I signed up for NaNoWriMo this year.
When I did, I knew I probably wouldn’t make my 5o,000 words. Not because I’m a pessimist – I’d really like to finish that many, and I think some day I will, even if it’s not some November. No, it was because we’re trying to get into a house before the end of the year, and historically, I’m sort of worthless for the last week of the month because of Thanksgiving. Some of that is just the holiday and the responsibilities I place on myself for it – cooking, hosting, and so on. Some of that is that my favorite season (autumn through Christmas) has gotten complicated with grief over the last 12 years or so. So, while I’d like to get 50k, my actually goal is to beat last year’s total, which was around 27.5k. I got more than halfway there! I was very happy with that, as I decided to start late, and I definitely failed the last week of November. So that was about 2.5 weeks of writing, really.
I forgot to take the election into account.
So many of my friends (and many polls and political writers) have been so sure Clinton would win. I wasn’t. I kept seeing horrible reports across my social media about people who I would never believe would support Trump supporting him. Counseling Center staff. Religious women. Hell, women in general. Veterans who were furious that other presidents had dodged military service – or made fun of veterans were supporting him. I’ve been nervous for weeks, but I was allowing myself to hope a bit more than even I guess I realized, even though in private messages to my uncle, a Hillary supporter, I would express fear.
Because it didn’t occur to me how devastated I would feel if he won. Don’t get me wrong. I was and am terrified. I’m already seeing reports of violence related to sexism and racism. But I didn’t take into account how much I would grieve knowing a significant amount of the population CHOSE him, or CHOSE to not vote at all. Voter turnout in my county was considered extremely high, and still 30% of the eligible public did not participate. They decided that it didn’t matter. There were so many close states. And who knows, maybe they would have voted for him anyway. But they still would have participated.
I want to be able to focus to write in my story. It’s interesting. I like my characters. But I can’t.
Every single damn time I start to open the file I get worried about someone else in my life who is likely to lose health benefits. Or be attacked running errands, because their skin is the wrong color or their accent is different from the norm. Or someone ASSUMES something about them based on the way they dress or present themselves. Or they’re told their marriage isn’t real and they’re violently attacked. Or they’re told to just leave the damn country then.
I hope I can focus again, and get more words in that story and move on with life. But right this minute, I’m still grieving the fact that so many people are so selfish that they are putting their own desires above the true needs of their fellow countrymen. I know that I’ll continue to vote, write representatives about bills, and donate what I can afford. But more than ever, I’m also scared to voice my opinion and realities in my real life, because the person who appears to be sympathetic is just as likely not to be. This election has proven that beyond the usual level.
There’s this thing with cancer awareness months that sets me off into unreasonable head-space land.
“Don’t Give Up… Never Give Up.”
In a perfunctory search, and some talk with my sweetheart, this phrase is related to Jimmy Valvano’s speech, and his foundation, and the search to cure cancer. That’s a good thing to try not to give up on. Search for a cure.
Somehow, it gets used as a rallying cry to patients.
This infuriates me. Sometimes, there is no more. Sometimes, you are literally causing yourself extreme physical anguish with treatments that are barely prolonging your life at a dreadful cost. Sometimes, those treatments don’t even do that, and all you are doing is allowing your test results to aid in statistics for drug companies to further research. Which is not bad, if you have the mental and emotional strength to put yourself through that physical pain and horror.
Some people don’t, or do for a time, but eventually realize that it’s affecting their ability to enjoy the last moments of their life with loved ones. Sometimes, the hardest and best thing to do is to say “no” and to look your oncologist in the eye and say, “It’s time.”
And if you have a good oncologist, one who is not just obsessed with eradicating the disease, but also with helping the humans in his or her care, the doctor will say, “Ok.” The doctor and his team will switch you over to the palliative care team. You will enter hospice care. It may happen at home; it may happen at a hospice house; or it may be a blend of those things.
Making that decision is not giving up. It is not a failure to fight the hardest fight of your life. It is the next step. Because it’s not easy to say goodbye. It’s not easy to stop. It’s not easy to say, “I am going to become a part of nothingness and my body will return to the earth,” if you are an atheist (or other believer in things that do not involve afterlife). It’s not easy to say, “I’m at peace with my decisions, and I believe that whatever the afterlife holds, I will be ready for that adventure now.” Because you are leaving people behind, and they will suffer your absence. And you will be intimately aware of that. And even once you reach the moments where you aren’t quite as aware of that, there will still be moments of seeming lucidity where you see people you thought predeceased you with those who are keeping watch over you. And in the event you choose to be mostly alone, you will still be with your own thoughts and memories.
It is a lot. It is still a battle. It’s not an easy, thoughtless choice; choosing to end your battle with cancer by living your life.
