WOW!

People who are grieving can be real downers, huh?

Hey, I’m only saying it, because it’s true!

We suck.

Well, okay…  maybe not everyone who is grieving sucks, but I certainly do!

I didn’t know it was possible to harsh your own mellow…  but apparently it is!  Even I don’t like being with me!

Living with grief is like opening your eyes every morning and finding yourself in the House of Mirrors; you logically know there must be a way out, but no matter which way you turn, you walk into a wall or a mirror ago of yourself!!  You stumble around, having no idea how to get out, but you have no choice but to keep trying.  You start to believe staying in the nightmare isn’t an option and you feel you must find a way out before you throw up or die!

You never know what the new day’s going to bring.  I often wonder,  “Will today be the day  I bitch out the fishmonger for not having any fresh salmon; or break into tears when I see that drunk guy stumbling down the high street; maybe today’s the day I finally just punch that guy in the face, because he refuses to look up from his stupid iPhone and he crashes right into me!”  You just never know.

I feel like a walking time bomb…  a cornucopia of mixed and conflicting emotions; ready to explode onto the unsuspecting world at any moment.

I think perhaps Facebook rights should be temporarily suspended from grieving people.

Okay… I think Facebook rights should be suspended from me!

My posts rage from incomprehensible dribble to lethally depressive “one liners ,” that make you think Leonard Cohen’s version of “Hallelujah” is actually pretty upbeat!

I vacillate from being 100% apathetic and indifferent about EVERYTHING, to vehemently debating things with everybody and anybody;  important things like the need for the toilet roll to ALWAYS be dispensed OVER the roller and NEVER under!

I’m up.

I’m down.

I’m sad.

I’m manic.

I’m the direct opposite to whatever I believed myself to be, just a minute ago.

It’s bizarre because I don’t even consciously think about Tommy anymore… I’ve pushed him under and covered him with shrouds of anger and resentment.  I’ve buried him with Charlie, Mom, Dad and all the others who so carelessly let their lives end… leaving me here alone.

I know, I know, my feelings are juvenile and trite… but nevertheless they are unfortunately undeniable.

They tell you there are seven stages of GRIEF…

• SHOCK & DENIAL
• PAIN & GUILT
• ANGER & BARGAINING
• DEPRESSION, REFLECTION, LONELINESS
• THE UPWARD TURN
• RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH
• ACCEPTANCE & HOPE

What they don’t tell you is that you will feel ALL of them, a hundred times a day, in no particular order!

And in those fleeting moments, when you think you’ve finally got it figured out… you walk straight into that mirror image of yourself… BAM!  And as you shake it off,  and take a step back, you see that she’s…  she’s laughing at you!  That is particularly odd because you can feel the hot tears of pain and loneliness  streaming down your face.  Hmmm?

Got grief?

**********************************************************************

Written on May 3rd… never posted.

In some ways, it feels like a lifetime ago.

Like a distant memory or a dream… sometimes, I’m not really sure it actually happened?

We had been in that hospital room for 8 nights and 9 days and after awhile it began to feel like we’d never leave; maybe we’d just exist there forever.

It’s funny how your mind plays tricks on you; even though you absolutely, positively “know” death is coming… you begin to believe that this is just how it is now and how it will always be.

Your mind normalises this “waiting for death” routine and you begin to subconsciously convince yourself that “it’s” not really ever going to happen.  On some level you begin to believe that you’ll both just be suspended here in this place, in this state, forever.  Him in an infinite state of dying and you in an equally infinite state of watching and waiting.

However…  eventually it does happen.

It always happens.

In Tommy’s case, he waited until I was involved in a conversation with the Health Care Assistant and not paying full attention.

It was a Saturday.  I had arrived at about 8:30 am.  He was sleeping soundly.  I imagine the Morphine drip had a lot to do with what appeared to be a natural, peaceful, dreamlike slumber.

I said “Hello,” to the HCA and proceeded to get myself situated.

I positioned my chair as close to the side of his bed as I possibly could. With my Dunkin Donuts coffee in hand, I leaned over, kissed his head and whispered “Good Morning.”  (I pretended he responded “Hey Sweetheart!” as he would have normally.)  I sat in the chair and placed my right hand on his back.

