Trifecta of crappitude

Today is one of those days, where like the planets align to put you in a shit mood.

I’m on the tail-end of what is my fifth menstrual cycle in five years.  Pregnancy & breastfeeding is pretty good for holding Aunt Flo at bay.  But man, once she weasels her way back into your life she smacks you upside the head and kicks your ass.

I’m sick.  Not sick enough to be bedridden, but enough that I’m in a fog and I’m a lung cookie factory.

Today is also the tenth anniversary of my mom’s death.  So I can’t help but participate in the reflection that such an anniversary propagates, and it’s not exactly a mood enhancer.

Luckily my life’s not completely in the toilet (even if between the lung cookies and the hygiene needs I feel like I’m in the bathroom more than I’m not).  This week is the week I do my once-quarterly consulting work for my old company, so I’ve got stuff to keep me busy and the kids are spending a bunch of time at their grandparents’, so it’s been relatively calm and quiet this week.  Plus the consulting work means I get a sweet little paycheck in a couple weeks, which I’m tempted to deposit completely in my IRA and go on a stock spending spree.  The account in general may be in the shitter but there are some SWEET deals to be had on Wall Street right now.  This in general is conducive to optimism.  And of course the whole how-lucky-I-am facts around having a great husband and awesome kids.  As much as situations are conspiring to try to make me have a shitty day, it’s hard to stay down for long.  That’s definitely saying something, right?

Brothers in grief

I’m probably in a slightly vulnerable emotional state right now.  Frank and I just did a three episode marathon of the final three episodes of the first season of Dexter so I’m a bit off-kilter.  Not that the show is bad – it’s just intense!  Jaw-dropping, awesome, insanely intense.  Frank’s wondering if it’s why I chose a very blood-like red as an accent wall in our new living room, and he’s also wondering if, thanks to the show, if he’ll be able to live with it.  Anyway, if you’re inclined to watch a show about a lovable serial killer (and do I mean lovable, ooh I want to do naughty things to Michael C. Hall and heck, while I’m at it, Sgt. Doakes too!) you should check it out.

So where was I?  Oh, fragile state, blah blah.  We just finished watching the shows, and since I’m a little ramped up thanks to them, I thought I’d read a bit of news.  (Warning, this is not for the sensitive of heart.  I’m looking your way, BeThisWay.) And then I came across this bit of news at CNN.com and I nearly lost it.  I’ll sum it up:  gorilla in zoo has baby, baby dies, mama gorilla won’t let go of dead baby gorilla and is still carrying him around days later.

It is stuff like this that just highlights for me how little difference there is between us humans and other animals.  And this isn’t anthropomorphizing, in my opinion — this mom is mourning her child.  It’s surely the early stages — anyone who knows anything about mourning knows that the first stage is denial, and sometimes it lasts awhile.  Elephants mourn their dead, as well.  They will come across bones as the herd travels, and will caress and move the bones.  And then this story about a dolphin… just so sad, and so easy to relate to.  I think it’s inaccurate to say that animals are like us, because it implies we are the species that sets the bar.  Rather, we are no different than any other higher-order species.  At least where matters of the heart are concerned.

Overcome

I have what might be an abnormally conscious fear of death.

It’s sort of hard for me to describe.  There is more than one facet to it.

First of all, I simply do not want to die, and I fear dying young.  I don’t want to abandon my children before they are old enough to know I loved them with all my being, and before they are mature enough to not be psychologically scarred by my absence.  I love life, I love being alive, and I don’t want it to end any time soon.

Then, there’s the fear of dying itself.  I am a secular humanist so I don’t believe in heaven or hell, or limbo, or reincarnation, or any other sort of existence beyond life as we know it here.  I believe that life just ends, that consciousness just ends, and that’s it.  Part of me really wishes I didn’t; if I could believe that when I died, I’d be reunited with my mother and grandparents and all my other loved ones, it would be so much more comforting.  I wish I could find something about death that I could look forward to.  I suppose it is fortunate that I have no reason to believe that death would be better than the life I’m living now.  Still, I dwell on it occasionally, and quite honestly, it terrifies me.  What will it feel like, to slip out of consciousness like that, never to return?  Will I know it’s happening?  Am I going to spend the last few moments of my life scared out of my mind because my greatest fear is happening to me?

I got wrapped up in all those thoughts last night, as I laid with Lane trying to get her to fall asleep.  Oh man, it is not a good or comforting thing to be so aware of one’s own mortality sometimes.

I miss my mom

I was laying with Lane tonight, trying to get her to fall asleep.  I was stroking her soft blond hair and singing her favorite Disney movie songs to try to lull her to sleep.  And as I lay there, I thought of my mom.

I thought about how she died, nearly ten years ago.  I thought about how she was only 47.  I thought about how, if I live as long as she did, that means I still have 15 more glorious years of life left, to play and cuddle and love and laugh and cry and squeeze every bit of joy out of every moment that I can.

I thought about what it would mean if I died when I am 47.  Lane will be 19, Jake would be 16.  I was 22 when my mom died, and I wasn’t nearly ready for it.  Of course, I had no warning.  She just died.  No real rhyme or reason, just slipped away quietly in the middle of the night.  And I wasn’t ready.  I wanted more time with her.  I needed more time with her.  I had only been an adult for a couple years at that point, really, and our adult relationship was really blossoming.  My brother was only 15 when she died, and I know he needed more time too, way more than I did.  Our dad sort of dropped the parenting ball after mom died, (not that he was great at carrying it before she died) and my brother was left to flounder.  In retrospect, I knew that would happen.  I knew it, but I wanted to believe it wouldn’t.  I wanted to believe my dad would rise to the challenge and be the parent that my brother needed through his formative years of high school.  But, it didn’t happen.  Part of my denial was self-serving — to admit my dad would shirk his parental duties would obligate me to move back home, to drop out of the graduate school program I’d just started when mom died, and make sure my brother became the man I knew he was capable of being.

