Terri and I have started using the word "free" in place of "dead."
This is the happiest I've been since coming home.
We went on an evening bike ride and chased the sunset. It just rained, and everything is so, so green. There were beautiful mountains of clouds in the sky. We rode by trees with new baby leaves and fields that glistened in the golden light with dandelion fluff and spider's webs. Cows and horses and a brown llama. We were chased by a dachshund named Punkin, but were speedy enough to survive.
Glorious.
As Terri and I ate ice cream on the floor in her room, I told her I liked the name ojushte and she replied "You like everything." And I realized... I do like everything!
I often forget that.
The next morning, my feeling vividly alive faded, but that's okay. I have only to remind myself.
Thank you for reading my silly thoughts. I LOVE YOU!
Monday, July 5, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
My Mo(u)rning Mother
Sunday morning I woke to my mother's voice. My body felt heavy, and I mumbled at her statements of the time, but when she said "I need to talk to you," and handed me a cup of coffee, I dragged myself into a sitting position.
She sat on Terri's bed in her pajamas and glasses and untamed hair, beautiful and so real. She poured out her thoughts to me in a stream-of-consciousness fast-paced ramble. Everything she was saying felt so immediate and deeply important.
As she told me about an incident between Terri and my father, about his past grievances with his brother, his alliance with my grandmother, and his directionless escape on his motorcycle, I kept wanting to tell her things, to comfort her, but I couldn't keep up. I just listened, and wondered if this was partly why counselors keep notes. I think listening was most of what she needed, as she may not have had room for advice in the turmoil of her thoughts and feelings at the time. I'm glad that she came to me and that I was able to do that.
Sadly, there wasn't time to continue talking; we needed to get ready for Rosa's wedding. I had so much I wanted to tell her, but the conversation couldn't be recreated later. Immediately afterward, I was so motivated to try to remedy the tensions in the house. I wrote "No more of this waiting. No more of this moping."
I wish I spoke more eloquently. My thoughts are so, so slow...
And now, I don't know how to end this. I suppose I'll end it abruptly, like our conversation.
Thank you for reading. <3
She sat on Terri's bed in her pajamas and glasses and untamed hair, beautiful and so real. She poured out her thoughts to me in a stream-of-consciousness fast-paced ramble. Everything she was saying felt so immediate and deeply important.
As she told me about an incident between Terri and my father, about his past grievances with his brother, his alliance with my grandmother, and his directionless escape on his motorcycle, I kept wanting to tell her things, to comfort her, but I couldn't keep up. I just listened, and wondered if this was partly why counselors keep notes. I think listening was most of what she needed, as she may not have had room for advice in the turmoil of her thoughts and feelings at the time. I'm glad that she came to me and that I was able to do that.
Sadly, there wasn't time to continue talking; we needed to get ready for Rosa's wedding. I had so much I wanted to tell her, but the conversation couldn't be recreated later. Immediately afterward, I was so motivated to try to remedy the tensions in the house. I wrote "No more of this waiting. No more of this moping."
I wish I spoke more eloquently. My thoughts are so, so slow...
And now, I don't know how to end this. I suppose I'll end it abruptly, like our conversation.
Thank you for reading. <3
Saturday, July 3, 2010
It's Hard to be a Human Being
From the very little experience I've had with death thus far, I've found I don't want to talk about it right away. Not just that I don't want to, but there is nothing to be said yet; death is instantaneous, but my thoughts and feelings are not.
I know I need to let everyone grieve as they must, but I seem to have less and less patience lately. Whatever it is within me, I don't want to talk about it and I don't want to hear about it.
I wouldn't say I'm sad. I think I've done my mourning. I'm happy that she's free--she was just in pain and unhappy before. Why should anyone wish to continue that?--yet I wouldn't quite say I'm happy. Not exactly. I do feel an immense relief. In fact, I didn't even realize how heavily that responsibility and presence weighed on me until it fell away. Thursday night I was hysterically depressed, walking barefoot down dark streets, not caring that it wasn't safe, feeling that the next month and a half was an impossible eternity. And now... now I feel like I can make it.
Terri came home today with a pair of lovely dollar-something-jeans in need of a minor repair. There was a rip in the seam on the outside of the right leg at the hip, maybe an inch long. I was grumpy when she asked me to fix it, and I remained grumpy for several minutes, but once I started sewing, I felt much better.
I love doing slow, meticulous things. I love to untangle knots, dig holes, edit texts, hand-wash dishes... and I love sewing by hand. I love the sensation of calm focus and the simplicity of the task. The sweep of my hand as I pull the thread through feels like taking a deep breath.
This is my tribute to my grandmother.
