Tonight, Oleta lies in a hospital bed a few miles from my home while I type this.

Oleta is dying.

Oleta, known to me my whole life as “Deed” was my maternal grandmother’s best friend and is the mother of my mom’s best friend. You might say we are family in a sense of the way that old family friends become each other’s families.

In my mind’s eye I have a picture of Deed and Grandma, sitting in their lawn gliders, cigarettes in one hand, no-name beer in the other as they talked about each car and person that passed, laughing and carrying on in the way only old southern Grannies can. My maternal grandfather died when I was around 3 or 4, and Deed was divorced. That left Pauline and Oleta to fend for themselves back in the seventies and eighties, both tough old gals who worked at the cotton mill and didn’t take shit off of anyone, grown-up or child alike. I remember riding my bike past Deed’s trailer in the middle of summer, off on some adventure or more likely headed to the skating rink, and hearing her gravelly voice call out across the road for me to come see her. I’d sit with her on the swing in the carport and she’d pour me a coke or a grapico, and she’d tell me all about her neighbors or some other excitement. Then she’d pull a few dollars out of her coin purse and send me to the nearby store to get her a pack of cigarettes. Upon my return she’d have a fresh drink and a mayonnaise sandwich for me to finish before I set off again. She and my grandmother were always into something, usually involving beer and a man or two. I do remember a story my Dad would tell about Deed and my grandmother writing a check to the local moonshiner, and how my grandfather was horrified when he found out. At the time, my grandfather was one of the city police officers. My dad said he yelled “PAULINE !! I’m the police, you can’t be writing checks for whiskey!” I can just see Grandma and Deed laughing and lighting up their Virginia Slims.

Deed was doing okay until a few weeks ago, when she fell and broke something. I don’t remember what she broke, but at 88 years old, no break is a good one, and usually brings along other maladies, and death is usually in that number. My mother’s best friend Avoline came in from Atlanta to care for her, and while I was out of town Deed went into the hospital. My mother has gone to the hospital everyday to sit with Deed and to be with Avoline while all this goes on, because my mother knows better than most how lonely it is to be the caretaker. There’s been talk of DNR’s and feeding tubes and everything that goes with being in hospital at her age, and until yesterday I kept telling myself that when she got better I would go see her. Yesterday, they were trying to place a feeding tube and Deed had two heart attacks. She lived through them. The doctor says her body is fighting to live and trying to die at the same time. She is on morphine for the pain and is breathing on her own but otherwise isn’t really mentally here. She is in ICU, curled up in the fetal position in bed, and when she is lucid, my mother says she begs for God to let her die. If there is such a being that listens to her, I hope she gets her wish.

I don’t think I can take going to see her. For one, I don’t think she’d know who I was. Two, I have avoided hospitals since Gregory died. The one time I’ve been in one since was for a new cousin’s birth, and even though it was a different wing, it was the same hospital he went to first and it is not somewhere I think I can go. I’ve said goodbye to her in my heart and my head, and my mother has done so for me as well. I hope, in the end, that the fact that she knows I loved her was enough.

So goodbye Oleta. Thanks for the love and the laughs and the mayonnaise sandwiches. Give Pauline and James and Daddy and Gregory and the rest of them a big hug from me when you get where you’re going, and I hope the no-name beers are always cold and you always have a light.

I sat and cried until snot covered my face and my body was curled into a ball on the floor while both dogs snuffled around me, trying to see what was wrong. I cried until the sobbing turned into dry heaves, and then I cried some more.

I cried because I wanted it to all be new again.

I wanted me to be new again. To be whole again.

Like I was here, like I had just arrived.

I cried because I know I can’t.

I cried because I’m selfish.

I cried because I want my husband.

I cried because I want my daddy.

I cried because I want all of the people back in my life who loved me and made me feel safe.

I cried because I felt so alone.

I want the ones that are still here to be here for me, to tell me they love me and no matter what they always will, no matter the family drama or stupid arguments over a damn fig tree or who did what to who or boathouses or any of the stupid shit that doesn’t matter.

I cried because I wanted my life back.

