Last night at around midnight I made the decision to put an end to Mia's suffering. She has been sickly for her entire life, and she had taken a downward spiral. Yesterday she was so sick she was totally out of her senses, unable to get comfortable or focus, so weak she was stumbling around. So I took her to the emergency vet hospital, hoping for a miracle but expecting to say a sad goodbye. There was no miracle.
I held her sick little body to my chest, then gave permission for an overdose of pain medication to stop her overworked heart for good. Ten seconds later and I saw the light leave her eyes; my baby girl was gone.
I am so sad, so hurt, so lonely for my baby, and it is all intermingled with my grieving for you. I wanted to just curl up in bed today and cry myself to sleep over and over. Instead I got up and went to work. I'm so tired. Too much sadness too close together. I'm not ready.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
Taxes
I don't know yet, but I'm terrified that an accounting error on my part will make it impossible for me to take you to Greece any time soon. I owe Uncle Sam, I knew I would, but I have a sinking feeling that my accounting error is going to prove so costly that it will take me a year to dig out of the hole. I hate this part of working for myself. I really hate it.
So...I don't know, little brother. You may have to hang out here with me for longer than we thought. I'm sorry, man.
So...I don't know, little brother. You may have to hang out here with me for longer than we thought. I'm sorry, man.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Keeping Busy
It helps me not miss you so much. No, that's not true -- it just helps me not think about missing you so much. When I have four hundred things to do and deadlines with people prodding me to meet them, I can't hear the quiet lapping of these grief waves against the corners of my mind.
I feel guilty. That's a theme for me. My baby brother died, and part of me wonders if more effort on my part could have kept you alive. Not in the "be responsible for someone else's actions" sense, because we all know that doesn't work. I mean it in the "perhaps if I had been less self-involved for so long then his life might have taken a different trajectory" sense. The same way I feel guilty about A--'s troubles for the past few years.
I haven't had a whole lot of breaking-down moments since you died because I just can't do that. I can't crumble because I won't be able to stand again, so I just keep cracking and pressing forward, hoping the cracks heal quickly enough to keep me mostly together as I move. I had one melt-down last week, just thinking about the most random thing about you. I don't even remember what it was anymore -- just something you said once or something so innocuous that the force of the grief shocked me.
And now those images, the ones I had mostly chased out of my mind, are back again, pounding against the back of my eyes, sinking into my dreams with me so that nothing else can get in during those twilight hours. I can't get rid of them, can't replace them with smiling and happy and silly you, can't change the channel and recall dominoes and spades and goofing off at the IGA and walking to the mall 20-deep and scary to those who couldn't tell we were just a bunch of insecure kids.
I miss you. I miss her. I regret so much.
I feel guilty. That's a theme for me. My baby brother died, and part of me wonders if more effort on my part could have kept you alive. Not in the "be responsible for someone else's actions" sense, because we all know that doesn't work. I mean it in the "perhaps if I had been less self-involved for so long then his life might have taken a different trajectory" sense. The same way I feel guilty about A--'s troubles for the past few years.
I haven't had a whole lot of breaking-down moments since you died because I just can't do that. I can't crumble because I won't be able to stand again, so I just keep cracking and pressing forward, hoping the cracks heal quickly enough to keep me mostly together as I move. I had one melt-down last week, just thinking about the most random thing about you. I don't even remember what it was anymore -- just something you said once or something so innocuous that the force of the grief shocked me.
And now those images, the ones I had mostly chased out of my mind, are back again, pounding against the back of my eyes, sinking into my dreams with me so that nothing else can get in during those twilight hours. I can't get rid of them, can't replace them with smiling and happy and silly you, can't change the channel and recall dominoes and spades and goofing off at the IGA and walking to the mall 20-deep and scary to those who couldn't tell we were just a bunch of insecure kids.
I miss you. I miss her. I regret so much.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
What do I do now?
This morning there was an accident right in front of me on the freeway. It was surreal.
