I heard this gorgeous song on Pandora today and have been pretty much a mess the rest of the day. Antoine Dufour, Song for Stephen
I am probably going to spin off further posts about this new life I'm trying to live into a different blog. It may be public, it may be by invitation. I'll let you all know if I decide to make it by invitation only and you'll be able to request and invitation. But I think that further episodes of the Deeply Personal don't really belong here.
I've gone back to work this week. I think it's good for me, it gets me back to something that passes for normal, it eliminates that irrational raw gnawing fear that they'll forget I work there, and it gets me back into the land of the living. My colleagues have been wonderful. This bunch that balks at gift cards for our administrative assistants raised $420 for the Ramapo-Bergen Animal Refuge
, and the Bladder Cancer Advocacy Network
. I've been pretty much OK this week until I heard the song posted above. Sure, I get a bit weepy, especially when I get home after work, but all things considered I've been OK. But tonight I was driving home and a massive wave of grief just washed over me just as I was getting on 287 north and it was as if the words I WILL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN were written in fire on a two-by-four that was delivered soundly to the bakc of my skull.
It's a grief tinged with rage, because in a moment of madness last night I decided to listen to some of the recordings I made of medical appointments we went to. In a way, having these recordings make Mr. B. seem not quite so gone because his voice is still there. But it also underscores that concept of "NEVER". Where the rage comes in is just how often the word "hydration" appears, no matter who is talking -- Dr. Chess Club talked about hydration. Dr. Endearingly Nerdy Brain Doctor talked about hydration. The radiotherapy nurse talked about hydration. The oncologist talked about hydration. Hydration hydration hydration, and Mr. B. simply would not do it. In his last few conscious days, he developed a hankering for tomato juice, and went through two 64-ounce bottles in three days; probably 4-5 bottles during that last week. I argued with him that this was not hydration, but he insisted that he was allowed to have juice, and after thirty years, I knew that the more I dug in my heels the more tomato juice he would drink. It is a thing you guys seem to always do and it makes us nuts. So tonight the crying jags are not just about the grief that's really starting to hit now, but they also have an element of YOU DUMBASS...IF YOU HAD JUST HAD SOME GODDAMN WATER YOU'D STILL BE HERE.
I hate this.
Labels: dumbassery, grief, moyamoya, nothing is certain except death and taxes, personal musings