"He's fading pretty fast," My mother says on the other end of the line. This feels very practical. We are having a practical conversation about the end of my grandfather's life.
"I think you need to come down and see him. And you can stay with him while I take Nanny to buy some new shoes." Yep. Yep, ok. Practical. My grandmother really needs new shoes. This will be a nice thing for her. And I can sit and talk with him or watch him sleep or listen to the television. In my brain I think "Yes, ok, I'll go say my goodbyes. On the only free afternoon I have. This will work out nicely." But what my body does is fall down onto my bed, what my face does is deform itself into the world famous ugly-crying-position, and what my voice does is whimper out "What if he dies while I'm alone with him?"
This, all of a sudden, is the worst thing I can think of. We know he's dying, and now he's dying at an acellerated rate. It could happen any day, any minute. What if it happens while my mother and my grandmother are out at the shopping mall buying sneakers and I'm all alone with him? Am I in charge of trying to save him? What if he falls over? What if I have to pick him up and I break him? What if he's choking? Do I let him choke? I am terrible at CPR.
This man who has helped raise me and care for me my entire life is fading fast. A euphamism I roll my eyes at though is still one of the only accurate ways to describe what is happening. He has been a strong and handsome tree trunk, with a full cinematically sculpted head of silver hair. Now he is collapsing in on himself. He weighs less than I do, and his hair is wild and crazy. He looks like a holocaust victim trying to be a Gene Wilder impersonator. This is my grandfather. This is not my grandfather.
I cannot come to terms with this paradigm.
I cannot be the one in charge of him in what could be the last moments of his strong handsome tree trunk life.
I have had a lifetime of sudden deaths and painful blinsiding necessitations of saying goodbye. My relationship with grief has been built on the foundation that you say goodbye and then spend years coming to terms with the tragedy and dealing with the grief. Putting the pieces back together, painstakingly, over reflection and memory. I have never been given the morbid experience of knowing. I do not know how to deal with this kind of death. If he got hit by a bus? I am all over that. I have training for how to be sad and carry that with me. But he's just sort of slowly (or, more rapidly now) losing his life? No tools. I am not equipped to process this. I'm feeling it and I don't even know what it feels like. I don't even know how to label these feelings.
An old man comes into work. He orders a muffin and a cup of coffee. He wants a large paper cup but he only wants to fill it half way. "I couldn't possibly drink all that!" This man and I talk sometimes. He has a full head of cinematically sculpted hair which looks like he dies it brown. He has wrinkles and smiles. On this day, he orders his half full cup of coffee and his muffin ("that looks like the best one in the case!") and he shuffles over to his seat, and I am slapped in the face. By something. I don't know what it is. I turn my back to the room and pretend I am making coffee and I begin to weep. Just uncontrollably weep. "Get it together," I say. "I can't," I say. Truly, I can't. I just have to hide my face and weep. Eventually I stumble upon the grand discovery that this man makes me think of my grandfather. And I am crying because my grandfather is dying.
I am crying because my grandfather walked me to school in the morning when I was in 7th grade. I am crying because as a child I loved to be naked, and would run around his house parading my nudity, and he would throw his arms up exclaiming to my grandmother "Jeeesus Christ, Vianna! Get some clothes on that girl!". I am crying because that was his way of delighting in my freedom. I am crying because he never disapproved of anything I have done. I am crying because after my cousin died he told me privately the one thing he wanted before he died was to watch me get married. I am crying because I am not married, and I am crying because he probably doesn't even remember he said that. I am crying because on father's day after I had gotten my first tattoo, which was his tattoo, my mother made me show it to the family and amidst the squaks of disapproval and my grandmother scolding me, he smiled and slapped me on the back, right on the fresh tattoo, because that was the only way he could express how proud and honored he was. I am crying because in all the years I lived with him and close to him we spent a lot of time not talking. Because our relationship didn't necessitate words. I am crying because growing up with a revolving door of male figures to look up to he was the one constant. I am crying because when my father needed a stiff shake back into responsible parenting my grandfather gave it to him. I am crying because there have been nearly 20 times that doctors have told us he would die, and they've always been wrong. Except for now. I am crying because I've been breaking out in hives and I'm pretty sure this is why. I am crying because nothing in this world can replace who he is or what he has been to me. And nothing should. And I am crying because the weight of that absence is being felt while he is simultaneously still on the planet and that makes me feel sad confused and guilty. I am crying because I cannot stop my life to be with him. I cannot ask for free time or not go to work or tell all the obligations that have me way too busy "Sorry. I can't right now". I am crying because it's happening no matter what. It's happening. He is dying.
