing away from me. I spilled my hot cocoa while I was at new seasons this morning. 

All of these are valid reasons to feel sad, and I know what I really need to do is sit down and sort them. Process them, worth through them. I feel sad because my lap is empty when I sit down to knit. I am frustrated with my coworkers for not being more flexible with the scheduling, which causes long days and weird hours for myself. It was hard to drop Ziggy off at the airport today because he is going to a convention I want to go to, and I always miss him  when he is in a different state. I’m hurting for a old friend who was dealt a shitty hand and just, fuck cancer, all the way around. And I am more emotional because I am hurting physically and the physical pain is big and scary now that it is mostly gone. Because physical pain reminds me too much of the darkest times and I am terrified of those monsters coming back, now that life is finally getting so good.

So, today is a bad brain day. But I’m gonna make it. Because that’s what I do. And I’m gonna turn this around. Life is too precious and sweet to let one bad day ruin the rest. 


Yesterday

Yesterday wasn’t a very good day; today has been much better.

Again, I find myself apologizing for a long absence. There’s not much I can say. I’ve been busy, and I haven’t felt like writing. I’ve been getting my creative time elsewhere, I guess. I knit a lot these days. We’re on a neat program for food assistance now, which gives us boxes of random food every week. This is fun, like a crazy home edition of the tv show Chopped… you know, the show where the chef contestants are given baskets and told to create memorable meals. That’s where I am at right now, only with insane quantities (five pounds of garlic!!! 50 pound of potatoes!! 2 gallons of sour cream!) and a vast amount of almost ready to spoil produce. It’s been interesting, to say the least, and I’m learning a lot.

I had eye surgery. I’ve worn glasses for my whole life, almost, and in the space of fifteen minutes, my head precisely positioned under a poweful medical laser, my corneas were re-shaped and my glasses became a thing of the past. 

With that, I found how much of my “self” was rooted there, and I’m learning not only how to see again, but how to see myself. I’ve always been the fat chick with the short hair and funky glasses… and it’s been interesting to learn who I am again, now that my self has changed.

I’m still single-ish. Still married, happily, and still poly, I guess, though it’s hard to feel poly when there hasn’t been anyone else for nearly a year. Hard to believe it’s been that long, to be honest. There was a brief fling with a wonderful fellow, who is still a good friend of mine. An online flirtatious friendship which is wonderful and fun. A single night with an amazing and beautiful woman. But that’s it. 

I’m happy, I guess. I’m not actively seeking a partner at this point. If it happens, I will be happy. But I’m no longer on OKC, no longer seeking. I’m tired of it, to be honest, and my bar is set so high. My marriage is happy and thriving, and Mr Awesome is still happily partnered to Velah, who is still my friend, too. It’s a good life, and it would take someone incredibly special right now, to be able to find a place in it.

But…

I find myself wanting to contact certain people again. I miss the feeling of “other” that comes from having, well, others. I miss the things that past partners offered, even while I don’t want the drama of having them back.

The past few weeks have been crazy. My aunt died, which meant keeping my  mother together emotionally for the funeral and the facing of the family. Fundamentalist Christians, that side is, and it was a hard day, dealing with them, knowing how they hate people like me. But I went, and I’m glad I did. I was glad to be there for my mother, and I know it meant a lot for her.

It was a long work week, last week, full of last minute catastophes and “aggresively inconsiderate” people. It was already a long week, 7 days straight. 54 hours on my feet, with new registers and a huge sale on top of it all.  My son’s birthday was in the middle of it all…. 12 years old and as tall as I am. He had a group of great kids over for video games and cake. I’m not sleeping well, and I pushed myself to hard, and then both kids got sick. Mr Awesome was able to stay home with our daughter, and I felt so guilty.

I felt like I should have been there for her. I hated that I was making him miss work, so I could go to work. And I couldn’t  be there for my girl. Then, yesterday was my day off. I was to have lunch with Velah, and do some errands, and my son got sick. So I stayed home with him, and cancelled my lunch, and felt miserable. I snapped at him and felt worse, for being angry at him for being sick. I told him I wasn’t well, I apologized, but I still felt terrible.

Then the worst thought hit me.

I would never ever wish my mental illness on anyone. Not my worst enemy. It’s a horrible thing to live with, and turns me into a person i hate to be. But here I am, and my precious, amazing son probably will deal with it too. It’s hereditary, in my family. And I’ve probably given it to him, just like his freckles and blonde hair. 

This devastated me. Mr Awesome held me while I had my breakdown. And I cried and railed about being a bad mother for passing this to our kid. How my week overwhelmed me and how disappointed I was to not get to go out. How I missed Wash and his ability to pull me out of a spiral, because he’d pulled himself out of so many. How I felt very, very alone and sad and scared.

Because every bad day has a fear lurking behind it… the fear that it isn’t just one bad day; that it will turn into another cycle, and that the bitch will win, again, and I’ll lose weeks or months or even a year to the dark. But here’s what different, the game changer in all of this.

I recognize it happening, now.

And I have words, now, to tell those close to me that it’s where I’m headed.

So, yesterday was a bad day.

But today wasn’t. I haven’t felt well, today, the stress and the sadness has caught up with me. My stomach hurts and I’ve slept a lot today. But I feel clear-headed, and strong, and ready to move forward, again.