I'm driving in the HOV lane, half asleep, really, trying to wake my mind up with my Greek lesson. Obviously I'm awake enough to drive, but not really to think about anything else, too. Suddenly I hear the terrible sound of two heavy steel objects slamming into one another; micro-seconds later, an old white Monte Carlo swerves into the lane in front of me. I slam on my brakes, stopping about three car lengths behind the white car as it spins to a stop.
I sit for a second, gathering my wits; I've stopped with plenty of space in front of me, but that doesn't prevent someone more sleepy than I from slamming into my rear. I tap the emergency flasher button, hoping to make myself as conspicuous as possible in my tiny, asphalt-colored Prius.
I take stock of the scene; the giant yellow Hummer has spun in a complete circle and come to a stop perpendicular to the dividing line of two of the three regular lanes on the highway. The Monte Carlo has spun all the way around and landed, much the worse for wear, as if it wishes to continue its journey in the HOV lane with me.
I sit for a moment longer, not thinking very quickly at 6:30 in the morning; suddenly the white car door opens and a young man on unsteady legs climbs out and totters toward my car. I roll down my window as he cries, "Am I bleeding?! Is it bad?!" He is bleeding, but it's not bad -- a little blood from a superficial head wound likely cause by the shattered glass spraying on his face on impact. "Yes, you're bleeding, but it's not bad. Are you okay?" I ask. In response, he sinks to the pavement next to my car and props himself up against the stone divider separating us from oncoming traffic.
"Sir?"
"My life sucks! Oh my god, my life sucks!"
He must be relatively okay if he is thinking of how much his life sucks. The Hummer, on the other hand, is still ominously quiet.
"Hey. Listen. I'm gonna call 911, okay? I'm not getting out of my car because it's dangerous. You should go back and sit in your car, too; secondary accidents are really common and you will be safer if someone hits you inside your car rather than out here on the pavement. Ok?"
"Ok, yeah. Good idea. Thank you so much. Oh, my god!" He resumes freaking out.
"Listen to me. I don't see any serious injuries, but if you do have any, you need to relax. Understand? You need to slow your heart rate so if you have any injuries you don't pump all your blood to them. Ok? Go sit in your car and take some deep breaths and try to calm down. Understand?"
"Yeah, ok." He totters off towards his car.
I look towards the Hummer; still no movement. Are they badly hurt? Are they just being smart and staying in their steel-framed vehicle on the highway instead of sitting down in the road? Are they...ok, forget that question. I don't know any real first-aid, and I shouldn't risk my own life trying to find out about theirs. Best thing to do? Call 911.
After a short, quick phone call to summon an ambulance, I sit, flashers blinking away, and stare at the Hummer. Do I go check? I look at the traffic; it's moving slowly in streams flowing on either sides of the sideways Hummer. Fairly orderly and respectful, which is not usual for Phoenix rush hour. Still...
An old man in an SUV takes the decision out of my hands as he hops out of his car, shoots me a look I interpret as irritation, and hobbles over to the Hummer. He knocks on the passenger side window, and to my relief, the window comes down. At least one person is alive and aware in the Hummer.
An ADOT truck pulls up behind me while I'm watching the old man gesture at the white car. He startles me when he appears at my window to ask if I'm okay. "I'm fine. I wasn't in the accident, I just stayed to be an emergency signal. Didn't really know what else to do." "I'll take it from here," he tells me. He walks in front of the lane to my right and stops the crawling trickle of cars to let me pull out. What else is there to do but obey the authority figure in his official orange vest? I leave.
Afterward I realize I should have stayed. I was a witness. Nobody else who saw the collision stayed to help. It will be the white car's word against the Hummer's, and from what I know about the justice system, money talks. The Hummer caused the accident trying to whip into the HOV lane from two lanes away. But a late-model luxury SUV has more clout in court than a 1972 Monte Carlo. I should have stayed.