These canned statements for awareness make me so desperately angry, to the point of violence. Fuck cancer. Fuck what it does and is. But do not equate stopping treatment with giving up.
I’m not sure I can explain how very much it hurt that Leonard Nimoy is gone.
I have been suppressing tears since finding out this morning. They’re brimming now.
My mother adored him. Had a self-described ridiculous crush on him as Spock. How could you not? He was dignity, mischief, cool, intense, fury, reason, innocence, kindness, conscience, logic and Kirk’s anchor. He was a wonderful straight man, but there was so much humor in that very quiet calm head tilt that often was the sole response to Kirk or McCoy. The man could act, he gave so very much.
And he’s always reminded me of my dad.
And now, he’s gone. His final tweet made me worry, when I saw it. It felt final, and I didn’t want it to be. I know he lived a long life. I know he knew he was loved. I know he’s done so much, but selfishly, I’m not ready for another wonderful icon of my youth – my mother’s young adult-hood, to be gone.
I will grieve him very much for a long while, I think. Rest in Peace, Mr. Nimoy.
It’s about that time again.
I should probably say that when I use the word “depression” for myself I don’t mean the clinical sort. Every once in a while, I debate going to a licensed professional and finding out if I have a mild version, but as I can usually shake myself out of the mood or just wait it out, I haven’t bothered. It costs money and energy that I’d rather spend on other things.
In 2004, in September, I separated from my ex-husband. Our marriage had been in various stages of implosion and explosion for at least 4 years (although, with the power of hindsight, I suspect that it was having problems much longer). My dad was fighting lung cancer that had metastasized and gotten more complex (it got into his larynx, among other things), and somewhere between then and October is when he and mom told us that he was going to back out of his trial program. The benefits were nowhere NEAR outweighing the negative side effects. We also abruptly lost my mom’s youngest sister to a rare form of blood cancer. For us, there was no warning. I’m not clear on how much warning her kids and husband had. She’d felt horrible for years and finally was getting pushier at getting doctors to listen. I went back to see mom and dad in November for Thanksgiving. Dad had a collapse and had to go into the hospital. The next 3 weeks are a bit of a blur, but we finally got him admitted to hospice and home where he finally felt safe leaving us on his birthday, December 16th, 2004. He was 62.
Six years later, 2010, in late fall (I want to say November, but it’s actually blurred and I don’t trust that), mom also chose to check herself into hospice. Mostly because her doctor was honest. He might be able to give her up to a few more months. Maybe longer. But it would hurt and she might spend a lot of it in the hospital. Hospice would allow her to be at home. On Christmas Night, she finally was able to let go. She was 64.
Two years after that, in October, I lost Domino, my cat of 14 years. He was more than just my cat. He was my baby boy. I still tear up sometimes thinking of him. That was 2 years ago.
It isn’t all bad.
I still love the fall, even though it hurts to remember. Some of my best family memories are of Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Mom loved the cooler seasons. Dad loved any excuse to be silly and eat food that was probably too rich for him but oh-so-delicious. I’ve inherited all of that.
We adopted our two current cats right after the Thanksgiving after losing Domino. I thought it was much too early, but I was also probably worrying Terry a bit with being so sad and he missed having someone furry and welcoming in the house. We were only going to get one, and found a shelter participating in a Black Friday event at a pet store in town. We picked out Shadow, and took her to the vet, who gave her a relatively clear bill (she had the feline equivalent of kennel cough), but strongly suggested another kitten about the same age to help keep her company and to socialize. So we went back out the next day, and found Phoenix. After a week or so of separation to allow their individual upper respiratory sicknesses to get through their systems, they got to meet each other and actually began to get along much more quickly than I expected.
And I can’t forget that my sweet hubby proposed to me on New Year’s eve.
So there are good things to look forward to, most definitely, but I can very much empathize with people who suffer from seasonal affective disorder as well as depression. I have a much higher likelihood of wanting to hide somewhere cozy with a book during this time of year. And for the last few years, that’s been more about escaping than just enjoying whatever I might be reading for what it is. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I feel much better, even if the book makes me cry (The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman did). In its own way, that’s a welcome catharsis from the greyed out feeling I experience a lot of the time. Sometimes I can forget. Or keep a mask firmly in place.
But it’s part of the season now.
I have a few friends who post Thankful posts. One does it whenever she needs a pick-me-up, I think. Another sometimes tries to stick to a Thankful Thursday schedule, but I think really she does it to remind herself of good things in this world, too.
I have a complicated relationship with things I’m thankful for. Some of them make me sad, you see, so … they don’t really so much pick-me-up. On the other hand, they’re still good things, and I’m thankful for them. They’re just often more part-and-parcel of who I am, as opposed to immediate.