But in a statement of freedom, I'm not sewing the way she would; I'm not measuring a thing and my stitches aren't straight. I want my things to look hand-sewn; why would I want to mimic a machine? I do thread the needle like she did, though.
When mom called and told me she'd died, I asked if she wanted me to come over, if she was alone. Dad was with her, so she left the decision up to me. I thought... and decided I shouldn't; better to remember her alive, and better to spare my chemically imbalanced brain a possibly highly distressing sight. But then she came over and I kept thinking about it... and a vague sense of duty and my writing curiosity took over.
The first thing to strike me was the smell--faint, but noticeable. It was strange... strange that my body responded so quickly, death. Then, walking through her familiar kitchen, to the side of her blue recliner, I saw her. She was so pale. From movies, books, and general knowledge, I expected that, but was still a little surprised. She was beautiful. Her forehead was smooth, all her muscles finally relaxed. But she did not look peacefully asleep. Kind of peaceful, but mostly just dead (reminding me of Johnny from The Outsiders), and still very beautiful.
I saw my father cry for the first time in my life. They were light tears, the tears of someone unused to the sensation, someone who can't quite stop them, but can't really keep them going. He monologued about grandma and came over to hug me. I very, very rarely hug him back, but this time I did. In that moment he was not my father. He was a very sad man who was crying and telling me he loved me. Not "Daddy loves you," but a tear-streaked, heart-felt "I love you, Tracey." He was not my father. He was a human being. And I told this man something I haven't said to him since I was very small. It took conscious effort, but after a pause, I said, "Love you, too." And in that moment, I really did.
Those sentiments faded the next day, as sentiments do, but that's okay. It happened once now, and I'll do my best to make it happen again someday. And if I never do, that's okay, too. I may never love my father, but I can love his humanity.
I know I need to let everyone grieve as they must, but I seem to have less and less patience lately. Whatever it is within me, I don't want to talk about it and I don't want to hear about it.
I wouldn't say I'm sad. I think I've done my mourning. I'm happy that she's free--she was just in pain and unhappy before. Why should anyone wish to continue that?--yet I wouldn't quite say I'm happy. Not exactly. I do feel an immense relief. In fact, I didn't even realize how heavily that responsibility and presence weighed on me until it fell away. Thursday night I was hysterically depressed, walking barefoot down dark streets, not caring that it wasn't safe, feeling that the next month and a half was an impossible eternity. And now... now I feel like I can make it.
Terri came home today with a pair of lovely dollar-something-jeans in need of a minor repair. There was a rip in the seam on the outside of the right leg at the hip, maybe an inch long. I was grumpy when she asked me to fix it, and I remained grumpy for several minutes, but once I started sewing, I felt much better.
I love doing slow, meticulous things. I love to untangle knots, dig holes, edit texts, hand-wash dishes... and I love sewing by hand. I love the sensation of calm focus and the simplicity of the task. The sweep of my hand as I pull the thread through feels like taking a deep breath.
This is my tribute to my grandmother.
But in a statement of freedom, I'm not sewing the way she would; I'm not measuring a thing and my stitches aren't straight. I want my things to look hand-sewn; why would I want to mimic a machine? I do thread the needle like she did, though.
When mom called and told me she'd died, I asked if she wanted me to come over, if she was alone. Dad was with her, so she left the decision up to me. I thought... and decided I shouldn't; better to remember her alive, and better to spare my chemically imbalanced brain a possibly highly distressing sight. But then she came over and I kept thinking about it... and a vague sense of duty and my writing curiosity took over.
The first thing to strike me was the smell--faint, but noticeable. It was strange... strange that my body responded so quickly, death. Then, walking through her familiar kitchen, to the side of her blue recliner, I saw her. She was so pale. From movies, books, and general knowledge, I expected that, but was still a little surprised. She was beautiful. Her forehead was smooth, all her muscles finally relaxed. But she did not look peacefully asleep. Kind of peaceful, but mostly just dead (reminding me of Johnny from The Outsiders), and still very beautiful.
I saw my father cry for the first time in my life. They were light tears, the tears of someone unused to the sensation, someone who can't quite stop them, but can't really keep them going. He monologued about grandma and came over to hug me. I very, very rarely hug him back, but this time I did. In that moment he was not my father. He was a very sad man who was crying and telling me he loved me. Not "Daddy loves you," but a tear-streaked, heart-felt "I love you, Tracey." He was not my father. He was a human being. And I told this man something I haven't said to him since I was very small. It took conscious effort, but after a pause, I said, "Love you, too." And in that moment, I really did.
Those sentiments faded the next day, as sentiments do, but that's okay. It happened once now, and I'll do my best to make it happen again someday. And if I never do, that's okay, too. I may never love my father, but I can love his humanity.
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