I write a lot of first sentences of blog posts in my head, sometimes. I used to feel guilty for not blogging ever because it was like "either you blog or you don't, and you should, and if you don't then you're a worse version of yourself" and there was no "sometimes you write a blog post like once a year and that's totally fine." And I don't know if it's growing up or successfully giving up perfectionism or being a calmer person or not having enough goals or what, but I'm fine with blogging or not blogging or whatever, it's fine.
I think about writing about the yarn I'm spinning or the dish towels I'm weaving or the podcasts I'm listening to, or the fact that I find myself saying "I hate my job" more often than I wish I did, or the fact that I got engaged and we had engagement pictures taken and they're so perfect and I can't wait to marry my perfect partner in 493 days.
But then things happen like this morning when my phone rang and I saw that it was my mom and before I even picked up the phone I knew somebody died. Because my mother does not call me on a Thursday morning at 8:37 to talk about the weather. She calls me on a Thursday morning to say things like "Grandmother died a few minutes ago."
Then I got off the phone and stopped knowing how I was supposed to be. I wasn't very close to her. I was like I guess I should call my boss and say I am taking the day off, and I called my boss and said "I don't really know what I'm saying, I guess I'm saying I don't know what the expectation is when somebody dies, am I supposed to not work?" Because my level of social ineptitude is just spectacular. And my concept of how to grieve is so well developed. My use of sarcasm is also appropriate. I don't know if that comes across in a blog but I hope it does. I was told that obviously I am supposed to take the day off.
So I'm home, doing the "not working" thing, and wondering how I'm supposed to feel. Am I sad enough? What am I supposed to think about? I am trying to remember the last time I saw her and I can't. Maybe it was when my uncle died. Maybe it was Thanksgiving three or four years ago. I am trying to remember other things but the most vivid memory I have of this woman is when I was a child, maybe in middle school, and she gave me a wall calendar that had pictures of bulldogs and said it reminded her of me. I think about that more often than is probably reasonable, and to this day I do not know what she meant by it, and I try to come up with reasons that it could be a nice gift. I don't know. It's also possible that this memory is totally fabricated, which is weird, but maybe it is, and maybe I just remember "remembering" it for all these years, if remembering a false memory can be called remembering at all. Why would I make that up? Of all things to make up? Anyway. Brains are mysterious. That's fine.
My fiancé called and asked if I was okay and if there was anything he could do. I never know what to say to that. Someone died. What can anyone do? He said "I'm bad at this" and I said "I know," teasing him, because empathy is not a strong suit of his. He's even worse at it than I am, but we live with that, and I tell myself it's endearing because it is, to me. I feel like I should come up with something that he can do for me, because he shows love through actions, and I want to give him the opportunity to be there for me in a way that he is "good at." All the things I could think of are dumb, like ice cream, because eating ice cream makes me feel better, but then I realize I don't GET ice cream because someone DIED, that is so senseless and feels insensitive and selfish and wrong. As if there is a right way to do any of this. As if guilt makes sense under these circumstances. I cleaned the bathroom today because I felt guilty. Guilty that I am not sad enough (Am I sad enough? Is it selfish to act "more sad" because I think that would be the appropriate reaction? That just sounds psychopathic. I mean I'm not not sad, and I know that there is no incorrect amount of sadness, so I'm probably fine and I should stop asking these questions.) Guilty for taking the day off of work when I hadn't even spoken to her in years. Guilty that I hadn't cleaned the bathroom in weeks, and guilty that I was thinking about the bathroom instead of thinking about my family. Guilty because I wanted to crochet and not clean. But now the bathroom is clean, so maybe that counts for something. I went to the dentist today, so maybe that counts for something else. But in reality it doesn't count for anything. It also doesn't count for nothing. Because there is nothing to "count." There is no scale, there is nothing to add or subtract, it just is what it is. Life is life and death is death and that is that.
So I am not asking my fiancé for ice cream or anything. Because the truth is that when he called and I heard the tone of his voice, it was enough. I know that he loves me immensely and will do anything in his power to care for me. And the more days that accumulate in my life, the more I think that love is the whole point of everything. Love for this human that I'm going to vow to spend my life with, love for my family, love for my cats and my yarn and the shower curtain that we bought together last week, love for the green of the trees and the blue of the sky (right now, in this moment), love for the experience of experiencing everything, big or small, happy or sad. I almost said "good or bad" but that's not the point at all, because it's not good, it's not bad, it just IS. Life is life and death is death and love is love, and that is that.
So I won't try to write an eloquent eulogy, I can't, I mean I don't even know what to think about, all I remember is bulldogs, I judge my own feelings, and it occurs to me that all I'm thinking about is myself, basically. I know that she had a great sense of humor. I know that she passed on her quick wit and sharp mind to her seven wonderful children, one of whom is a wonderful father to me and my sister. I know some other things but there are more things that I don't know.
