“Tears are the safety valve of the heart when too much pressure is laid on it.” ~Albert Smith
Whenever there’s a death in a coworker’s family or a serious illness a mass email is sent out to all 300 plus employees detailing our colleague’s struggles and where condolecses and cards can be sent. A few months ago my friend Paul (who reads this site and likes to quote it back to me on a regular basis which is AWESOME when he’s reminding me of that time I wrote about puking in my bathtub) had surgery and a mass email went out. So The Roommate and I joked that if that were ever the case – if either of us found ourselves in some awful predicament – the world need not know about it. I don’t want my entire office getting an email detailing my successful bunion removal surgery. Though knowing me it would be something like “Heather Barmore is at home recovering from successful liposuction. Cards and well wishes can be sent to…”
When my grandmother died a week ago Friday, my mother and I were both adamant about who should know. When two days later my mother’s sister happened to have emergency heart surgery and my mother fled the building? The entire office knew. There is nothing more awkward then going to get sugar for your coffee while people give you the pity look and start to approach you with outstretched arms because surely an awkward hug will do in a time of grief.
I don’t do sympathy well and I’m not from a group of people that generally are into expressing love and devotion by touching one another. Then again, I’m from a family who thinks that alcohol is the Devil’s water, believes that they brought me into this world and will gladly take me out, and swearing will easily get you beaten with a belt and yet I haven’t been kicked out yet! Holy fuck!
Last week has disabled my witty gene. The part of me that thinks it’s really funny to make jokes about that time that January bent me over and pulled my hair. Last week fucking sucked. But I do that a lot. I’m good with hyperbolic claims of how awful something is and it’s usually something stupid that can be remedied but this past week wasn’t. When you feel like your family is going to be picked off one by one and you’re living in a poor woman’s Joan Didion novel and you wish there was a Great Big Book of Bereavement to get you through 72 hours of family time, your mother crying, you making your mother cry, swearing at your family, and bonus points for your inordinarily large uncle having the audacity to call you fat while your mother sits by and laughs. My God, I wish there were a how to guide for not tossing yourself off the highest precipice in the New York metropolitan area.
I’m fucking exhausted and still not willing to start doling out blow jobs to February for being superb for a whole 25 hours. I’m still too deflated from pessimism and that horrible feeling that comes from sitting in the first pew during a funeral and knowing that there is strong possibility of it happening again before the year ends, to even remotely high five anyone for getting me through January. Perhaps next week or the week after. Or maybe the one where I’m in California drinking tequila with a few of my favorites. But for now it’s a limp ‘Hey. How are ya’ to February even if it keeps nudging me on the shoulder telling me to cheer up. Right now my heart’s just not in it.
12 Comments
I went through this same thing last July, and while I won’t start doling out the pity, I will say one thing: IT SUCKS.
Oh and agree with you on how PUMPED I am for Heather Does California: Part XVVII.
I can’t even imagine how you’re feeling right now. I’m so sorry that this is all happening at once.
I do, however, think that it is against the cosmic contract for January to give you the one-two punch, and then have February do something similar. Instead, February should be picking you up, giving you a hug and telling you how pretty you are while handing you a glass of wine.
If nothing else, I’ll say it- You’re gorgeous. Go get yourself a glass of something awesome.
I don’t do sympathy well either, mostly because it makes me feel worse that other people are upset on my behalf. So I feel like I have to be happy to make them feel better. Ah, the inner workings of my crazy mind.
So far 2009 is not what it was cracked up to be.
What’s that? Oh, I think February is nudging you again. It’s saying, “make me your BITCH, Heather”.
Happier days are on the way, I promise.
Nudge nudge.
January’s bitch is February’s hooker.
’nuff said.
Here’s to hoping February kicked January in the balls on its way out. January SO deserved it.
Your witty gene seems fine to me, but February should at least buy you dinner before you blow it. Also, February should smack your uncle.
feeling your pain. hang in there.
The most difficult thing I learned about death is that life still goes on. How can it? Your Grandmother died. I think the whole world needs to stop and be silent for just one minute because of this. But no. Time just moves on, like nothing ever happened. Something did happen. And I’m truly sorry to you. Your Grandmother, mother and you are beautiful. Your Uncle can go fuck himself.
Man, sucks about your grandmother. I extend a hearty fuck you to January. Here’s hoping to better.
Suckage. My grandmother just died in January, too. A week later, my uncle died. They were my mom’s mother and her brother. Two funerals in a row is not fun. I’m in agreement about telling January to go fuck itself.
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