November 11, 2003 - 9:23 p.m.
They just won't quit.
So, it's worse than I thought... my last entry was written from my computer at work... Well, they blocked diaryland from my computer, Bastards. Geeeez. I'm not working for some high-security international bioterrorist fundraising organization... Or am I? Or, aren't we all? Hmmm?
Anyway. My lovenest has been uprooted - er should I say "de-walled." It's lovely to see rat poop pooring out of the holes that are now what used to be a kitchen... Poor Boris. I really hope this "project" of rebuilding his place doesn't take more than a decade...
I am really liking my place though! It's so teeny, but that just means cozy to me. Wish I had a bigger closet, but other than that, it's great.
My grandfather is dying. He's been dying for a while I guess, but he's really in the last stages now. He spent so much of his life being such an ornery, stubborn bastard (I say that with love) that his body is dishing it right back to him in the end. His liver has failed. Last Friday, he says "take the damn tubes out, stop running tests, take me home, I'm done!"
So it's been five days of him refusing medication, asleep for the most part, just waiting... This is a diabetic of 20 years, who's been blind for the latter ten, has suffered a stroke, and endured 4-way by-pass surgery (if I'm not mistaken, that means he only had 1 way open when he walked himself into the emergency room - the one to his brain...)
My whole family is in Utah. My boss has offered to pay for half of my plane ticket so I can be there too.
And I feel like the shittiest, most selfish bitch on the planet... Or do I?
I don't want to go. I talked to my grandfather over the phone. I told him I loved him, and that I was sorry I wasn't there to give him a hug. He could barely get out a gurgle. And that was on Saturday.
What this means is that I wouldn't be going there for him, it would mean I would be going for the rest of my family. The family that hasn't supported me in my decisions, accomplishments or failures --- well, ever. I've developed a different definition of "Family" I guess. Those people don't fit any of my categories. So why would I be there for them, to let them unload all their troubles onto me? See, the thing with that side of the family is, there's a lot of sickness (mental, emotional.) And whenever they get together, it's like a bath of ooze and grime that everyone sits in, trying to blame everyone else for it being there.
I am sorry, but I decided not to get in the tub. I had a hard enough time washing off from the last family reunion, what was it, five years ago?
My grandfather knows I love him, I told him so. I just don't think I need to drive myself insane by going into that madhouse.
This is me, being majorly selfish for maybe the third time in my life.
October 20, 2003 - 3:59 p.m.
-
I will try to ignore the 30 minutes that passed for a lunch break today... Ok, maybe I won't.
I didn't even take a shower this morning, my hair is greasy, my face is more broken-out than when I was a teenager, and I'm wearing new pants that I wish I hadn't bought because they really don't fit right...
Anyway - it started out ok. I walked out of my building into the sunshine. It was HOT. It's the end of October, but the sun was baking me in less than a minute. I got a wierd cat-call from the many strays lining the sidewalk on my way to the post office: "Your husband is a lucky man, Ms. Lady!"
I arrive at the post office - I wait in line. Just as I approach the counter, the man at the end of it begins screaming at the postal workers - cussing in general, trying to make everyone around him as miserable as he was obviously feeling.
Normally, I shy away from confrontation of any kind, but there was something about this situation where I just couldn't keep my mouth shut. Here are these postal workers - genuinely trying to help this guy, being verbally abused, all cowaring back behind the counter, not wanting to provoke him further... I just looked at the guy:
[This is a terribly simplified version of teh conversation]
"ya know, you're being pretty offensive."
Mr Miserable: I don't care!
Me: You're in a public place--
Mr Miserable: I don't care where the fuck I am! I'm a Vietnam Vet! Why don't you try fighting, lose a leg! Fuck you! Typical suburban housewife!
Me: (Now, this is the second comment within 5 minutes about me beign married - wierd.) I'm not married, and I've had a lot happen to me in my life - nothing like war, but hey, why don't you just try smiling once in a while - just TRY it.
Mr Miserable: Ha! Well, you pay your taxes and I haven't payed them for the last 30 years! Ha! Stupid bitch! [And he walks out of the building.]
I finish my business with the post office and walk out the door. Mr miserable isn't even half a block down yet, and I walk quickly out of habit... He's pushing an empty wheelchair. No limp to be had... He doesn't even look intoxicated, which surprises me. Hm, nice gimmick. And all-too-common: I bet he sits in that chair every day, holding up a sign, preying for pity, while spitting on everyone that walks by...
See, he makes a big deal out of being a Vet - fighting for his country and all that - but I can't help think of his statement about the "typical suburban housewife" - so resentful, so hateful, so demeaning. What were you fighting for, man? Why were you willing to sacrifice your life (and your apparent happiness) to protect a way of life for which you obviously have no respect, and hold no value.
It made me so sad. He's just another miserable person that I can't save...
But at least I'm getting past the point of letting others' misery pour straight into my heart.
I got my sandwich, walked back to my office (while being propositioned by a group of young men on the corner - two of them actually started walking after me, called to me and one told me that the other liked me and could he have my number. Um, sorry no.
On another note:
Ick, I had terrible dreams last night/this morning. I woke my lovely one up with my cry for help. I'm sorry, precious. Let's just say that the last dream of my morning had Freddy Kreuger stalking me at my dad's house - nowhere to hide - not even the crawl space below the roof... Sometimes my alarm clock is my savior, instead of my tormentor.
And now... for the real reasons I wanted to write in my diary today:
See next entry.