I looked around this drab room, that had become our home and sipped on the coffee…  my thoughts drifting.

This wasn’t new.  I had been here before.  No, literally… I had been “here” before.  In this hospital; on this floor in an exact room, just a few doors down.

I fact, I had been here TWICE before!

This is where my Mom died.

After being with her 24/7 for several days, she choose to die alone, after I had gone home to shower and change.

This is where my brother Charlie died.

I had spent 5 long days with him; and after opening his eyes wide and trying to say something that I just could not understand, he died… with me leaning over him, gently stroking his hair. .

And now here we were again.

I watched, as my hand moved up and down, up and down… very slowly with each breath he took.  I remember his skin was an odd shade of grey/yellow and his breathing was shallow, but rhythmic.

I don’t know what made me start a conversation with the HCA who had been assigned to sit with him that day.  I’m not awkward with long silences… especially in this situation.

Her shift had just started… and she too had a Dunkin Donuts coffee.  We started with  pleasantries; “What’s your name?” “Yes, I’m Tommy’s sister.” “I live in England.” “Yes, I do  love it there.”

And that’s about as much as I remember.

I don’t recall her name or what she looked like. I can’t remember if we talked for 5 minutes or 25 minutes. I don’t even know what we “talked” about.

I just remember in the midst of it all, a tiny voice in my head whispering… Something’s not right. Something’s changed. Something’s wrong.

I stopped talking, in mid sentence and looked down at my hand.  It took me a moment, but it finally registered… my hand was no longer moving up and down.

Tommy’s back and my hand were unbearably still.

Somewhat in shock, I looked at the HCA and asked her if she could please “check” Tommy.

She jumped up, came to his bed and felt for a pulse on the side of his neck… After what seemed like ages, she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I’m so sorry, let me go get the nurse.”

I remember sitting there next to him (my hand still on his back) thinking, “Wow… Brother… that was easy, huh?”

He had slipped away, effortlessly, while I was busy chatting.

Much of what happened after that is a blur.

The nurse came in, listened for a heartbeat, felt the side of his neck and then looked at me with this genuine look of sympathy and compassion and asked if I was alright.

Did I need anything?  Did I want some time to be with him alone?  Was there someone they could call for me?

An hour or so later, the doctor came in; he examined Tommy and made the official pronouncement.

I remember the HCA being a bit distraught and apologising that she had distracted me, and taken my attentions away from my brother…  I smiled at her (actually wanting to give her a hug) and saying, “No, no… please don’t apologise.  That was Tommy… that was my brother… he went exactly the way he wanted to go!”

I’m sure he waited until I was there… but decided to slip away in the few minutes when I wasn’t fully engaged.  He hated being the centre of attention.

I helped prepare his body.

I washed his face… wet and combed his hair back… cleaned his arms and hands with warm soapy water.

He looked like he was finally at rest; peaceful.

I watched as they gently bound his hands and feet and wrapped him in clean, cool white sheets.

They asked if there was anything else I wanted or needed before they covered his face and placed him in the white, plastic body bag…  “Yes, there is one more thing,” I responded.

I put on some fresh, red lipstick… walked over to him and kissed him firmly on the forehead.

“Please don’t take that off,” I asked.

That was 2 months, 21 days, 10 hours and 46 minutes ago…

I still miss him terribly.

It’s a peculiar feeling knowing that you’re the only person in the whole wide world who can validate, or quash every childhood memory that you have.

Think about that for a moment… from now, until end of my life, the way I remember a birthday, a holiday, a discussion or any one of a trillion moments in time... automatically, without question, becomes reality.

Not just my reality… but REALITY.

There’s no one left on this earth to correct me.  No one to tell me, “it didn’t happen like that.”  Nobody to provide an “alternative fact.”  Nobody to keep me honest.

The way I remember a particular event, i.e. who was there, what was said, how a  situation unfolded… must now be considered, by everyone, to be the unequivocal TRUTH.  

That thought is both empowering and debilitating.