Today I go to say goodbye. Maybe I'll get another chance. I am not sure though how many times I can handle believing I have seen him for the last time. Today I am saying goodbye. With hives and body odor and malnutrition I am going to sit with him and his crumpled little body and Gene Wilder hair. And I probably won't even find it in me to tell him how much I care. We will probably just sit. Because this is the way this happens. The anti-climactic, burdensome, sorrowful, regret-filled, totally uneventful act of watching someone die.
7.22.2011
Dear: Watching Someone Die Part 1
A list of things you think when you find out someone you love is dieing:
+I am going to cry in this parking lot and I might not ever leave.
+People walking by probably think my boyfriend (the Giraffe) just beat me. I should stop crying long enough to smile and wave at them so they know it's ok. "Hey guys, everything's cool over here! Just casually chilling in this dirty parking lot!"
+I wonder if I will look back on this as one of those profound moments and say "I was starving and standing in a Blockbuster parking lot when I learned my grandfather is dieing".
+I'm so hungry but now I can't imagine eating. What if I never eat? What if I do eat? Is it inappropriate to eat while I am so upset? I want a Big Mac. Is it right or wrong to treat myself with shitty food product right now?
+I should start writing my speech for the service. I want to make a speech. Who in the family would I notify about calling dibbs on speech time? Oh god, I am trying to call dibbs on my beloved Papa's posthumous time and he's not even dead yet. Fuck me. Don't say anything. Maybe just start writing the speech in your head.
+I have so much acne. I never imagined I would have such rampant acne at almost 30. These are going to scar.
+What if Papa dies on my birthday? Will I ever be able to enjoy it again?
+Friday's my birthday. Did the Giraffe get me anything? I shouldn't act upset if he didn't. Even though I will be really upset.
+OK, well, we know he's dying. People always say this is good because then you get to have closure, you know, say your goodbyes. You get to, like, have those talks about how important your relationship has been and how much they, you know, impacted your life, and then they can tell you they're so proud of you and, you know, death isn't so scary, and they feel ready to go etc etc etc. And then you can have, you know, like total blissful closure. NO. That is not going to happen here. My grandfather is not that type of man. There will be no emotional purging followed by a calm sense of peace. There will be awkward bedside comments about the weather and how work is going and how still you're an actor and a writer who doesn't make any money. But you'll make it sound really good. Yeah, you'll just have to make it sound really good. Like, lie and stuff. That'll be nice for him. Give him something pleasant to think about.
+Big Mac. I want to eat that Big Mac. Eating a Big Mac and crying is one of the most pathetic things I can think of right now. Maybe I shouldn't do that.
...And then I collapsed against a lamp post in a going-out-of-buisness Blockbuster parking lot littered with junkie garbage and sobbed. My grandfather is dying.
+I am going to cry in this parking lot and I might not ever leave.
+People walking by probably think my boyfriend (the Giraffe) just beat me. I should stop crying long enough to smile and wave at them so they know it's ok. "Hey guys, everything's cool over here! Just casually chilling in this dirty parking lot!"
+I wonder if I will look back on this as one of those profound moments and say "I was starving and standing in a Blockbuster parking lot when I learned my grandfather is dieing".
+I'm so hungry but now I can't imagine eating. What if I never eat? What if I do eat? Is it inappropriate to eat while I am so upset? I want a Big Mac. Is it right or wrong to treat myself with shitty food product right now?
+I should start writing my speech for the service. I want to make a speech. Who in the family would I notify about calling dibbs on speech time? Oh god, I am trying to call dibbs on my beloved Papa's posthumous time and he's not even dead yet. Fuck me. Don't say anything. Maybe just start writing the speech in your head.