I'm driving in the HOV lane, half asleep, really, trying to wake my mind up with my Greek lesson. Obviously I'm awake enough to drive, but not really to think about anything else, too. Suddenly I hear the terrible sound of two heavy steel objects slamming into one another; micro-seconds later, an old white Monte Carlo swerves into the lane in front of me. I slam on my brakes, stopping about three car lengths behind the white car as it spins to a stop.
I sit for a second, gathering my wits; I've stopped with plenty of space in front of me, but that doesn't prevent someone more sleepy than I from slamming into my rear. I tap the emergency flasher button, hoping to make myself as conspicuous as possible in my tiny, asphalt-colored Prius.
I take stock of the scene; the giant yellow Hummer has spun in a complete circle and come to a stop perpendicular to the dividing line of two of the three regular lanes on the highway. The Monte Carlo has spun all the way around and landed, much the worse for wear, as if it wishes to continue its journey in the HOV lane with me.
I sit for a moment longer, not thinking very quickly at 6:30 in the morning; suddenly the white car door opens and a young man on unsteady legs climbs out and totters toward my car. I roll down my window as he cries, "Am I bleeding?! Is it bad?!" He is bleeding, but it's not bad -- a little blood from a superficial head wound likely cause by the shattered glass spraying on his face on impact. "Yes, you're bleeding, but it's not bad. Are you okay?" I ask. In response, he sinks to the pavement next to my car and props himself up against the stone divider separating us from oncoming traffic.
"Sir?"
"My life sucks! Oh my god, my life sucks!"
He must be relatively okay if he is thinking of how much his life sucks. The Hummer, on the other hand, is still ominously quiet.
"Hey. Listen. I'm gonna call 911, okay? I'm not getting out of my car because it's dangerous. You should go back and sit in your car, too; secondary accidents are really common and you will be safer if someone hits you inside your car rather than out here on the pavement. Ok?"
"Ok, yeah. Good idea. Thank you so much. Oh, my god!" He resumes freaking out.
"Listen to me. I don't see any serious injuries, but if you do have any, you need to relax. Understand? You need to slow your heart rate so if you have any injuries you don't pump all your blood to them. Ok? Go sit in your car and take some deep breaths and try to calm down. Understand?"
"Yeah, ok." He totters off towards his car.
I look towards the Hummer; still no movement. Are they badly hurt? Are they just being smart and staying in their steel-framed vehicle on the highway instead of sitting down in the road? Are they...ok, forget that question. I don't know any real first-aid, and I shouldn't risk my own life trying to find out about theirs. Best thing to do? Call 911.
After a short, quick phone call to summon an ambulance, I sit, flashers blinking away, and stare at the Hummer. Do I go check? I look at the traffic; it's moving slowly in streams flowing on either sides of the sideways Hummer. Fairly orderly and respectful, which is not usual for Phoenix rush hour. Still...
An old man in an SUV takes the decision out of my hands as he hops out of his car, shoots me a look I interpret as irritation, and hobbles over to the Hummer. He knocks on the passenger side window, and to my relief, the window comes down. At least one person is alive and aware in the Hummer.
An ADOT truck pulls up behind me while I'm watching the old man gesture at the white car. He startles me when he appears at my window to ask if I'm okay. "I'm fine. I wasn't in the accident, I just stayed to be an emergency signal. Didn't really know what else to do." "I'll take it from here," he tells me. He walks in front of the lane to my right and stops the crawling trickle of cars to let me pull out. What else is there to do but obey the authority figure in his official orange vest? I leave.
Afterward I realize I should have stayed. I was a witness. Nobody else who saw the collision stayed to help. It will be the white car's word against the Hummer's, and from what I know about the justice system, money talks. The Hummer caused the accident trying to whip into the HOV lane from two lanes away. But a late-model luxury SUV has more clout in court than a 1972 Monte Carlo. I should have stayed.
Paranoia
Even though I know that what happened to you was an accident, I'm paranoid. Every minor thing I feel has me diagnosing myself with cancer or some other deadly disease.
Right now I have a transient pain in my upper abdomen and I need to see a doctor about it. I hate going to the doctor because they just look at me and assume it's because I'm fat and never do a really thorough job of figuring out the problem. I had nineteen gall stones and my gallbladder was four times the size it should have been by the time they took it out.