Not to imply he’s turned out poorly.  Now, he’s 24, and he’s doing OK.  Career- and education-wise he’s a bit of a ship without a sail.  He knows he wants more for himself, but he’s not sure what and not sure how.  I feel like he harbors a lot of anger.  But he laughs a lot, and smiles a lot, and has healthy (from what I can tell) relationships with decent girls.  He has artistic pursuits that bring him contentment.  I love him to death and no matter what, I’m really proud of him.  But I think with better, stronger, and/or more present adult guidance after mom died, maybe he’d have his bachelor’s degree by now.  Maybe he wouldn’t ache inside quite so much.  Maybe he’d have more direction.  I don’t know.  I just want him to be happy, and I know for a long time he really wasn’t… and I probably could have helped make that happen but I was too involved in my own world, 300 miles away.

Anyway, that was a tangent I didn’t really mean to go on but I just feel like spouting some emotion for a bit, even if it’s a bit incoherent.

I guess it all comes back to that I feel like a lot of how I define myself sort of goes back to losing my mom when I was still pretty young.  I read a book a few years ago called Motherless Daughters which helped validate those feelings.  (If you have also lost your mom, especially early in life – through death or abandonment – this is an excellent read.  I can’t recommend it enough.)  I do wonder how much of who I am today would have been the same even if she were alive, and how much was shaped through the lack of her presence and the process of grief of losing her.  It’s a riddle I know I’ll never have the answer for… but it really doesn’t matter.  I am who I am (or, “I yam who I yam” if you’re a one-eyed sailor with a spinach affinity).

And I guess more than anything, I want more than the cards my mother was dealt.  I want to meet my grandchildren.  I want to live long enough to use my retirement savings.  I want to get old enough to have lots of wrinkles.  I want to celebrate all those metallic wedding anniversaries (my parents only made it to their 23rd).  But if I do go early like my mom did, I want to have been a good enough mother that Lane and Jake will miss me terribly.

RIP Heath

So, Heath Ledger died and this certainly isn’t breaking news for anyone at this point.

I’ve been pretty bummed about it. I have really enjoyed every movie I have seen him in. He really does did troubled and brooding and passionate better than just about anyone. The Patriot? Amazing. Brokeback Mountain? Intense. Monster’s Ball? Oh. My. Goodness. Jawdropping.

But — and this is both embarrassing and liberating to admit — I do think my favorite movie of his was 10 Things I Hate About You. It came out in 1999 and I was 23 then; pretty much past the target demographic that the movie was going after. But it was such a well-done teen angst love story. The script was smart and funny and the cast was awesome. How can you not love a guidance counselor writing a steamy romance novel and asking students for synonyms?? Larry Miller as the dad? Hilarious! All the Shakespeare stuff? Super! And Heath? Gorgeous and charming and practically elegant in all his brooding, intense glory. I couldn’t watch the movie on a leather couch for fear of sliding right off.

It seems trite and silly to jabber on that he would have been an iconic actor, how the world will miss him. He was one artist in a sea of many. But to me, he stood out, and I am sad he is gone.

Now, please, can someone make sure Jake Gyllentaal takes care of himself for the next 40 years? I need my eye candy!

Living out her days

I haven’t heard too many details, but my dad and brother talked, and given what they heard from the veterinary surgeon, they have decided to not go forward with the surgery.  I haven’t heard anything about how much time Ginger might have left, but they seem to be operating on the belief that they have a decent amount of time, a few weeks or months.  My brother has plans to take her to their favorite park as much as he can, and to make sure she gets some chances to swim.  They just feel like it’s such a big expense, for an outcome that probably won’t buy her a ton of time and certainly could reduce her quality of life.

I don’t blame them one bit, but it’s still sad.  She’s a great dog.

Hard choices

I talked to my dad yesterday about Ginger. He’d talked to the vet, and what he found out isn’t great. Not the worst news imaginable, but not great.

The lump is definitely a malignant tumor. It is definitely in her jawbone. It is, however, a non-aggressive cancer, which the vet explained meant that this cancer wouldn’t get in her lymph nodes and spread all over her body. It would isolate itself on her jaw. There is definitely a viable treatment, which is to remove part of her jaw. They aren’t sure how much they’d need to remove just yet, but it sounds like we’re talking a substantial bit, like a third of her jaw or more. The vet says she should adapt to this just fine and lead a normal life. However, she naturally will be disfigured, missing part of her jaw and all, and there’s no guarantee that the cancer wouldn’t come back. And, since she’s ten years old, fairly on in years for a Labrador Retriever, there’s no guarantee something else couldn’t hit six months from now.

My dad is going to talk to the surgeon who would do the operation in a day or so, to really get some details cleared up, and ask some additional questions. Right now, he’s left with the tough decisions that many dog owners face: where does he draw the line? Should he go into debt to prolong Ginger’s life by what may be only a few months or a year? How much cost is too much cost? And is all of it fair to Ginger?

I’ve told him, were it Bailey, my dog, chances are, unless the costs meant Lane or Jake couldn’t go to college, I would probably do the surgery… but if the tumor came back, in three months or three years, I would not do it a second time. And at the same time, I told him Ginger’s getting on in years, she’s had a good, happy life, and if the surgeon tells him this surgery is going to cost more than his property taxes, that no one would blame him for deciding not to do it, and just letting Ginger live happily for the few weeks or months she might have before the lump starts to interfere with her ability to eat and drink.

Ugh, this is the part of dog ownership that nobody likes.