I cried myself to sleep and woke up on the floor with two terriers on either side, watching me with their big eyes, their tails cautiously wagging to and fro, as if testing the winds of my emotions.

I hugged them until the energy from their bodies give me a reason to get off of the floor.

Then I fixed myself a drink and went and sat out on the deck.

And as I sat there and the images of my life started to run through my head, I started to cry again.

Because I was thankful.

Thankful that I was born to an amazing family.

Thankful that I was given a life and a childhood that so many only dream of.

Thankful for the lifelong friends I have from Singapore and Mississippi and from my life now.

Thankful to have had Gregory for the time that I did, and for the love and the fun and the memories we made.

Thankful that I am healthy, have a job, a home, two cars, friends and people who love me.

Thankful that somehow I gathered the strength I never knew I had to get through this, one step at a time.

Thankful to be here.

Thankful to be me.

Even through it all, I’m still me. With the same goofy grin and dark scary hair I had in that picture up there. Older, not so sure about wiser.

Bruised, scarred and hurting.

A conundrum.

Clawing my way out of bed one day, bounding out and ready to take on the world the next.

But never giving up. Never.

I wasn’t made that way.

And for that, I am especially thankful.

This year, I’m actually looking forward to it. Going to the lake, not the other part.

Like I said yesterday, roller coaster emotions. Last year I was clothed in the black veil of meh over G’s death, and though I took every chance I could to spend time with my daddy, I knew each time was once closer to the last. I think that while the agonizing wait for death propelled me to be with him it also somewhat pushed me away, because I couldn’t stand to see him suffer. It’s odd how things come full circle because he reacted the same way when my Granny was being taken away from us by dementia. This year I have to be strong not only for me, but for my mother. It will be another milestone for her without my dad. The Fourth is a big deal around our house, and anytime you live on the main drag of a huge lake, it should be. We’ll have a bit of the work taken off by my awesome cousins who are also hosting a shin-dig at their place, letting my mom relax and just enjoy time with the family. When we aren’t there she and I will cook, entertain family and friends, lay in the pool and take boat rides. We’ll smile and wave at the folks we know as they go by in the various boat parades. And I hope we’ll make more happy memories.

I’ve decided as such that I am Declaring My Independence from Dr. Lecter and any and all Grief Monsters that may try and impede on my celebration of good times and noodle salad.

Begone annoying grief bugs, no room for you in my life the next few days. I shall swat you with my electronic bug zapper and shoo you away with blasts from my always half full cup of whatever the hell I feel like drinking. I will try and be successful in having a good time and make that happen, snot filled sobs of grief and despair be damned. You may ambush me on another day, another time, but not in the next four. I refuse to give in to you. I must protect mah house. (that’s an Under Armour reference for you non-sporty folk)

And don’t go bothering anyone else either. Why don’t you take a long walk off a short pier? Stick a bottle rocket in your tailpipe and light ‘er up. Whatever you do, leave me alone. And my friends and family too.

We have memories to look back on, and more to make …….

In my former life as a Criminal Investigator, I got to wear plainclothes to work and on call out duty. Naturally, being a woman, I was all about the clothes and shoes that I could wear to work. It had to be comfortable but still cop-like, in case I had to fight someone or go through a door or something like that. I also couldn’t run around in heels or strappy sandals, as much as I would have liked to. My footwear of choice was usually a pair of comfortable Timberlands or something dressy but practical for court. Then of course there were the Hi-Tecs in case I ever had to be in uniform or tactical gear or whatever.

My favorite shoes however, were always Doc Martens. I think I had about six or seven different pairs that I tromped around in – black/brown/tan/hi-cut/lo-cut whatever, if they were Docs, I had them.

There was one problem with my Doc’s though.

Every time I wore a new pair, someone ended up dead.

For real.

The first time, I had some nice tan mid ankle ones with a really thick sole that I was sporting with some new jeans and I’m sure some prepped out shirt. I tried to balance my wardrobe between preppy and punk – prunky?

Anyway, that day some young man decided to put a Russian assault rifle under his chin and pull the trigger. I’m glad I had them on, because that’s not a mess you want to be flitting around in wearing nothing less than nuclear grade soles.