I was referred to a cardiologist who looked at my chart and said, "You're 29. Why are you here??" "Because I'm fat." He rolled his eyes. "Go home. Your heart is in excellent condition." I knew that. But that didn't stop the doctor from sending me to the heart hospital when I was having a textbook gallbladder attack.
I hate the prejudice, and I don't want to go spend my own money (my insurance is more limited now) on their stupid, prejudiced guesswork. They will run a barrage of unnecessary tests and never find the problem because they will be treating my fatness instead of my problem.
But...I gotta go anyway. What if it's something serious? Our family can't lose another person so soon. We just can't do it. And besides, L-- just had cancer removed. I can't get sick, too. I don't want to go, but I have to. For my family.
Why'd you have to go and die for? What were you thinking, doing that? Idiot. I miss you.
Right now I have a transient pain in my upper abdomen and I need to see a doctor about it. I hate going to the doctor because they just look at me and assume it's because I'm fat and never do a really thorough job of figuring out the problem. I had nineteen gall stones and my gallbladder was four times the size it should have been by the time they took it out.
I was referred to a cardiologist who looked at my chart and said, "You're 29. Why are you here??" "Because I'm fat." He rolled his eyes. "Go home. Your heart is in excellent condition." I knew that. But that didn't stop the doctor from sending me to the heart hospital when I was having a textbook gallbladder attack.
I hate the prejudice, and I don't want to go spend my own money (my insurance is more limited now) on their stupid, prejudiced guesswork. They will run a barrage of unnecessary tests and never find the problem because they will be treating my fatness instead of my problem.
But...I gotta go anyway. What if it's something serious? Our family can't lose another person so soon. We just can't do it. And besides, L-- just had cancer removed. I can't get sick, too. I don't want to go, but I have to. For my family.
Why'd you have to go and die for? What were you thinking, doing that? Idiot. I miss you.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Even though I don't celebrate Christmas,
I am thinking about you more than usual today. I know everyone else is, too. You would be at L---'s, possibly by force, with Mom and everyone else, probably putting a call in to your grandma, and definitely to your dad and M---. You might even call me and pretend not to want to wish me a Merry Christmas, or maybe you'd say something like, "I know you don't celebrate this pagan holiday, but I do, so Merry Christmas anyway, because I love you and I'm thinking about you." You totally would -- you said almost exactly that last year.
I thought because I don't celebrate that I'd escape the typical 'first holiday season after' sadness. Turns out there are memories no matter what. Turns out I miss you more that normal today. Go figure.
I thought because I don't celebrate that I'd escape the typical 'first holiday season after' sadness. Turns out there are memories no matter what. Turns out I miss you more that normal today. Go figure.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
You Would Be So Disappointed
I can't really explain what I mean, other than: it's the same old garbage that made you so sad all the time. The same old fight, the same old sides, the same stupid reasons. You would be furious at how the most innocent, and most important, person is stuck in the middle. I don't know what to do that's fair, that doesn't hurt anyone or buy into the stupid games. I don't think there is any good solution. It's like the past five months didn't happen and we are back to the most ridiculous square one in history.
All I can think is, it's just stuff. It can't bring you back, and you never cared about any of it, anyway. Why should people be so selfish and manipulative for the sake of material things? Things which are worth almost nothing anyway, things which were not even really wanted until they became of value on the emotional battlefield? I don't understand. I wish you were here so you could tell me what you would do. Then again, if you were here, this would not be happening in the first place. Sigh...
I miss you.
All I can think is, it's just stuff. It can't bring you back, and you never cared about any of it, anyway. Why should people be so selfish and manipulative for the sake of material things? Things which are worth almost nothing anyway, things which were not even really wanted until they became of value on the emotional battlefield? I don't understand. I wish you were here so you could tell me what you would do. Then again, if you were here, this would not be happening in the first place. Sigh...
I miss you.
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