So, below, a few…
Grief is rarely as simple as Kubler-Ross and various other internet articles would have you believe. Even Kubler-Ross at some point said that her “stages of grief” (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance) should not be assumed to be experienced in that order.* Some people might, some might not. Some might finish one stage, skip forward, then track back.
There is something clinical called “complicated grieving” and that’s not what I am referring to. I’m simply talking about actual grief regarding a loss of a person, pet, relationship, job or other large thing in a person’s life.
I took a class called “Death and Dying” in college. It was a freshman level course, intended as part of the Psychology major or minor. As I recall, it was also cross-categorized at my school as something my university called a “capstone”, which meant that I could use it to apply to my BA for English. (At my school, to have a BA instead of a BS, you needed 2 semesters of a foreign language, 2 capstones, and I think 1 “art” type class, but it might have been 2. It’s been a while.) Since I thought that psychology was vaguely interesting, I took it. It was a fairly boring class, really. Parts of it were interesting, but it was probably one of the easiest I took and mostly passable by simply memorizing large chunks of text.
It has ended up being more useful long after the fact. Quite a bit of it stuck in the recesses of my brain so that when I would run into a situation, I could make myself stop, take a breath and say “Ok. Self, you are pissed off because you can’t do anything more to help your cat who is dying… you are angry because cancer is a bullshit disease and you feel helpless and you’re scared your mom is going to die… This person is lashing out at you because they are angry and scared. This person is wheedling and whining because they’re bargaining for anything they can get, in an attempt to make this death thing go away.” Oddly, my youngest sister took the course around the time my dad had cancer and has reported having a sort of similar clinical detachment and awareness of reactions and other things.
In other words, several of us in my family cope with knowledge. The amount of medical crap in our collective brains is probably extremely odd for a lay person who is more or less healthy and has taken the bare minimum of biological sciences. My vet gave me an odd look the time I expressed concern about a cat because I asked “his lymph nodes are extremely pronounced… is that normal for a cat, or should we be worried they’re that easy to locate?” during a visit. For us, it’s a sort of support structure to maintain a semblance of sanity and calm. Weird things knock it down.
I am still just as likely to start crying at the sight of a rainbow, as I am to smile and wave my fingers hullo to my dad. He’s been gone for almost 9 1/2 years now. Movies with awesome dads playing with their kids? Teaching their kids how to change oil, check a spark plug gap, use a square to mark off a 2×4? Yeah. Those get me too. Sometimes, I will see a man walking down the street and… something about him will just remind me of Daddy. The beard, the hat (I don’t hate fedoras, trilbies, or several other hats with a crease in the bowl and a ribbon above the brim. I kinda love them… because he wore them), a sweater, a way of holding a coffee cup, and my throat tightens up and I wish… y’know, that he could be around to hug and see us all now.
I have moments like that about mom, about moments in my life that I wish had gone better (but not always differently – that’s for another post), and about my dear Domino. Dad’s been gone the longest, so most people would say “You should have accepted his death by now. Why would you still cry?” or “He’s gone to a better place. He’s not suffering.” or, depending on how one views the afterlife, “Think of all the yummy foods and drinks he can enjoy now! His voice is back!” And all of those things are true, to the degree that we can know them to be. I have accepted that my dad died. I don’t expect, realistically, to wake up to a phone call from him.
That doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. That doesn’t mean I’m not sad he’s gone. That doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes desperately wish I could give him a squeeze ’round his middle and get a really good hug back. That some people manage to get through life and have grief fade to the degree that they don’t cry or continue to think about loved ones who are gone … well, I have a hard time imagining that. Or, better said, I simply don’t relate to it well. The only relatives of mine I have reached that level of acceptance of death with were relatives I didn’t particularly have a close relationship with to begin with.
I don’t nurture my grief. I function fine. It’s not even something I think most people would think of as active.
But when I hear people say “…you know, you should maybe move on, So-n-so has been gone a while now…” or “…s/he lived a full life… can’t we just celebrate that?” I get angry. Because they are attempting to live in a linear black and white world, and the real world I know doesn’t work that way. Also, it compounds sorrow with guilt. “Why do I still feel this way? Do I miss my dad too much? Am I broken? Do I need to see a doctor?” Maybe. Maybe it is complicated grief and a doctor could help. But maybe the person grieving just feels more sensitively and while they are coping, and getting through okay, they also need that release of crying.
If we don’t allow each person to grieve in his or her own way, I believe that people start to have other problems. They doubt themselves, and their own coping mechanisms. They start behaving like victims, with scars to be hidden. And then they are NOT living life fully, and not coping well. They become less likely to reach out and ask for help. People don’t always need a thing fixed, when they’re upset. Sometimes, they just need an ear. A person on the other side of the cell-phone screen to read their texts. A shoulder to turn into and hide from the world so that they can gather themselves up and take another step again and keep progressing.