The next time, I was wearing my new black hi-lace Docs around and had just washed them off after walking around at the stockyard in poop and dust. Then we got a call of a drowning in a  pond. Needless to say, they got washed again. Several times that day.

Next ? Brown low classic style Doc’s. The poor soul who drew the Doc Marten death card that day was murdered by some wayward youth and had sat in an un-airconditioned mobile home for a few days before anyone found him. In July. He wasn’t only a stinker, he was a slider. You probably don’t want the full on definition for a slider, but let’s just say that your skin starts to break down after a few days and if someone tries to move you it will, well….never mind.

Finally, the last ones I can remember were my black classic low-riders. Wreck on the interstate. Seven people in a car meant for four. Not one of them had on a seat belt. Three were DRT (dead right there), and four were on their way to the hospital on a wing and a prayer. One of the poor dearly departed was so badly mangled on his way out of the jagged metal mess that he left his ear in the emergency lane. Which promptly got stuck to the bottom of my shoe when I accidentally stepped on it. Prompting several weeks of officers and medics shouting at my shoes “Hey hey can ya hear me?” ….. emergency personnel have a sick,twisted sense of humor. It keeps them from going absolutely insane.

I still have all of those Doc Martens. They sit high on a shelf in a closet full of my things at the lake house.

One day maybe I’ll wear them again, but with all of the stuff going on in my life these last 15 months?

I’m kind of afraid to.

I saw this today…..

I’m not sure what the preacher is going to say, but I know what I think.

When life touches death, it turns the sun and the sky a hazy shade of blackish-gray.

It turns the nights long and sleepless, every sound magnified as if ghosts are walking the halls where the ones you love used to tread.

It turns ” I don’t know”  into ” I really don’t care” with a side of “Can’t everyone just leave me alone with my misery?”

And then it starts to trick you.

It lets the sun break through, it might even let a bird sing and a smile and a laugh run fleetingly across your lips.

It lets you think that maybe you are getting better, that the hurt can’t ever hurt that bad again, at least not quite so much.

But never long enough for you to get comfortable.

“Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!”

And in you go again, and again, and again.

I don’t think I know what the Sunday message will be for a lot of people, but I know what it’s been for me.

When life meets death here on this earth?

It’s hell.

I try not to sink into the abyss of depression. I try to not let “woe is me” become my mantra. I try, mostly successfully, to put on a smile and face the world outside my home by being the Kim I once was. Most days I leave her at the door when I re-enter my sanctuary. But some days, the old me stays with me a bit longer. I laugh, I have fun with friends, I think about the future past the next twenty-four hours.  I actually go for a walk, attempt to get back into my exercise routine, try to be the person that I want to be again.

But at the end of the day, I am alone.

The standard definition of a widow is : A widow is a woman whose spouse has died. A man whose spouse has died is a widower. The state of having lost one’s spouse to death is termed widowhood or (occasionally) viduity. The adjective is widowed.

I find that I have gone through a period of sorts with the whole thing. At first, when asked if I was married I would nod my head yes. Then, as the months wore on, I would hear my voice saying, “No, I’m a widow.” Now, I have circled back to nodding and then actually saying “yes”.

Random Human : “Are you married?”

My voice : “Yes.”

The blinking red neon sign in my brain : “But he’s DEAD, DEAD, DEAD.”

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

My inner voice: “But I am married.”

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

The sign in my mind has no off switch, I have found. No dangling cord for me to pull on, no switch to flip. It blinks at the most inconvenient times. At work, in the shower, at the store, at 3am while trying to sleep but the messages of worry and woe that the sign displays are so bright and piercing that they flash behind my eyelids like a shard of glass in the sun. Today it hummed to life whilst I was speaking to the two nice census takers that innocently interrupted my breakfast. When it came to the question of how many people resided on April 1st in this big rambling house, I could see them exchange a look when my answer was simply “one”.

My marital status?

“I’m married.”

Another look.

“Well, I’m actually a widow, so I guess that’s the box you need to check.”

