Tuesday, March 14, 2006
All Our Times Have Come
A few weeks ago, I came home to find the back door of my apartment wide open. After freaking ever-so-slightly and checking the apartment for valuables, I was convinced that nothing was missing and settled in for a nice long night of double chocolate brownies and some high quality WB programming. Hours and hours later, I realized that my fat cat had failed to waddle up to me when I walked in the door and, come to think of it, hadn't waddled up to me all night. I searched all of her usual hiding places, some not-so-usual places and the impossible to get to due to her enormous girth kind of places. She wasn't anywhere in the house and when I realized this, I completely lost it. My cat is not an outside cat, has no outdoor survival skills whatsoever and, due to her adorable face and smooshy sides, could easily fall prey to an eight-year old girl who would put bows on her head and carry her around to tea party after tea party. I found myself imagining I might never see her again and the sobs spilled without a second's hesitation. My grief was immense and the pain was almost unbearable. I stood outside screaming her name for what seemed like hours until finally she poked her head around the fence and sauntered up to me as if she did this everyday. Her puzzled face seemed to say, "Woman, what IS your problem?" I scooped her up and covered her with kisses and went back inside to recover my composure and regain my dignity. Though I have her back, safe and sound, the threat of such a loss haunts me and my heart has lost bits and pieces I don't know I'll ever reclaim.
A few months ago, I was told that my grandmother was diagnosed with lung cancer. The initial evaluation found only a small spot and the disease was thought to be treatable, beatable. A few days later, further tests revealed spots on her brain, in her bones and throughout her liver. The words "Stage Four" entered our conversations and the idea of chemo and radiation suddenly seemed useless and unnecessary. Life went on but the inevitable now dominated the hearts and minds of all who loved her. My relationship with my grandmother had recently taken a bitter turn but the realization that we were looking at less than a year to find final moments devastated me in a way I don't think I could ever describe. I thought of everything we would never experience together. I thought of the moments that had once seemed so banal and commonplace that would soon be altered by the void of her presence. I thought of my grandfather, who I love and respect more than most men I know, and the life he would lead after she was gone. Depite the grief, we were able to enjoy Christmas in our regular fashion and life quieted down in a new type of normal. In February, I was told that they were moving her into a hospice because the care she was receiving elsewhere was not enough to sustain a comfortable quality of life. There had been other setbacks - allergic reactions to her chemo, scans that revealed that nothing was working and the cancer was spreading, the inevitable loss of her hair and her body mass and her lively spirit - but this was a blow that suddenly signaled the beginning of the end. She goes home tomorrow, comfortable and prepared, knowing that the end could be sooner than we all had hoped. This time, there will be no return to safe and sound. She will never come back to us fully and completely and life will never go on as if this was only a brief interuption. This time, my grief is merited, justified. This time, the loss is very, very real.
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A few months ago, I was told that my grandmother was diagnosed with lung cancer. The initial evaluation found only a small spot and the disease was thought to be treatable, beatable. A few days later, further tests revealed spots on her brain, in her bones and throughout her liver. The words "Stage Four" entered our conversations and the idea of chemo and radiation suddenly seemed useless and unnecessary. Life went on but the inevitable now dominated the hearts and minds of all who loved her. My relationship with my grandmother had recently taken a bitter turn but the realization that we were looking at less than a year to find final moments devastated me in a way I don't think I could ever describe. I thought of everything we would never experience together. I thought of the moments that had once seemed so banal and commonplace that would soon be altered by the void of her presence. I thought of my grandfather, who I love and respect more than most men I know, and the life he would lead after she was gone. Depite the grief, we were able to enjoy Christmas in our regular fashion and life quieted down in a new type of normal. In February, I was told that they were moving her into a hospice because the care she was receiving elsewhere was not enough to sustain a comfortable quality of life. There had been other setbacks - allergic reactions to her chemo, scans that revealed that nothing was working and the cancer was spreading, the inevitable loss of her hair and her body mass and her lively spirit - but this was a blow that suddenly signaled the beginning of the end. She goes home tomorrow, comfortable and prepared, knowing that the end could be sooner than we all had hoped. This time, there will be no return to safe and sound. She will never come back to us fully and completely and life will never go on as if this was only a brief interuption. This time, my grief is merited, justified. This time, the loss is very, very real.
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Monday, March 06, 2006
Some thoughts from the weekend:
So, Brokeback Mountain was run over and left for dead by Crash last night at the Academy Awards. Along with probably 99% of the population, I say, "I DON"T CARE! NOBODY CARES!" With the exception of the post-Oscar commentary given on NPR today by Fred Willard and John Michael Higgins, I really don't care to hear another word about that or anything else directly related to the over-worship of celebrity in this culture.
Good bars are the bars you walk into and are greated immediately by a beer and a big hug.
My friend Ashley is GETTING MARRIED! YEAH!
I have heard it said that love is never having to say you're sorry. To that I say, "BULLS#@T." Love is making every effort to admit when you're wrong, to acknowledge your mistakes and caring enough to ask for forgiveness.
I bought a skateboard. Everyone seems to question this decision, especially my mother who said that my accident-prone inability to walk down a hallway without running into the wall seems to be slightly inconsistent with my visions of throwing my body onto a small board with wheels and safely propelling myself down the street. She obviously has yet to see how cool I look just standing on the thing.
#
So, Brokeback Mountain was run over and left for dead by Crash last night at the Academy Awards. Along with probably 99% of the population, I say, "I DON"T CARE! NOBODY CARES!" With the exception of the post-Oscar commentary given on NPR today by Fred Willard and John Michael Higgins, I really don't care to hear another word about that or anything else directly related to the over-worship of celebrity in this culture.
Good bars are the bars you walk into and are greated immediately by a beer and a big hug.
My friend Ashley is GETTING MARRIED! YEAH!
I have heard it said that love is never having to say you're sorry. To that I say, "BULLS#@T." Love is making every effort to admit when you're wrong, to acknowledge your mistakes and caring enough to ask for forgiveness.
I bought a skateboard. Everyone seems to question this decision, especially my mother who said that my accident-prone inability to walk down a hallway without running into the wall seems to be slightly inconsistent with my visions of throwing my body onto a small board with wheels and safely propelling myself down the street. She obviously has yet to see how cool I look just standing on the thing.
#
