... seems to be a part of loss. Not the going insane kind of losing my mind, and not the kind of mind absence I had when pregnant. This is like a part of me is missing, gone fishing, out to lunch.
The long irrational, deliberately childish rant of the other day was the best impulse I followed all month. And it set still some turbulent waters. I found myself able to giggle again.
Now I await another wave of sadness and I find myself curiously paused. This, I believe, is a more apt state for the moniker 'absent minded'. This is not forgetfulness, nor is it confusion. This is a part of me in hiding, covered with a veil, in-waiting. It is, I imagine, somewhat merciful as well as downright scary.
I watched Oprah. Curious. She is like a latter day saint. Or a modern girl's Jesus. I sat slumped in front of her listening to women rabbit on about menopause. I am an agnostic. Not an athiest. Agnosticism is possibly the last refuge of an escaped catholic. I am too afraid of divine retribution to rule out God entirely, but the skeptic in me sees no evidence. At least, no evidence that he she or it is all loving. Like many parents, he goes by the rule of thumb.
My leg ached and I formed an unshakeable conviction there was a blood clot inside me ready to shift and alter my course.
Oprah said "It's time to put away childish things".
Chucked out the smokes.
Trudged to Bukit Timah Plaza and bought vitamins.
This morning I had a space breakfast of two shiny pills, two speckled pills, one brown pill and a blue and white pill. And a coffee.
Listened to Starman.
Happy to not have my mind fully in place, let it rest, let it rest.
Thursday, 24 January 2008
Monday, 21 January 2008
Losing Dad
On the 23 December 2007 my Dad died. So if things like this bring you down I suggest skipping my Blog altogether for a while. Not that I imagine anyone is reading it at all.
I am on the roller-coaster called grief. With some detachment I look up the symptoms and common experiences of grief and recognise myself in all of them. Yet I powerlessly experience each one of them like a cork bobbing.
The most frustrating thing today is the anger. Combined with the tears it is exhausting and hard to manage. Relentlessly inappropriate, I find myself wanting to direct it at someone, anyone, something. Daniel receives the short fuse but mostly it is low key stuff. The burning molten volcano anger is directed towards work. Today, I am so entirely sick of the mishandling of this. It has reached comedic proportions, almost as though they printed out the 'suggestions for dealing with a bereaved workmate' brochure and set out to do the exact opposite of each bullet point.
So here is my rant.
If someone you work with or know has lost someone close to them, then try doing the following simple things:
1.
ASK them if they want to tell people, and then, if they do, TELL EVERYONE. This avoids them having to endlessly repeat the horrifying fact of their loss over and over again.
2.
SUGGEST things you can do to lighten their load. DON'T ask them what they want you to do, it's really bloody hard thinking through the to-do list and making a decision. It is better when people just say, let me do (insert specific task here) for you today.
3.
SEND A CARD. It may be old fashioned, but it just isn't good enough to ignore it and pretend everything is normal. Sending a card is a simple way of showing you care. I was amazed at the lack of sympathy expressed by my management. Only my direct colleagues bothered to send anything. It isn't necessary to be profound, just buy a card off the shelf, sign it, and send it.
4. DO NOT under ANY circumstances, tell the person to look on the bright side, be positive, cheer up, find the silver lining or any other CRAP. Death SUCKS. Yes I will get over this, yes I am sure there are positives, but for FUCKS sake, Dad has not even been gone for a month. I don't want to look for positives, I shouldn't HAVE too. It's rude and obnoxious to expect me to cheer up so that you can feel better.
God, that feels better. I hate the place I work right now, self centered, emotionally consitipated fuckwits. They vary from 'just get on with it' icebergs to 'don't go crazy on us' cattle prodders.
Mostly I hate God, death, missed chances, mortality, the universe, myself and everything.
I hate people for not knowing that I might need someone to come visit me on the weekend, that being invited out wasn't really OK cause going out means being cheerful.
I hate my flatmate for not even asking me one single time how things are.
I hate my friends for not offering to take Daniel somewhere so I can have some time to grieve alone or even just get my hair done or something.
I hate myself for being so godamned needy.
I hate that I hate everyone and everything that might be of help.
I hate death.
I hate chance.
I hate slippery grass, ankles that break, and casts that hold people still enough to clot their blood.
I hate that I never got the chance to make Dad proud of me. I wasn't finished yet. I'm sorry Dad.
I am on the roller-coaster called grief. With some detachment I look up the symptoms and common experiences of grief and recognise myself in all of them. Yet I powerlessly experience each one of them like a cork bobbing.
The most frustrating thing today is the anger. Combined with the tears it is exhausting and hard to manage. Relentlessly inappropriate, I find myself wanting to direct it at someone, anyone, something. Daniel receives the short fuse but mostly it is low key stuff. The burning molten volcano anger is directed towards work. Today, I am so entirely sick of the mishandling of this. It has reached comedic proportions, almost as though they printed out the 'suggestions for dealing with a bereaved workmate' brochure and set out to do the exact opposite of each bullet point.
So here is my rant.
If someone you work with or know has lost someone close to them, then try doing the following simple things:
1.
ASK them if they want to tell people, and then, if they do, TELL EVERYONE. This avoids them having to endlessly repeat the horrifying fact of their loss over and over again.
2.
SUGGEST things you can do to lighten their load. DON'T ask them what they want you to do, it's really bloody hard thinking through the to-do list and making a decision. It is better when people just say, let me do (insert specific task here) for you today.
3.
SEND A CARD. It may be old fashioned, but it just isn't good enough to ignore it and pretend everything is normal. Sending a card is a simple way of showing you care. I was amazed at the lack of sympathy expressed by my management. Only my direct colleagues bothered to send anything. It isn't necessary to be profound, just buy a card off the shelf, sign it, and send it.
4. DO NOT under ANY circumstances, tell the person to look on the bright side, be positive, cheer up, find the silver lining or any other CRAP. Death SUCKS. Yes I will get over this, yes I am sure there are positives, but for FUCKS sake, Dad has not even been gone for a month. I don't want to look for positives, I shouldn't HAVE too. It's rude and obnoxious to expect me to cheer up so that you can feel better.
God, that feels better. I hate the place I work right now, self centered, emotionally consitipated fuckwits. They vary from 'just get on with it' icebergs to 'don't go crazy on us' cattle prodders.
Mostly I hate God, death, missed chances, mortality, the universe, myself and everything.
I hate people for not knowing that I might need someone to come visit me on the weekend, that being invited out wasn't really OK cause going out means being cheerful.
I hate my flatmate for not even asking me one single time how things are.
I hate my friends for not offering to take Daniel somewhere so I can have some time to grieve alone or even just get my hair done or something.
I hate myself for being so godamned needy.
I hate that I hate everyone and everything that might be of help.
I hate death.
I hate chance.
I hate slippery grass, ankles that break, and casts that hold people still enough to clot their blood.
I hate that I never got the chance to make Dad proud of me. I wasn't finished yet. I'm sorry Dad.
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