Half Ashed.

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It is that time of year again where I allow myself to wallow in my own angst and agony.   It has become a bit of a yearly tradition for me to make time and room for those feelings that don’t easily fit in with the day to day demands of career and family.  It is my time, and I will love every miserable minute of it.   When the month of February has passed our birthday, followed by the anniversary dates of my father’s death and subsequently my brother’s death, I will put it all back on the highest shelf and wait until next year to blow the dust off the box of memories that will eventually be the tomb of cherished heart mending memories and not the broken heart in a box that it is today.  I wait.

Shortly after I posted the pic above, Whiskey posted a link to her most recent blog post http://whiskeymonday.com/2013/01/28/quality-of-life/ .   I only bring it up because when I read it…It made me angry.  I know, I am chuckling about it too.  Angry? WTF? Why?  I don’t know, but I thought I would explore it out loud, so to speak.

First I thought that it may be the bitching about a pain scale that was in her opinion, inadequate.  I’m Ima…so of course a very sarcastic WTF, Whiskey, would a pain scale of 1-50,000 be better, flitted through my mind, but ultimately, no, that was not the source of my anger.  I recall spending a day at the chemo clinic with my dad and quite nearly having a melt down because I felt that the chairs in the waiting room might as well be medieval torture devices for the painfully thin, nauseated, hairless, suffering souls that were made to sit, lay, pace,writh, and sprawl, in the waiting room for hours at a time.  It wasn’t really the chairs that were uncomfortable.  It simply is not that unusual to focus upon the mundane when we have no control of things that are so much bigger than we are.

Perhaps it was because the post had a teachy tone…as if she had discovered what the pain and suffering of cancer patients is and decided to educate us…but no…I know that of the 6 people in SL that I know better than “just another poster” 4 of us have been the primary caregiver to a parent or family member with a terminal illness…surely, she too has come to realize that many of us that she dwells amongst have endured the hate and resentment of the savage disease, and the seemingly endless dark days that a terminal/chronic illness delivers to caregivers…all caregivers…it is not a unique situation.  But no, that is not anger inducing…it is normal, healthy even to write it out, put it somewhere, share it with everyone so you don’t have to carry it all yourself.

So even as I sit with it now, puzzled, the only thing I can attribute the anger to is, rather ridiculous, but sometimes her blog posts drags you mentally back, kicking and screaming in your mind, to those dark days.  That sound…that deafening silience that explodes in your ears when a loved one takes their last breath…that horrible chest crushing agony that swallows you whole and then spits you back out only to realize that the ear piercing screaming and crying that you hear is coming from you…and then the calm. The finality. The end.  Familiarity breeds contempt?  Of course there is no moral or legal requirement to read what she posts and like most people who have been through what she is going through now, I, maybe you, read, perhaps seeking that word, phrase, that tiny little morsel of wisdom that is going to free you from your own memories of such harrowing times. 

I sympathize with Whiskey, empathize as well…but to be completely honest, I don’t understand why she is lauded as a hero of sorts.  A remarkable human being for doing what she is doing…when what she is doing is what we should all do? Right?  Maybe I’m wrong about that. Sometimes when I read how much hate and resentment she has for the two of them, my heart kind of swells in pain, for them, not her.  I explore that in my mind, ask myself the question, would I want what might be my last goodbye to be to/from a child, sister, that hates and resents me?  I don’t know, and I hope that I never have to know, because it seems so awful.  Rounding out that burst of honesty, I also have to say that I don’t know what unspeakable torments or abuse that Whiskey was subjected to as a child, I can only imagine it was completely horrible to warrent such a deeply felt hate and resentment.  These are things I can’t know. 

For the most part, I’m just going to chalk it up to my current mood.  I do wish Whiskey well…strength and courage, and the hope that one day very soon she is able to escape the apathy, as it is a lot like quicksand.