It is now my recollection, of everything that happened within my nuclear family, that will forever be accepted as an indisputable fact. 

But wait,  

…if that’s correct, then that means that I (and I alone) am now responsible for accurately recalling and conveying every important (and unimportant) conversation that ever took place; along with every scene that has ever been played out, within my family structure!

No, no, no.   Wait a minute!

How did I get left in charge of this sacred trust?

How did I become “Keeper of the Fucking Memories?”  … left in charge of archchving an entire family’s history!

No seriously… how can there NOBODY left on this entire fucking planet who can corroborate (or contradict) my early childhood and teenage memories?

That’s just insane!

I’m the baby of the family!  I’m the one who gets “let off the hook.”  I’m the one who  concedes.  I’m the one who cries, “UNCLE.”  I’m the one who doesn’t pay attention, because someone else always will, I’m the one who has always had a “grown up” looking out for her.

I should not be allowed to have this great a responsibility… ask my brothers, they’ll tell you…  

Oh… right.

You can’t ask them… They’re not here…

There is nobody to ask.  Nobody to defer to.  Nobody remembering the past with me or telling me what actually did or did not really happen…

There’s no one to ask,  “Hey, remember when….?”

There’s no one who can remember what it was like to sitting by Mom’s hospital bed, for hours and hours, those last several weeks.

There’s nobody who remembers all of those magical Christmas morning’s or the Thanksgiving days that were filled fabulous food and good old fashion football!

There’s nobody left for me to walk down Memory Lane with.

I’m alone with the haunting memories of emptying out our childhood home after Dad died, having to tell Mom’s oncologist, “No… no more surgeries,” siting with Charlie as he took his last breath.

It’s just me.  Me left with nothing…  nothing but memories.

But if it’s only me with a lifetime of detailed, intricate, colourful memories swimming around in my head and there’s nobody left to remember them, dispute them or  substantiate them… I have to wonder, did they really happen?

I guess only I know for sure.

Just me, myself and I.

My brother Tommy died today.

I’d like to be able to tell you that he died peacefully, in his sleep, surrounded by friends and family… but that was not the case.

He died, pretty much the way he lived most of his life;  angry, frustrated and fighting his many demons.  Even once he began his end of life journey they would not leave his side.  Considering themselves his friends, they’ve  hung on till the very end.  This, along with the fact he was so sick, made his final journey, a long and arduous one.

It should be said that although my brother’s “body” stopped functioning today, he actually died some 50 years ago, and I have been mourning that loss ever since.

You see, my brother Tommy, the brother I had known and loved for the first 13 years of my life, died in Vietnam sometime between the fall of 1967 and the 4th of July, 1968.

Although the United States Army was kind enough to return his somewhat broken body, and what was left of his mind… the better part of him (the part many of his friends and acquaintances never got the chance to see) was left behind; a million miles away from here, forever entombed in the murky waters of a hillside rice paddy.

Like so many of his comrades in arms, he was not prepared for what he experienced in Vietnam.  And although he did only what he was trained and ordered to do, I don’t believe that my naive, 18 year old brother ever reconciled with what he witnessed and he certainly never forgave himself for any transgressions that he may have committed.

These were his demons.

Torn, between being proud to be a Sergeant First Class in the US Army’s 101st Airborne Division (aka The Screaming Eagles) and being (at his core) a pacifist, he constantly struggled with grasping a genuine understanding of who he “truly” was and what he believed in.

If you knew my brother at all, you probably had a love/hate relationship with him. Generally he was a nice, polite, funny, generous, outgoing guy who could (when he wanted to) be quite charming… but he also had a dark side.  He could become angry,  hurtful, verbally abusiveand quite difficult to deal with, at the drop of a hat.

He didn’t mean to be any of those things and he always regretted it.  It was just that the demons sometimes possessed him and devoured his sense of right and wrong.

As I said, if you knew him at all, at some point during your relationship/friendship you would have had a legitimate reason to call him an “asshole.”  If you didn’t, then you didn’t know him as well as you think you did.

Regardless of all his many shortcomings and imperfections… he was my big brother.  He was a good man.  He was an honest man and he always loved and protected me, his baby sister.  And I, with every fibre of my being, loved him right back.