+I have so much acne. I never imagined I would have such rampant acne at almost 30. These are going to scar.
+What if Papa dies on my birthday? Will I ever be able to enjoy it again?
+Friday's my birthday. Did the Giraffe get me anything? I shouldn't act upset if he didn't. Even though I will be really upset.
+OK, well, we know he's dying. People always say this is good because then you get to have closure, you know, say your goodbyes. You get to, like, have those talks about how important your relationship has been and how much they, you know, impacted your life, and then they can tell you they're so proud of you and, you know, death isn't so scary, and they feel ready to go etc etc etc. And then you can have, you know, like total blissful closure. NO. That is not going to happen here. My grandfather is not that type of man. There will be no emotional purging followed by a calm sense of peace. There will be awkward bedside comments about the weather and how work is going and how still you're an actor and a writer who doesn't make any money. But you'll make it sound really good. Yeah, you'll just have to make it sound really good. Like, lie and stuff. That'll be nice for him. Give him something pleasant to think about.
+Big Mac. I want to eat that Big Mac. Eating a Big Mac and crying is one of the most pathetic things I can think of right now. Maybe I shouldn't do that.
...And then I collapsed against a lamp post in a going-out-of-buisness Blockbuster parking lot littered with junkie garbage and sobbed. My grandfather is dying.
7.20.2011
Dear Material Obsession: So Many Shoes
My mom used to call me "Imelda Marcos". I thought that was only someone an old person knew about. She owned a lot of shoes, you guys. I don't spend a lot of money on shoes but I acquire them frequently. It's kind of a thing. When I left Brooklyn I had to get rid of almost 50 pairs. It's been a few years now. The reserves are slowly being filled again. Can't stop don't stop won't stop.
I am too cheap to buy real mukluks. So I found these spirit boots for hellllla cheap on ye olde interweb. Gets the job done.
I debated for days about which pair of these Jeffrey Campbell 99's to buy. They're all so bomb (dotcom). Even though wounded foot prevents me from wearing heels very often, these special homies make a nice treat for times with lots of sitting involved.
After cleaning out our foyer I discovered how many shoes were being harbored there. All but 2 pairs were mine. There are, I think, 27 pairs here. This is only half, maybe, of my shoe collection.
Clogs?! Well, kind of clogs. Cool clogs. Pretty real.
I waited years for these boots. They came to me in a free pile when I graduated. I am bad to shoes, so these are almost RIP. I'll wear these trusty steeds until they disintegrate. Try as I might (and I do) no replacement can be found.
7.19.2011
Dear Sleep
We've been around and around about this. I don't see why we can't just get along.
When we force ourselves to get along you just give me shitty dreams. You used to make me late for things by staying too long, and you'd make me mad all day by showing up late.
Look. It's been almost 30 years. I want us to have a normal relationship. Tell your partner Tired to start coming around more when it's supposed to and maybe we can start working this thing out.
Mama
7.05.2011
Dear Old People, I Get It Now.
To all the Old People Across America,
Let me take this moment to apologize, sincerely, from the bottom of my weepy heart, for the loudness I've inflicted upon you. I'm sorry for any hooting I've done under lamplights, any parties I've been a party in, any street jamz I've encouraged the bumping of, any unfortunate shouting matches I've incited--any of it, all of it. Also, this one goes out to all the people in the quiet houses at college, whom I tormented with my late night plucky antics and banshee behavior--you were way ahead of me on the curve into adulthood. So sorry. Because, you guys, I get it now. Being loud around places other people are trying to sleep is FUCKING RUDE.
I am like an angry old man, shaking a veiny fist from my sealy posturpedic bed at all the haters. I am livid at what happened on our Independence Day, because I was trying so hard (so hard, you guys) to sleep. Now, I am not an unreasonable man. Let me explain.
It's the fourth of July: the bi-annual amateurs night (right behind New Years Eve), and there are three kinds of people who participate in this celebration. The party people who want to get wasted and party, the square most-of-the-time-well-behaved normal people who have NO idea how to drink or behave themselves when they do so, and the crazy people who delight in a night they can indulge in their naturally crazy behavior and finally blend in. I don't know who's the worst here. Something about Fireworks makes everyone in America feel they have the license to go fucking craaayzaay. I get it: mob mentality is a really powerful thing and being granted an excuse to be irresponsible can feel relieving. But a cause for celebration should be handled responsibly--controlled chaos, you know what I'm saying?