I know that she loved and was loved. I know that she lived.
I know that whether I'm "doing it right" or not is irrelevant, since, you know, there is no "right," and it's not about me. But maybe it is a little bit. I mean, if it's about love, isn't it about everyone?
I think about writing about the yarn I'm spinning or the dish towels I'm weaving or the podcasts I'm listening to, or the fact that I find myself saying "I hate my job" more often than I wish I did, or the fact that I got engaged and we had engagement pictures taken and they're so perfect and I can't wait to marry my perfect partner in 493 days.
But then things happen like this morning when my phone rang and I saw that it was my mom and before I even picked up the phone I knew somebody died. Because my mother does not call me on a Thursday morning at 8:37 to talk about the weather. She calls me on a Thursday morning to say things like "Grandmother died a few minutes ago."
Then I got off the phone and stopped knowing how I was supposed to be. I wasn't very close to her. I was like I guess I should call my boss and say I am taking the day off, and I called my boss and said "I don't really know what I'm saying, I guess I'm saying I don't know what the expectation is when somebody dies, am I supposed to not work?" Because my level of social ineptitude is just spectacular. And my concept of how to grieve is so well developed. My use of sarcasm is also appropriate. I don't know if that comes across in a blog but I hope it does. I was told that obviously I am supposed to take the day off.
So I'm home, doing the "not working" thing, and wondering how I'm supposed to feel. Am I sad enough? What am I supposed to think about? I am trying to remember the last time I saw her and I can't. Maybe it was when my uncle died. Maybe it was Thanksgiving three or four years ago. I am trying to remember other things but the most vivid memory I have of this woman is when I was a child, maybe in middle school, and she gave me a wall calendar that had pictures of bulldogs and said it reminded her of me. I think about that more often than is probably reasonable, and to this day I do not know what she meant by it, and I try to come up with reasons that it could be a nice gift. I don't know. It's also possible that this memory is totally fabricated, which is weird, but maybe it is, and maybe I just remember "remembering" it for all these years, if remembering a false memory can be called remembering at all. Why would I make that up? Of all things to make up? Anyway. Brains are mysterious. That's fine.
My fiancé called and asked if I was okay and if there was anything he could do. I never know what to say to that. Someone died. What can anyone do? He said "I'm bad at this" and I said "I know," teasing him, because empathy is not a strong suit of his. He's even worse at it than I am, but we live with that, and I tell myself it's endearing because it is, to me. I feel like I should come up with something that he can do for me, because he shows love through actions, and I want to give him the opportunity to be there for me in a way that he is "good at." All the things I could think of are dumb, like ice cream, because eating ice cream makes me feel better, but then I realize I don't GET ice cream because someone DIED, that is so senseless and feels insensitive and selfish and wrong. As if there is a right way to do any of this. As if guilt makes sense under these circumstances. I cleaned the bathroom today because I felt guilty. Guilty that I am not sad enough (Am I sad enough? Is it selfish to act "more sad" because I think that would be the appropriate reaction? That just sounds psychopathic. I mean I'm not not sad, and I know that there is no incorrect amount of sadness, so I'm probably fine and I should stop asking these questions.) Guilty for taking the day off of work when I hadn't even spoken to her in years. Guilty that I hadn't cleaned the bathroom in weeks, and guilty that I was thinking about the bathroom instead of thinking about my family. Guilty because I wanted to crochet and not clean. But now the bathroom is clean, so maybe that counts for something. I went to the dentist today, so maybe that counts for something else. But in reality it doesn't count for anything. It also doesn't count for nothing. Because there is nothing to "count." There is no scale, there is nothing to add or subtract, it just is what it is. Life is life and death is death and that is that.
So I am not asking my fiancé for ice cream or anything. Because the truth is that when he called and I heard the tone of his voice, it was enough. I know that he loves me immensely and will do anything in his power to care for me. And the more days that accumulate in my life, the more I think that love is the whole point of everything. Love for this human that I'm going to vow to spend my life with, love for my family, love for my cats and my yarn and the shower curtain that we bought together last week, love for the green of the trees and the blue of the sky (right now, in this moment), love for the experience of experiencing everything, big or small, happy or sad. I almost said "good or bad" but that's not the point at all, because it's not good, it's not bad, it just IS. Life is life and death is death and love is love, and that is that.
So I won't try to write an eloquent eulogy, I can't, I mean I don't even know what to think about, all I remember is bulldogs, I judge my own feelings, and it occurs to me that all I'm thinking about is myself, basically. I know that she had a great sense of humor. I know that she passed on her quick wit and sharp mind to her seven wonderful children, one of whom is a wonderful father to me and my sister. I know some other things but there are more things that I don't know.
I know that she loved and was loved. I know that she lived.
I know that whether I'm "doing it right" or not is irrelevant, since, you know, there is no "right," and it's not about me. But maybe it is a little bit. I mean, if it's about love, isn't it about everyone?