His passing leaves yet another hole in my already battered heart.  After so many losses,  I now imagine my heart has taken on the texture of a sea sponge…  rough and pourus, softened only by absorbing tears, which won’t stop.

My brother is finally at rest.  He is finally free from the demons that have plagued and tourtured him for so many years.

In the last few hours of his life, I believe I witnessed a softening in his face… his usually furrowed brow was relaxed and smooth.  I choose now to believe he took advice I gave him earlier in the day… I believe he began the process of self forgiveness and acceptance and he came to understand that he, just like the rest of us are flawed and nothing short of human.

Hmmm?  Come to think of it, he did die peacefully with friends and family by his side… he had me, his only family and his best friend.

I love you Tommy.

Your baby sister, Lissa

xxx

it was cold, dark and the grey sky was once again, threatening rain.

Daddy drove cautiously as Mummy shifted in her seat trying to get comfortable.  I’m not  sure if it was nerves or if she was genuinely uncomfortable, because of her size and inability to move in the cold, cramped car seat.

You were not technically “due” for another week, so quite honestly if she thought she was uncomfortable on that morning… I’m not sure how’d she would have felt if she had to wait another 7+ days.  I dread to think!

I sat in the back seat excited, but apprehensive. Don’t get me wrong, I was terribly excited to meet you, and couldn’t wait for our adventures to begin, but you have to understand, this was “my baby” having to go into that theatre and she is as important to me as you are to her.

We arrived at the Royal Bolton Hospital and somehow made our way through the maze of signs and corridors.

Almost unnoticed by a all of us, was a woman in a coast and scarf walking just in front of us. As we climbed the stairs, she climbed the stairs.  As we approached the Ward, she was right in front of us and keyed a pass code which opened the door.  As she walked in, we  walked in right behind her. As we got to the reception deck, she turned and asked your Mum’s name.  “Arielle Amici,” Mummy responded… Without missing a beat (and without taking off her coat and scarf) she led us down a long corridor to the very last room on the left.

Two of the four beds, in the room, were occupied as the lady with the coat and scarf showed Mummy the bed that would be hers, for the next few days.

It was still dark in the room, as the Moms and babies were still sleeping and the everyday hustle and bustle of a busy maternity ward hadn’t yet begun.

By now, my daughter (your Mummy) was showing signs of excitement as she noticed the empty baby bassinet just an arms length away from where she sat on her bed.

I think she was beginning to realise that this was “really happening” and in a matter of  hours you would be here and all of lives will be forever changed.

Mummy and I “Oooooo,” and “Ahhhhhh” as one of the newborn baby’s in the room started to stir and began to make “cooing” sounds.  Daddy smiled at us, thinking we’re silly and knowing that soon he and Mummy will have their own cooing, gurgling little bundle of joy.

The consultant came in and talked to Mummy and Daddy about the best way to get you out! They agree on a plan, and off he went; a real no nonsense kind of guy.

We were left waiting again and wondering what happens next…

Maybe a half an hour passed and a nurse came in and told Mummy that she was first on the schedule and asked if she was ready to go down theatre!

(I wondered to myself, are any of us EVER ready for what was about to happen?)

Its all happened very fast! Mummy jumped up. Daddy jumped up. The nurse led the way and we all walked down the corridor, down the stairs and into the Delivery Suite, where all the action would take place!

I couldn’t go with Mummy and Daddy and I couldn’t stay on the Ward.  I was a Mommy without a daughter and a Grandma without a Grandchild.

It was only 9:30 and visiting hours would not officially start until 2:30… “UGH… what am I going to do for the next few hours ?”  For lack of a better place to go, I go to the hospital restaurant and try to relax.

As I drink my tea, it hit me!

I better start writing this story, because some day you may want to hear about the day you were born and maybe I won’t be around to tell you about it… I hope I am, but as you’ll  learn, there are a lot of things in this life that we have no control over; life and death are just two of them.

I get lost in my writing and almost don’t hear the “ping” of the message, as it came into my phone. It was from Daddy and he was excited to tell me you have arrived!

