Rage, Rage, at the Dying of the Light, and Please Let Me Go Suddenly…

baby cradle

I wonder- sleeping? dead? doll?

There is something just not right, something incomplete and unfair, in an untimely death.

A good friend of ours, who claimed at one point to be an atheist, died Saturday night.  It was not a pretty death (if there is such a thing) nor was it a quick or painless death.  The poor man had dealt with cancer for the past four years- a bout of colon cancer that almost killed him back in 2010, and the stage 4 lung cancer he was diagnosed with back in April that finally spread throughout his body and slowly, painfully and agonizingly did him in.  To greatly summarize the gory story, this guy spent the past month jacked up on every narcotic known to man, and was almost always straight out of his mind due to the cancer spreading to his brain.  Nothing could quiet the unimaginable pain associated with cancer spreading like wildfire, not even the Tramadol and morphine and whatever other heavy duty drugs that the hospice people have at their disposal.   Cancer is a pretty shitty way to die by all accounts.  I don’t say that to trivialize his pain or the pain that his widow is still going through and reliving all those horrors, but words just can’t paint an accurate enough picture.  I pray to God that I don’t die that way, and that I would be spared the awful reality of being a primary caretaker of a loved one dying that way, because I don’t have that kind of courage or strength.

Since everyone has to die, I could only ask to go the way my maternal grandmother did- suddenly, via a massive stroke that took her from walking, talking and being completely normal to being pretty much dead as a doornail in an instant.  It really sucked for the rest of the family, but it actually gives me some peace knowing that she didn’t linger around and suffer for months or years, slowly and painfully deteriorating until she was unrecognizable.

Stephen King said it in his book Pet Sematary: Sometimes dead is better.

pet sematary

I am not in any hurry to take the Dirt Nap- nor am I in any hurry for anyone else I care about to bite the big one either- but I still have a really hard time with suffering, and watching people sort of fade and melt away before my eyes.

Maybe that’s what that whole “mid-life crisis” thing is- understanding that personal mortality is about more than just the Dirt Nap- it’s the little bites of decay and loss and downhill slide of entropy that we endure every day.  Things like the realization that my eyes don’t adjust to close vision when I have my glasses on, or that the people I went to high school with look like my Dad’s friends- and that a good number of my Dad’s friends are dead.

The places are either gone or drastically changed, and that’s not even been from the distant past.  I usually don’t have too many reasons to go downtown- save for the paper nightie appointment once a year- because I go to a different primary care Dr. and his office isn’t downtown.  Yesterday I decided to take my granddaughter to the art museum (which I must recommend, as they have lots of fun stuff for kids) and I was amazed on the way down High St. to take her back home at observing the OSU campus.  At least temporarily, campus has been de-skankified and yuppiefied almost beyond recognition.   I think they’re trying to overcome their reputation of being the Midwest’s #1 school to get robbed and raped.  Good luck with that.  Especially on the night of the Michigan game.  Leave your car- and yourself- at home.  Watch the game, if you must, on TV.

Of course, campus gets a makeover about once every 20 years.  It will take about a year or so for the current renovations to get trashed, and when you think it can’t get any nastier, some builders come in with bulldozers, raze most of it, and start again.

Maybe that’s what’s going on with me.  I could use a renovation.

renovation

Home improvement is nowhere to be found in my box of talents.  Believe that.

I would like to expand my education- not necessarily in a formal way, because, sadly, most so-called institutions of learning are all about the almighty dollar and/or all about filling young people’s heads with socialist/globalist garbage.  Even poor Steve-o had to take two courses that I believed were total politically correct garbage- one course in “cultural sensitivity” and another on “our global economy.”  The first course mostly informed him that as a white male he is/was responsible for all of the evils in the world today, from inequality in the workplace to global warming (both concepts are crocks of crap, IMO.)  The second was supposed to be on economics but it ended up being a formalized diatribe on how industrialized nations are victimizing tribal peoples in third world holes, and how we should bury our cars and wipe with reusable cloths.  That would have been sort of funny, except that his major was automotive science. 

I think I will embark upon a self-directed expansion of knowledge, even though I know that my biases will play into that.  It’s no worse than a tech school requiring my son to take courses in BS to graduate.

License to Annoy, I Hate the Holidays #584, and The Drippy Winter Funk

Ok, so I am a brunette by virtue of hair dye.  I’m also over 40.  Cut me some slack.