Right now the Giraffe, Little Boo and I are housesitting in a fancy neighborhood where the lawns are manicured and the windows have views people pay good money for. Grown up land. Were we sleeping in the ghetto of our own house I probably would not feel angry nor surprised. But here we are, in a quiet area, watching over this big house and the hyper-anxious dog who lives there. This dog is nuts. I love all dogs. You know this to be true. But this girl, she has huge nails, which she nervously scrapes all over the hardwood floors all night, she obsessively drinks all the water she can find (even if it's pee from the toilet), and then she has to urinate every 3 hours. Also, her favorite activity is to pace around the bed with her giant nails and whimper. Sleeping has already been a challenge. Last night was enough for me wrap myself up in a straight jacket and hurl my tired body down into the dark of a potato cellar.
While I understand that America needs to let off steam and pretend it's all about our country's independence, I certainly didn't think they would do it in this neighborhood. Everyone shot their wads during the big fireworks display, I get that. We watched it, too. When we drove home it took us over an hour to go half a mile. I get that. Teenage girls walked down the street flipping everyone off because they felt so cool. I get that. We pulled into the quiet of the grown up neighborhood after midnight, and all was calm. That made sense to me. The nervous dog had peed all over the place (probably due to the freaky sound of fireworks and drinking all the toilet water she could find). I cleaned it up, and we took her for a walk. By the time I got into bed it was 1:20. I was supposed to wake up at 6am to start a day full of meetings and work. "5 1/2 hours of sleep? Not ideal, but I've functioned on worse," I thought. Then I set my alarm and tried to go to sleep. TRIED. The next thing I know the dog is circling the bed, scraping her godforsaken nails like some cruel morris code. (*circling the bed, yes. The bed in this house is in the middle of the room. I don't even know how to explain that choice.) Up the stairs, down the stairs. Pacing the front door, circling the bed. Whimpering. Digging trails of anxiety as she goes. Eventually I get up, pissed by the pressure of attempting to get 4 hours of sleep, and let her out. I'm so mad I refuse to look at the clock because seeing how much time has passed without sleep will only make me more enraged. I get back in bed.
The next thing I know the sonic sounds of booming, and the cheap flashing of lights rock the house. SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE is lighting off goddamned fireworks. Again and again and again. Much like the gunshots in the ghetto, the sound ricochets off the walls of the bedroom. Where is it coming from? It sounds like it's coming from right outside the window on the corner, but it could be anywhere. All I know is it's CLOSE. It's after 2 in the morning, and someone is setting off gigantic fireworks in the peaceful, rich person neighborhood. Two in the morning!!!!! The dog goes crazy. Between the constant light and sound show coming from the street and the insane behavior of the poor dog, it is maybe a minute before my melt-down button is pushed and I start to lose my fucking mind. I can't call the cops. Everyone is calling the cops tonight. What am I supposed to say? "Hey, I'm trying to be a responsible adult and people are being really rude with their fireworks. Please stop fighting crime and come make them stop"?!??! No. I can't say that. The cops won't do shit. I try to wait it out, thrashing around the bed like a whiny child. Maybe someone else will call the cops. No one does. Bam bam bam. The dog is losing her mind. So am I. The Giraffe gets up and goes outside. "Be authoritative, honey," I think, "tell those assholes to quiet the fuck down". He doesn't. I don't blame him. Then inconsiderates lighting their shit off would just laugh if some square in pajamas told them to quiet down. It just goes on and on and on. Eventually I wonder, who spent all this money on fireworks? Why did they wait until everyone in the world was trying to sleep to set that shit off? How am I going to function on 3 1/2 hours of sleep? Life is so unfair!!! The world is so cruel!!! Woe is me!!! Pretty literally, that's what I was thinking. Somewhere, in all of that mess, my alarm got turned off. I missed my first meeting. No babies died, no bombs were set off, it wasn't the worst thing in the world--but it fucking pissed me off. Now I'm tired and behind schedule.