His exact written words were; “He’s here and he’s perfect!” 

I ask about Mummy and he told me she is fine.  (Whew, I was able to breath again)

I sit in the hospital restaurant with tears of joy rolling down my face. You were here, you were perfect and my little girl (who is now a Mummy herself!) was safe and sound!

I was so very grateful.

Daddy told me if I hurried downstairs I might catch a glimpse of you and Mummy as they took you both back to the Ward, where you’d be staying for a few days.

I arrive downstairs with my camera ready.

Soon, the double doors opened and I saw two nurses pushing a bed;  Yeah, it was Mummy and Daddy!!!

Snap, snap, snap I took lots of photos.

All of a sudden I heard Mummy say, “Do you want to take pictures or do you want to see your Grandson?”

What? 

As I slowly took the camera away from my face, and looked down… there you were!  You were the tiniest, little, red faced, cutest baby in the whole world.

Your Daddy was right, you were here and you were perfect.

The rest of that day, Monday, January 30th, 2017 is a blur.

After what seemed like hours and many phone calls and text messages, I finally got to really see you again and hold you for the first time.

Yes, I was a bit “over the moon” to say the least!

I think Mummy and Daddy had by this time decided that they would keep you and “No,” Grandma wasn’t going to be able to steal you away as planned. *Drat*

The day flashed by in what seemed like a few minutes and before I knew it, it was over; I was home in bed thanking God for the most perfect day.

I asked the gods and the universe to bless you and to keep you safe.  I asked that I live long enough to meet you properly, have some amazing adventures with you, and to watch you grow into (at least) a young man.  My eyes closed and I quickly fell fast asleep.

And that was your first day my sweet, baby boy.

You must always remember, no matter what, that you were our “miracle baby,” my little “Zeus,” and the most wanted, loved, cherished and adored baby EVER.

Love Grandma

Several months ago (8 to be exact) I found out that my youngest daughter was pregnant with her first child.

This was (and still is) a huge miracle, because less than two years prior to this mind blowing announcement, I stood in a small hospital in Kent anxiously awaiting news about my daughter’s condition after months of chemo and a surgery!

I wasn’t sure there would ever even be a child, so to hear this news was quite astonishing!

As the months went on and I watched her normally flat belly grow bigger and rounder, I started to believe that this might actually be happening; perhaps I wasn’t dreaming!

I remember thinking about my two grandsons (18 and 6) and about the differences in my relationship with each of them. I wondered what this grandchild would be like and what our relationship would look like?

I had helped to raise my oldest grandson.  I was there when he was born; I got to cut the cord; the Doctor handed him to me after the “all clear” was given. He was (still is) my pride and joy!  The bond we shared was very special and in those early years we were as thick as thieves, inseparable.

When I moved to the UK he was only 12 and I believe putting that time and distance between us (along with the fact that he was growing up and becoming a young man) seemed to take it’s toll on our relationship. We’re still close and I know he loves me very much (and I love him with all my heart) but for the time being we have lost touch with who we are as individuals.  I have no doubt he will mature and as I grow older, he and I will once again  become inseparable.

My youngest grandson was born 5 months after I moved to the UK.  Our relationship was built on Skype. I was the loud, lady with the funny hair, who once or twice a week showed up on Mummy’s laptop screen.  We had fun; talked about toys and daycare and Santa, but I think ultimately, I was the one who took Mummy’s attention away…  I remember when he was in his terrible two’s, he’d walk up to the laptop, look at the screen and gently push the cover to a *click* … conversation over.  I’ve met him less than 10 times and we don’t know each other as well as I’d like, but he knows who I am; he knows I love him and that he will always be a part of my life.

At least I’ll live in the same country as my new grandchild, but we too will be separated by distance.  With about 204 miles (328 km.) between us, it’s not like I’ll be babysitting a lot!

Only time will tell what our relationship will be like or even if he’ll like me… *just kidding* of course he’ll like me!!!  I’ll be the crazy lady who takes him on GREAT adventures, if even only occasionally.

Oh, by the way we do know that this grandchild is also a boy, so it will actually be my third grandson!