An uncomfortable look. The downward glances. The inevitable “We’re sorry for your loss.” Then, the tables are turned, and I’m the one comforting them.

“Oh it’s ok, thanks. I’m fine.”

Neon sign : LIAR. LIAR. LIAR.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

I hope the bulbs burn out eventually, the power that supplies it shorts out, I figure out how to sabotage it, something.

Until then, I live with it. I tolerate it.

There’s probably a pill that will make it go away, seems like there’s a pill for everything, so why not ? I tried something, briefly, but it wasn’t for me. I am one that wants to feel, wants to deal with the pain, not suppress it, where I fear it will fester and come roaring back after me with the ferocity of a lion.

So I go on about my days, my mind bathed in it’s glow, like some kind of internal tanning bed, lamenting my viduity.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Mentally check your calendar to see if there is any reason to get up and deal with the world today.

Silently curse the reason there is.

Shower. Brush teeth. Try not to stare at his toothbrush, his razor, his stuff sitting on his sink. Smile at your favorite picture of the two of you wedged in the mirror to check your teeth.

Dress. Try to wear matching shoes and remember to button and zip everything. Maybe even brush hair.

Keys. Where the hell are they ?

Notice the clock. Peel out of driveway at warp speed.

Pick up the phone to call the attorney, bank, probate court, people who want money.

Where the hell is the phone?

Turn around, warp speed home. Silently curse more.

Decide to go to bedroom door instead of through garage for time management. Get to bedroom door. Reach in pocket for key.

Where the hell is the key ?

In the ignition of the car. That’s still running. That you actually remembered to put in park. (this time)

Get key.

Enter.

Get phone.

No missed calls. No one calls anyway. Who call’s for death?

Stand in middle of room because you can’t remember what to do next.

Oh. The world. Right.

Smile at picture again. Kiss urn goodbye, say out loud ” See you later baby ! ”

Get to car.

Locked.

Keys hanging in bedroom door.

Curse LOUDLY.

Get keys. Warp speed out into the world.

Hello world.

Smile. Nod. Smile.

Keep nodding.

Say hello !

I’m fine !

Thanks !

How are you ?

That’s great !

Wow !

Yes !

See you later !

I’ll be ok !

Nod.

Smile.

See a person wearing scrubs from the hospital he died at.

Look away.

Tell yourself don’t think about IT.

Don’t even go there. IT wasn’t your fault.

What if I’d …….

I said stop, didn’t I ?

Smile.

Nod.

Get an overwhelming urge to hide in the bathroom until they force you to come out.

Suppress the urge.

Go into a store. Hear a song he used to sing (off-key) to you.

Leave store like your behind is on fire. Wipe tears.

Say the hell with the day.

Go home.

Get mail.

Look at bills. Read letters addressed to “The Estate Of……”

Laugh and say something about blood and turnips.

Bubble bath. Relax.

Look over at the counter where he’d sit and talk to you while you were in the bubble bath.

Close eyes. Stop thinking about it.

Pajamas.

Hungry.

Oops, didn’t go to the grocery store. Was running low on smiles and nods, couldn’t take it.

Hello Pizza Man.

Talk to the friends that live in your computer and watch happy TV shows where no one dies.

Get back in bed.

Toss and turn.

Can’t get comfortable.

Can’t turn mind off.

What was that creak ?

Who just said my name?

Sleep.

Dream. There he is ! Happy dreams. Mostly.

Til 3 am.

Hello Insomnia !

Milk. Maybe a cookie. Or peanut butter. Or cheese. Possibly both.

Play Words With Friends.

Get sleepy.

Fall asleep.

Wake up. Reach over …….

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Inside was a letter from a childhood friend of my father’s. I won’t put her name here in order to respect her privacy, but I will put the text of her letter here, and I think that explains it all…..