So here's the deal. When I was laying there in agony, like I was passing a kidney stone or something, I realized exactly how other people must have felt as a result of my behavior. That really sucks. I am almost 30 years old, and sleeping and being responsible feels pretty fucking good, and when people mess that up at totally insane times of the night I get so upset. It's not ok. I was that guy once or twice! THAT GUY, you guys! And you know what? It's so fun to be crazy and irresponsible. Totally fun sometimes. I get it. But wouldn't it be best to have your unbridled fun in a place where it's not at the expense of others? Go nuts and also be respectful? Is that so much to ask? Or take your rioting inside at a reasonable time? See, I still love the insanity. I think that's great every now and then. But the world goes on. People get up and go to work. Tasks have to get accomplished. Things must be done. Getting in the way of that for others when there are perfectly reasonable other places to do your woot-ing and loot-ing is just so disrespectful.
Maybe the rage I felt last night was some sort of payback for all the running around neighborhoods I've done when others were being responsible. Point taken, world. I also see how clearly I do not want to identify that kind of disrespectful behavior with myself anymore. That's what music festivals and camping trips and crowded city blocks are for. Everything has a place. It's important, I think, to be a conscious person in the world, and do things in the right places, at the right times.
We all have to live here.
Now I'm tired, grouchy, and opinionated as ever. But I'm also sorry to all the old people I've ever kept awake. That shit was not cool. Ugh. I'm going to stay in a retirement community for New Years Eve.
Mama.
Let me take this moment to apologize, sincerely, from the bottom of my weepy heart, for the loudness I've inflicted upon you. I'm sorry for any hooting I've done under lamplights, any parties I've been a party in, any street jamz I've encouraged the bumping of, any unfortunate shouting matches I've incited--any of it, all of it. Also, this one goes out to all the people in the quiet houses at college, whom I tormented with my late night plucky antics and banshee behavior--you were way ahead of me on the curve into adulthood. So sorry. Because, you guys, I get it now. Being loud around places other people are trying to sleep is FUCKING RUDE.
I am like an angry old man, shaking a veiny fist from my sealy posturpedic bed at all the haters. I am livid at what happened on our Independence Day, because I was trying so hard (so hard, you guys) to sleep. Now, I am not an unreasonable man. Let me explain.
It's the fourth of July: the bi-annual amateurs night (right behind New Years Eve), and there are three kinds of people who participate in this celebration. The party people who want to get wasted and party, the square most-of-the-time-well-behaved normal people who have NO idea how to drink or behave themselves when they do so, and the crazy people who delight in a night they can indulge in their naturally crazy behavior and finally blend in. I don't know who's the worst here. Something about Fireworks makes everyone in America feel they have the license to go fucking craaayzaay. I get it: mob mentality is a really powerful thing and being granted an excuse to be irresponsible can feel relieving. But a cause for celebration should be handled responsibly--controlled chaos, you know what I'm saying?
Right now the Giraffe, Little Boo and I are housesitting in a fancy neighborhood where the lawns are manicured and the windows have views people pay good money for. Grown up land. Were we sleeping in the ghetto of our own house I probably would not feel angry nor surprised. But here we are, in a quiet area, watching over this big house and the hyper-anxious dog who lives there. This dog is nuts. I love all dogs. You know this to be true. But this girl, she has huge nails, which she nervously scrapes all over the hardwood floors all night, she obsessively drinks all the water she can find (even if it's pee from the toilet), and then she has to urinate every 3 hours. Also, her favorite activity is to pace around the bed with her giant nails and whimper. Sleeping has already been a challenge. Last night was enough for me wrap myself up in a straight jacket and hurl my tired body down into the dark of a potato cellar.