I’m cool with that. I get little boys… I believe boys may be a bit easier at least in the  childhood years.  Perhaps they’re not as complex as girls.  I know, I know that sounds really sexist and I have nothing to base that belief on, nor can I prove it.  It just feels right to me!

Finding the perfect name for this third grandchild has proven to be difficult for the  parents and although they knew that he was a he early on…

{Ahhhhh crap, I’m sorry… I need to go off on a tangent here.  I know, I’m probably supposed to be using a non gender specific pronoun here, but please, please just give me a break!  I’m old, I’ve been saying he and she for 60+ years, it’s a hard habit to break!  Please believe me when I say, I don’t give a rat’s ass if this child grows up and identifies as L, G, B, T, X, Y or Z… I will love “Ne” {a gender neutral pronoun} unconditionally, with all my heart, just as I love the other two grandchildren!)

Where was I?

Oh, right… lack of a name.   So because Mum & Dad  have not been able to agree on the perfect name, I have been calling my new, unborn grandson Zeus.  

Hey, it’s as good as anything, right?

I think it may have been Nick’s brainchild and it just stuck… well, it stuck with me at least.

Since giving him this nickname, I have come to learn that that real Zeus was actually a  total badass!!!

Zeus was the god of the sky and ruler of the Olympian gods. Apparently, he got a little cocky overthrew his father (Okay, I agree, not cool!) and drew lots with his brothers in order to decide who would succeed the father on the throne.  Quoting www.greekmythology.com/Olympians/Zeus/zeus.html, Zeus won the draw and became the supreme ruler of the gods, as well as lord of the sky and rain!

Using his weapon of choice (which was nothing less than freaking thunderbolt!!) he could create all natural phenomena related to the air and the sky.  If you pissed him off, he’d conjure up wicked storms, tempests and intense darkness. At his command thunder would roll and lightning would flash, wreaking havoc on everyone!

Amazing!!!!!

Not a bad nickname after all, right?

Soooo… anyway, it looks like my, little “Zeus,” will be welcomed into this world on Monday, January, 30th, 2017. (He’ll be an Aquarius.)

I’m sure his well intentioned, albeit mortal, parents will decide to formally name him something far less cool... but in my heart he will always be Zeus, just like the god of the sky.

And I can’t wait to tell him what he’s capable of.

I heard a woman crying out in pain, but didn’t think it too unusual, since my office (at the Royal Sussex County Hospital) is adjacent to A&E.

Every once in a while I hear people crying out in pain or the occasional drunk person crying  at the top of his/her lungs…  (which by the way is a very distinctive type of crying. It’s more like sound someone would make if their heart was hurting;  as opposed to a physical pain sound; either way it’s gut wrenching, just the same.)

Today was different than anything I had ever heard, since I started working at the RSCH. This woman’s cry’s was more  guttural and rhythmic; and it seemed to be coming from within her soul!

The cries became louder and louder over the minute or so I was conscious of hearing them. I remember thinking, “I hope a Nurse or Doctor get to her soon, because this sounds serious.”

Then I heard someone yell, “The baby’s coming!”

“WHAT?????”

“BABY?”

You have to understand, I work on a ward where the average age of our patients is about 70!  Most of our patients are very elderly and sick.  I don’t get to see a lot of children or babies.

So this I had to see!

I ran into the hall and about 15 feet away from the entrance to my office, was a woman, on her knees; gripping the arms of the wheelchair (that I assume, until a minute or so ago, she had been sitting in!)  She was now wailing in pain.

There were already a few people squatting down behind her, so I knelt down next to her; I  started  rubbing her back and whispering into her ear, telling her how GREAT she was doing and how everything was going to be fine.

Within about 30 seconds (no joke!), I look over to see a chubby, wet, purplish, little, baby girl pop out into the air!

One of our doctors was there just in time to catch her just as a nurse came running around the corner with towels.

I heard someone yelling for  “clamps” and then heard the sound of a new born baby crying.

There is no other sound, like that, in all the world.

One of the nurses yelled, “Can all non-essential people, please, step back,”and I took that as my cue, to step away and watch from my office door.

