I hate going
home. My
mother is really good with that whole
Catholic guilt thing, especially since she's got my
son, and so she connived me into coming home for a week.
Good lord, a whole week without sex? uhm, I mean....*gryn*
So I went home last Friday, which was miserable in and of itself. The weekend of Mother's Day is always busy for us. Lots of people like to buy flowers and stuff for their family, or start their planting.
did I mention I grew up on a farm and we sell flowers in the spring and fruit/vegetables in the summer?
So we were frantically busy all weekend, and needless to say, I was exhausted and miserable. Retail for 10-12 hours a day and chasing a two-year-old will do that to you. By Monday night, i was missing Chris terribly.
Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.
On Tuesday morning, at 8 am, the phone rang. It was my sweetie. Now I knew something was wrong, because he's usually on his way out by this time, when he's up this early. As it turned out, there was. His grandfather had died. (See Chris-O's writeup on May 15, 2001 if you missed it and want to know.)
what a way to start the day.
I was distraught, because I had come to care deeply for the man. And I was somewhat shocked, as it was rather sudden. But mostly, I felt awful because I couldn't be there for my love when I knew he really needed me. And this was only the beginning of my day.
If I could've gotten up on the other side of the bed that day, would it have been different?
So I went to work, and proceeded to be chastised, reprimanded, and berated for everything i did or didn't do, as it were. Great. And I'm already miserable. I've got to smile through all of this? I'd rather break their heads open.
Mom, can't you see I'm clinically depressed? The violent mood swings, the unwillingness to talk, the deliberate failure to do anything right? Not to mention that my fiance's grandfather's DEAD, and you totally missed that.
Later on in the day, my dad offered to let me go to the funeral. I love my dad. He's not the easiest to get started talking to, but he's really understanding and knows when to say something and when not to.
Thanks, Dad. I never say it, but thanks.
Oh, I skipped a part. My sister asked me, out of the blue, if I had any weed. I told her I was in the market, and she says, "I'll make a phone call." Well, shit! That helped. So when she brought me up to my apartment, we took a detour, and she picked me up a quarter-ounce. Out of the blue.
And when we got to my apartment, which is in New Brunswick, Chris came and took me back to his house in Queens. He'd made it there in 40 minutes -- a miracle by any account. On the way home, I showed him the bag I had in my pocket.
He never liked my sister before that moment.
The funeral process was grueling. The viewing lasted a total of 6 hours. 6 hours in a room with a dead body. If anything can make you uncomfortable, that will. Things I remember:
- the look he had on his face -- they'd had to fix it, and it still looked bad
- seeing my lover really break down and cry for the first time in the 4 years we've been together
- wanting desperately to be able to support the family that's become my own in the past year and a half or so
- seeing the man's only granddaughter, who'd just turned 16 a few weeks ago, barely be able to walk into the room without tears in her eyes
- wondering how his wife had made it through this long -- she finally broke down yesterday, I think
- hearing Chris's bandmate and friend of 12 years ... praying?? Yeah, praying. Man, that was awkward.
- feeling rather silly for crying over the loss of a man I barely knew ... though I will miss the chance to get to know him better.
- knowing in my heart that a man who loved his great-grandson, as deeply as any of his family, never did and never will meet him
- being overwhelmed by the suddenness of the event, and the grief filling the room, and all the people who came to pay their respects to the family -- there must have been hundreds
- wanting to find a way to tell my own family how much I love them ... before it's too late for me to do so.
All that, for 6 hours.
Afterward, we went home and hung out (hanged out?) ... we did some weed with Chris's aforementioned bandmate. That relieved a lot of tension, and made getting to the next day bearable.
The funeral itself was short, but difficult. The priest was a good priest, but didn't know how to be comforting. That, and there was still an overbearing cloud of grief hovering over all of us.
Going home after the funeral was probably one of the hardest things I've done. Besides that it was 4 1/2 hours on 4 different trains, I really didn't want to leave Chris at a time like that. I'm glad he had someone to be with him when he went home.
When I went home, no one understood why I was still upset and quiet. And I didn't offer explanations. I forced myself to get through the next few days, until I could go home with my sweetie and not have to worry about how either of us are supposed to get through the night, alone, empty, and depressed.
There's something comforting about having someone next to you in bed, touching you gently or holding you throughout the night. I don't ever want to lose that, or be without it again.
except that I go home every other weekend.