Oh, yes, this brunette remembers way too much, especially in regard to others’ drunk and stupid antics.   Jerry is attempting to stay sober so he can get good and liquored up for the OSU/Michigan game Saturday.  Joy and rapture.  The game is at noon, which means I can forget my Saturday morning cougar nap.  Jerry will be raring to go by 8AM if not earlier.  I wish he had the same enthusiasm for waking up on work days.  I don’t care for football on a good day, but dealing with Jerry when the beer drinking begins at noon (or earlier) is going to be hell on wheels. I can just imagine dragging him in the car to go home after the game.   It’s almost enough to make me wish I could drink to forget.   Right now I’m not in a particularly social mood either and I’m sure I will be even less inclined toward interacting with other humans after dealing with my relatives on Thursday.

No, I won’t have to eat this.  But in the end, I don’t know if eating humble pie is worth a high class meal.  I’d rather be home alone eating White Castles, truth be told.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so despondent.  I do have a family.  I get along with my parents for the most part and am at least on speaking terms with my sisters.  But these get togethers serve to sort of rub my failure in my face.  I’ve never really done anything worthwhile other than somehow manage not to either starve to death or become a victim of a spree killer, and being around my sisters only underscores the point.

I know it’s been a long time, but a tortured childhood is a gift that keeps on giving!

Steve-o has managed to thoroughly piss off my granddaughter’s mother- so much so that I would be pleasantly surprised if I will be able to have any interaction with my granddaughter again.  He’s actually at the point of wanting to do what the male contributor of his DNA did- signing off his parental rights- which will in effect make me a stranger on the street.  Yeah, I know, the whole biz with relationships and so forth- and I am a cynical one.  I have to admit I pretty much anticipated this, though I am thoroughly disgusted with the POMC and the way he’s handling things. It breaks my heart.  When it comes to kids in Ohio courts fathers have no rights except to pay up.   I’m pissed at him- because I warned him not to be such a dick to her- but I also understand the futility of him trying to maintain any kind of meaningful relationship with his daughter when her mother won’t speak to or deal with him for whatever reason.   The courts always side with mothers in this state, unless they’re crack heads or serial killers and sometimes even then.  She is a good mother, and her relationship to Steve-o or to any of the rest of the family is not an issue there.    If she doesn’t want him or any of us around her kid, she can and will get her way.

This is reason enough for me to avoid the forced family togetherness this week.  I’m pissed at my own son, won’t get to see my granddaughter, and have to deal with my parents and my two sisters.  Damn, I wish I could have a nice, stiff drink.  Or twelve.

I’m almost considering feigning communicable illness to avoid the compulsory Thanksgiving roadtrip to my sister’s house, where I will have my poverty, marriage to a drunken redneck, and my painful lack of any sort of meaningful accomplishments rubbed in my face yet again.   Hello, punchbowl!  The turd has arrived!  That’s how I feel when I go to her house, and I have to drive 100 miles to do it.  Me in my Goodwill and Target discount rack clothes, driving a Toyota Yaris, showing up about as welcome as Cousin Eddy (remember Christmas Vacation) in this suburban wonderland of palatial homes and BMWs.  It’s depressing.  I don’t know why I even bother showing up, because I know my sisters are ashamed of me anyway.  I give them something to laugh at, or perhaps my saga serves as a cautionary tale for their offspring.  Even so, I don’t really think either one of them would give two shits in a baggie whether I showed up or not- except that, for whatever it’s worth, I do bring homemade pies.

I may be poor and not good for much, but I can cook.

There is a bright spot.  I have to work on Friday.  So I have a good excuse to beat feet quickly after dinner and not stay overnight at my sister’s.  Then I’d end up having to go through the hell of Black Friday shopping with the two of them and my Mom.  I think I’d rather slit my wrists with a rusty razor blade and slowly die of exsanguination.  The rusty razor blade would afford a far more pleasant death than traipsing through Nordstrom’s (there’s a place where I am definitely the turd in the punchbowl) while my sister runs around flashing her plastic and Mom’s gawking at all sorts of fugly high dollar kitsch she can’t afford.

I like mustard too, but NOBODY needs this!

I can’t get into the holidays.  I wish I could- but I have no money and no time to do any of the things that would make the holidays fun.   I thought I would at least be able to enjoy some time with my granddaughter, but I highly doubt that will happen either, thanks to my son and his abysmal relationship skills.

If I could avoid my entire family and all the holiday crud and come out sometime in March or April that would be OK with me.  But, alas, the drippy winter funk begins.  I know I have to deal.  Oh, and I have to remember to go to Target and get my scripts.  I don’t want to run out of Prozac anytime soon.

I’ll be armed with the camera for both my Thanksgiving Dinner in the Punchbowl and the OSU/Michigan Beer Drinking and Football Outing.  Comedy is the flipside of tragedy, and I’m going to be trolling for comedy this week for sure.  If I can get past the tears, that is.

Here we go again!