The staff were quick to put up screens and give the poor woman and her daughter some privacy, which was good!  And the hallway was left littered with non hospital employees, standing around with stunned looks on their faces, not knowing how to get where they were going.

A newborn baby’s cry was still very much present.

About 10 minutes later I left my office to go over to the ward and they had just started  rolling the woman down the corridor, off to maternity, I imagine…  As they rolled her past me, she was all smiles and holding her brand new baby girl in her arms; the baby was wrapped in blood stained hospital towels, and still screaming her head off!

I smiled at them both and they passed by and tears came to my eyes.

How amazingly beautiful.

My last blog post was about dying; as are so many of my writings, thoughts, and conversations… but this, THIS was all about LIFE.  Life at it’s most real and at it’s rawest.

I thought about the family, all the way home; I imagined how years from now, the little girl will ask Mommy and Daddy what happened on the day she was born…  and they will tell their beautiful, little girl how she was so excited to be born, that she just could not wait!  They will explain how she was born in a hallway, at the hospital, while her Mom was kneeling on a dirty floor, with strangers all around…

Hopefully they’ll all laugh and remember it as the best day of their lives!

I know, as days go… this one was definitely right up for me!

Today, while thumbing through the New York Times, I stumbled across the Obituary section.  I don’t know why I started reading the Obits; I live in the UK and don’t know a lot of people in New York, but I did.

After about 20 minutes of reading sad, short, snippets about the lives and deaths of these strangers I (surprisingly) came face to face with my own mortality!  Right there, staring me in the face!

I  too am going to die.

It was unnerving (to say the least) to realise… no seriously, to REALLY REALISE, that I am going to die!  And based on the ages of the people I just read about, it may not be that far off!

Jay Fishman, 63

Bill Lenkaitis, 70

Juan Gabriel, 66

George Curry, 69

I turned 62 in May of this year and I am absolutely astounded by this fact, because in my head (and in my heart) I’m about 35, at the very most.

Today’s surprising realisation was particularly poignant, because I think I do death pretty well.  Over the years, when faced with the demise of a close friend, loved one or stranger, I have calmly and methodically;

anticipated the death,

considered the death,

prayed for the death,

been humbled by the death,

welcomed the death,

and ultimately, accepted the death.

As I said, I truly believe I do death better than most people.

I talk about it, read about it, sit with it; I am comfortable and totally open to it.  So to actually be a little freaked out by the fact that I am going to die, was surprising!

However, upon further reflection, throughout the day, I realised that I am not so much afraid of dying, as much as I am afraid of dying before I do the things I always thought I’d do, before I died.

Does that make sense?

The way I figure it, if I’m lucky, I have maybe 10 years left.  If that’s true, when am I going to Nepal?  How the hell old will I be when I walk the Camino de Santiago?  At what age will I finally move into my little country cottage, with the front and back gardens?  The home where I’ll live the rest of my life and die in.  Will I be too old to drive my  vintage Mini Cooper, when I finally own it?  When will I figure out what I want to be when I grow up?

WTF?  Am I running out of time!?

It seems as you age, time has a way of passing much more quickly, than it did when you were young.  I’ve been told that and it definitely seems to be true.  However, I’ll be just as surprised by my death as you, when it happens.  And I’m going to be mad as hell too, because I’m sure there will still be some really cool things on my “Bucket List,” which I’ll never get to cross out.

Time is precious.

Time is  fleeting.

Time evaporates right in front of your eyes; like watching a teaspoon of sugar in a glass of warm water.  One second you see a million, beautiful white granules swirling around, then  the next second you see nothing, but crystal clear water.

We all know time is precious. Yet somehow we all get all caught up in the bullshit and trivia of our own little lives and we forget (all too easily) that we too come with a “Sell by” date.  We may stick around for a bit longer, but we won’t be at our best, and eventually, we’ll be forced to go.

So… after this epiphany…  I’ve decided, next Sunday, I’m going with the London Times and instead of reading the Obits, I’m going to read the Real Estate Section and then perhaps the Classifieds… because my vintage Mini Cooper is out there somewhere, and I’m going to claim her, before it’s to late.