While I understand that America needs to let off steam and pretend it's all about our country's independence, I certainly didn't think they would do it in this neighborhood. Everyone shot their wads during the big fireworks display, I get that. We watched it, too. When we drove home it took us over an hour to go half a mile. I get that. Teenage girls walked down the street flipping everyone off because they felt so cool. I get that. We pulled into the quiet of the grown up neighborhood after midnight, and all was calm. That made sense to me. The nervous dog had peed all over the place (probably due to the freaky sound of fireworks and drinking all the toilet water she could find). I cleaned it up, and we took her for a walk. By the time I got into bed it was 1:20. I was supposed to wake up at 6am to start a day full of meetings and work. "5 1/2 hours of sleep? Not ideal, but I've functioned on worse," I thought. Then I set my alarm and tried to go to sleep. TRIED. The next thing I know the dog is circling the bed, scraping her godforsaken nails like some cruel morris code. (*circling the bed, yes. The bed in this house is in the middle of the room. I don't even know how to explain that choice.) Up the stairs, down the stairs. Pacing the front door, circling the bed. Whimpering. Digging trails of anxiety as she goes. Eventually I get up, pissed by the pressure of attempting to get 4 hours of sleep, and let her out. I'm so mad I refuse to look at the clock because seeing how much time has passed without sleep will only make me more enraged. I get back in bed.
The next thing I know the sonic sounds of booming, and the cheap flashing of lights rock the house. SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE is lighting off goddamned fireworks. Again and again and again. Much like the gunshots in the ghetto, the sound ricochets off the walls of the bedroom. Where is it coming from? It sounds like it's coming from right outside the window on the corner, but it could be anywhere. All I know is it's CLOSE. It's after 2 in the morning, and someone is setting off gigantic fireworks in the peaceful, rich person neighborhood. Two in the morning!!!!! The dog goes crazy. Between the constant light and sound show coming from the street and the insane behavior of the poor dog, it is maybe a minute before my melt-down button is pushed and I start to lose my fucking mind. I can't call the cops. Everyone is calling the cops tonight. What am I supposed to say? "Hey, I'm trying to be a responsible adult and people are being really rude with their fireworks. Please stop fighting crime and come make them stop"?!??! No. I can't say that. The cops won't do shit. I try to wait it out, thrashing around the bed like a whiny child. Maybe someone else will call the cops. No one does. Bam bam bam. The dog is losing her mind. So am I. The Giraffe gets up and goes outside. "Be authoritative, honey," I think, "tell those assholes to quiet the fuck down". He doesn't. I don't blame him. Then inconsiderates lighting their shit off would just laugh if some square in pajamas told them to quiet down. It just goes on and on and on. Eventually I wonder, who spent all this money on fireworks? Why did they wait until everyone in the world was trying to sleep to set that shit off? How am I going to function on 3 1/2 hours of sleep? Life is so unfair!!! The world is so cruel!!! Woe is me!!! Pretty literally, that's what I was thinking. Somewhere, in all of that mess, my alarm got turned off. I missed my first meeting. No babies died, no bombs were set off, it wasn't the worst thing in the world--but it fucking pissed me off. Now I'm tired and behind schedule.
So here's the deal. When I was laying there in agony, like I was passing a kidney stone or something, I realized exactly how other people must have felt as a result of my behavior. That really sucks. I am almost 30 years old, and sleeping and being responsible feels pretty fucking good, and when people mess that up at totally insane times of the night I get so upset. It's not ok. I was that guy once or twice! THAT GUY, you guys! And you know what? It's so fun to be crazy and irresponsible. Totally fun sometimes. I get it. But wouldn't it be best to have your unbridled fun in a place where it's not at the expense of others? Go nuts and also be respectful? Is that so much to ask? Or take your rioting inside at a reasonable time? See, I still love the insanity. I think that's great every now and then. But the world goes on. People get up and go to work. Tasks have to get accomplished. Things must be done. Getting in the way of that for others when there are perfectly reasonable other places to do your woot-ing and loot-ing is just so disrespectful.
Maybe the rage I felt last night was some sort of payback for all the running around neighborhoods I've done when others were being responsible. Point taken, world. I also see how clearly I do not want to identify that kind of disrespectful behavior with myself anymore. That's what music festivals and camping trips and crowded city blocks are for. Everything has a place. It's important, I think, to be a conscious person in the world, and do things in the right places, at the right times.
We all have to live here.
Now I'm tired, grouchy, and opinionated as ever. But I'm also sorry to all the old people I've ever kept awake. That shit was not cool. Ugh. I'm going to stay in a retirement community for New Years Eve.
Mama.
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