February 23, 2010

To her I say thank you, your letter means so very much to me and I am sure to my mother as well. It invoked memories of the town my father and I were both lucky enough to call home, and cemented another precious memory of him in my mind and heart. The pin that you included was shared by my father and grandfather, and will now be mine, and I will treasure it forever. There are no words to express what your simple act of a kindness has meant to me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

His journey with cancer started off as a misdiagnosis of ACID REFLUX ! Way to go Doc. Last summer he had trouble swallowing and would often get what we call the “vurps” and wasn’t feeling too great. The doctor told him to keep taking his Prilosec. Yea. Good call. He then went in for a stress test and numbers were elevated or something so they said HEART ATTACK …and sent him in an ambulance to the local hospital (which doubles as a building full of no useful info whatsoever). Wherein this building they did no MRI / Cat Scan , nothing but an EKG, and OH MY !! No signs of cardiac arrest.

Gregory and I finally talked him into going to see a different doctor, and that’s when they found the esophageal cancer. Stage 3. Invasive. 8 to 18 months with chemo. Today marks a year since I heard those words from my mother, standing in a parking lot where they had come by work to tell me what they didn’t want to tell me over the phone. One year since my father’s eyes hid behind the same brand of sunglasses that we have both had on while we held each other silently, each one of us fighting off the tears harder than the other. So alike, he and I. I am my father’s daughter. One year and my daddy is still alive. Alive, but not well.

I can see where the cancer has taken it’s toll. He has lost and gained weight, he has lost hair. He tires easily. I usually find him in his recliner, either reading or sleeping. A week or so ago I went down to do the fall hedge trimming and other assorted chores that Gregory and I would always help him do. Except this year I did it all myself. My mom helped by doing some raking, but she’s almost 68 years old and can only do so much herself before tiring. She told me after about 30 minutes of work that my dad was inside crying because he couldn’t help his daughter. I don’t think I could have pierced my heart with the gas hedge trimmer I was wielding and made it hurt more than knowing that my daddy was crying. I managed to cover up my sobs with the whine of the trimmer and soaked up the tears on my gloves.

Mom, there’s some things I don’t need to know.

When I found out my dad had cancer, I was stunned. I left work early and went straight home to Gregory , who I told face to face and then we held each other and cried for just a minute until he said “Pops is strong, he will beat this and we have to be strong for him.” He was devastated. He loved my dad and felt closer to him than he did his own, who was abusive to him in so many ways. He once told my dad that he never had a father, and asked him to be the one he never had. Sure, they didn’t always get along, I mean really?? What daddy get’s on with his #1 girl’s man 100% of the time? But oh how G loved my daddy, and I was so happy that finally the two men in my life were on the same page.

I did some grieving of my own, but I try to put on a brave happy face when I am around my dad. I go to his doctor’s appointments, but sometimes he wants me to leave the room when the doctor comes in to talk to us. I understand, he just wants to protect his baby.

So I kept moving through life, working, taking care of my husband and stepson, helping my parents with things that needed doing, and talking to my mom and dad 2-3 times a day and googling and web-md’ing what I could find about esophageal cancer.

And then my Gregory died.

And the little part of my life that the cancer grief had wedged itself into exploded. Then imploded.

I am grieving the death of my husband. My husband was a recovering / non-recovering alcoholic. The contents of a bottle of vodka were too strong for him to resist. A little fall , a black eye , him walking around laughing and goofing with me as usual? That turned into a slow bleed that killed him after he was fine for several days. The doctors call it “talk and die” syndrome. His liver was so messed up his blood wouldn’t clot. Type 2 diabetes didn’t help. So he died. And part of me went with him and I will never, ever be the same.

I am grieving the impending death of my father. There is no cure. There is no hope. The man smoked for 50 years. He got cancer. The cigarettes that he loved are coming back in the form of cancerous cells that are killing him. And I am scared to death to lose my daddy.

But I think I’m scared for me too. I’m scared that I have poured so much of myself into grieving for Gregory that I haven’t given myself the time or space to deal with the fact that my daddy is going to die.

And then it’s just me and my mom. And what is she gonna do? That’s gonna leave me as the strong one. The one who handles things. The one.

I don’t want to be the one.

I want to be Kim.

I want my husband.

I want my daddy.

I want my life back.

I haven’t done anything wrong.

I thought cruel and unusual punishment was against our constitution.

I thought double jeopardy wasn’t allowed.

I want my pardon.

I want my happy ending.