2016 kicked off with the promises of sustained happiness and renewed growth. My life is colourfully comfortable, rich and interesting; but at the same time there is an overall sense of calmness and order.

It’s surprising to me when I look back over over the past 8 months and realise that I have lost {as in they chose to not be friends with me any longer} not one, but two Facebook friends!

Think about that for a second… two people have consciously decided that they no longer want to co-exist in a cyber, social media space… with me.

How extraordinary!

When I analyse the facts surrounding these “de-friendings,” both are male, over 50, married, Republican, both have known me for over 30 years (although remotely), both white, both are in a very comfortable financial bracket.  One I worked with for many years and the other was a close neighbour for over 15 years.

If you know me at all; and you’ve known me for any length of time, you probably have come to the conclusion that I can be a bit of a “rebel.”  (Okay, okay perhaps a trouble-maker, rabble-rouser, instigator, provocateur… a general pain in the ass!)  However, I assure you that is not a metamorphosis that as taken place recently!

I was born asking “Why,” rooting for the underdog, having strong opinions, disagreeing with the status quo.  I remember when I was about 8 or 9,  my Dad telling me that God was so strong, that he could do anything.  After thinking about this for a few minutes I asked if He could make a boulder that was so big, that even He wouldn’t be able to lift it.  Hmmm? Maybe that’s why my Dad didn’t talk to me much?

Anyway, I digress…  I the point is, I have ALWAYS been like this.

When these to two now ex-friends really “knew” me, as in saw me on a daily basis, hung out with me, talked face to face with me, this is the ME they knew.  Strong, opinionated, stubborn {bordering on pig-headed}, a little left of centre, controversial, loud, brash, argumentative…  and all the rest!  I have not changed, in these regards.

So why now?  Why do you decide after 30 years you no longer want top be exposed to the various  posts, photos and opinions of someone who’s company you used to enjoy? Someone who made you laugh, made you think?

My first “de-friending” was straightforward.  He was offended by my frequent use of the  “F” word, plain and simple. (Or so I believe)  He publicly  suggested I not use the word so much; I seriously thought he was kidding and responded by saying if he didn’t like it, he could “fucking de-friend me.”   He did.

WOW! Really?

I didn’t pick this word up in the last 10 or 20 years.  It has been a major staple in my vocabulary since I was 16 or 17.  He had heard that word come out of my mouth a thousand of times…  but that last post, where I used “that” word again, was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

This last de-friending is a lot more complicated.  If I am left of center, my ex-friend is definitely right of center.

We frequently debated world events publicly and much to the amusement of our other FB friends.  We’d go back and forth until one of us would say, “Okay, let’s just agree to disagree.”  We’d laugh it off and go on our merry way.

However, I recently felt things getting too heated and I sent him a private message saying I thought our debates were getting a bit to personal and out of hand and I thought we should invoke a “truce.”  He should not comment on any of my posts and I would not comment on any of his.  We could debate privately, but not drag it into the public arena.  It seemed like a good solution to a problem that was getting out of hand.

He agreed and all was quiet on the FB front… until I posted my opinion about Colin Kaepernick’s right to sit while the National Anthem was played at an American football game.

My now ex-friend came out slinging!

We went vehemently back and forth in our usual style, with a hight level of conviction and vigour…  until it turned nasty.  We both started to take little shots at the other, implying {if not straight out saying} what an idiot we each thought the other was, and why he (or I) was so totally WRONG!  I’m not proud of that… it’s just the way it went down.

In all truthfulness, in the end we both came to the conclusion that being FB friends was not healthy for either of us and I guess we made a joint decision to break it off {but, he broke the fucking truce!}

It’s really very sad in a way, because as I said to him, if two individuals, who have known each other for 30+ years can’t just “agree to disagree,” respect the other’s right to his/her opinion and walk away; how are large, diverse masses of people, i.e. blacks/whites, men/women, Christians/Muslims, Americans/and the rest of the world, etc supposed to not end up hating each other and trying to obliterate the other?

Oh… I see… maybe we can’t.