We All Miss Her

A time has passed since Sweet Lucy Lou went from her heaven on Earth to that Rainbow Bridge in the sky, where she awaits her family in due time.  I haven’t written about it or even posted a short excerpt on Facebook because this feels like such a huge loss, and I didn’t want to trivialize it, and I didn’t want a bunch of FB “friends” extending their condolences that I didn’t feel up to accepting gracefully.

Truth be told, Lucy was my mom’s first standard poodle and she rescued her almost 11 years ago.  I grew up with Lucy, but she came to live with me about three years ago, when it was deemed that my flat house with no stairs would be better for her ailing hips and back.  LarBear and I have loved her to the moon and back and poured everything we have into making her happy over the latter years of her life,  And Lucy and Kizzie, they were quite a pair, always keeping each other company, keeping each other entertained, loving each other.

But as we all know, dogs generally have shorter lives than those of their humans.  Lucy actually lived about two to three years longer than she may have, and I would like to think it was because she was so well loved.  I remember clearly my last moments with Lucy, and the blessing my mother gave me when she took Lucy from my home so that they could visit the vet and Lucy could be pain-free and happy forever.  I never could have dealt with that and my mom knew that, and besides that, Lucy was her love, too.

I have been sad awhile now, not all to be put down on the loss of Lucy, and I have actually been quite in denial, just letting it smack me upside the head at the most inopportune times.  Like today.  Today was Kizie’s first car trip since Lucy left.  She hasn’t stopped looking for Lucy or keeping Larry and I in her signt since Lucy left, and that all came to a head today.  We drove her to the vet for an allergy shot, and she uncharacteristically whined the whole way and paced the seats.  Nothing would calm her.

After her shot, LarBear dropped me at the urgent care clinic to get a prescription for a sinus infection, among other things, and he said that she cried and cried when I got out out of the car and was cocmpletely inconsolable and stuck right to his heels the time he was home.  When I came home from the doctor’s office, Kizzie was just so happy to see me.  She turned into the puppy that I only see so often, and it was clear that she thought, too, that I had left her like Lucy.

And so it goes like this, and I am all heartbroken again.  Lucy was a good dog, the best kind of dog, with a sweet smile and a wagging tail always and the best disposition.  And she really loved popcorn.  And cheese.  I sit here typing this with Kizie at my feet, LarBear by my side, and I miss her.  I miss her and so does everyone else.  The only thing giving me peace is that she is waiting for us and is in pain no longer.

Rest in Peace Lucy Lou.  There is still a whole lot of love for you here in this world.

 

 

Dear Gramps

I have read of such loss lately, Gramps, and just like it always does, any loss (whether it’s mine or my family’s or the guy down the road or my good friend losing her dog or a tragic ending in a book) reminds me of the late August night, almost 12 years ago, when Big Dawg came and picked me up in a raging thunderstorm to go see you one last time.

I remember I was on a low-carb diet at the time, and I had just started eating dinner — flank steak and broccoli and salad.  I still can’t use that particular seasoning rub to this day, without nearly breaking down in my kitchen.  I don’t remember exactly what was said, but whatever was said, I had hopes in my head that I was going to get to talk to you again and hear your scratchy and gruff voice say my name, Rosie.

It didn’t turn out that way.  You were wrapped in a white sheet from head to toe and on a gurney and I touched your chest and put my face close to yours and my whole world exploded and, while I don’t remember the exact details, I remember hearing a howling noise and then realizing that noise was me and shutting my eyes tight and saying something about how I had just seen you a few days before and you had been FINE.  FINE, DAMMIT.

I turned back around because I wanted to kiss your cheek before they took you away, but I was in a big empty room, just me and QoB and BD and some nursing staff.  I couldn’t tolerate that I had ruined my chance to say goodbye to you by getting overly emotional.  Whoever thought it was a good idea to wheel you off at that point was obviously a person that did not know me deeply.

The next week was a blur.  I tried to go into work, failed miserably.  Everyone around me was a complete wreck.  I can remember going through pictures to put up at the memorial service and I remember breaking down into tears time and time again.  Hysterical tears, hot tears, fast-moving, and unforgiving tears.

I still don’t remember much of that time, but I do know that I think of you all the time.  The wounds have healed over some, but I still have regret.  That I didn’t see you often enough or say thank you enough or stop by with a box of Cheez-its (our special favorite) just to say hi.  It was so hard being around Grandma, I just wanted my Grandpa back, the one who gardened on his knees for hours on end, even when he could barely walk, and the Grandpa that taught me how to drive by having me take back-roads from Topeka to Silver Lake at every opportunity.

The grandpa after the apartment with Sparky was sad, when he had to live with grandma again, when he didn’t feel as good physically, when PTSD from his time in the Navy rattled him as it never had before, when he couldn’t drive, couldn’t walk, couldn’t do whatever the hell it was he wanted to do.  Because he was like that, he was a man who did whatever he pleased.  If he wanted to whip up a bunch of refrigerator pickles, then he was going to do it, and if he felt like taking a drive or going to all of your basketball games (even though he could barely walk), then that is what he was going to do.

I find that every year that passes, I lose more of my memories of him.  Some are extremely fresh in my mind, some not so much.  In a day or maybe a week where there has been so much loss, the pang to my heart from Grandpa being gone is next-to-unbearable.  Should I be over this MUCH better 12 years down the road, yes.  I don’t need anyone to tell me that.  Some things are really hard, and this is one of those really hard things.  Every loss reminds me of him, and everytime I think of him, I am frightened by how much I don’t remember.

I hope you are proud of me, Grandpa, up on that big pontoon boat in the sky, and I am pretty sure you are.  Sometimes when I don’t feel like being tough, I think about your life and it gives me strength.  I hope you would be happy for me, too.  I have found love and love conquers all, and I know that you knew that.  It is still a month and several days until the anniversary of your death, but I wanted to be the first one to say how I miss you so, and how I wouldn’t be where I am today without all the love you poured into me when you were here.  I know you weren’t into religion or going to church, but I do believe that you and Sparky (and Mom’s childhood dogs) are out there somewhere, catching crappie after crappie, and moving around with the legs and back of a 16-year-old.

Always, Forever, Amen.  I love you.

 

 

Sanity, Apparently, Is Fleeting

Once more it’s the up and down, the crash and bang of my mood smacking into the ceiling and then hurtling down into the basement.  In a matter of hours, minutes sometimes.  Too much emotional reactivity to things that probably don’t really matter, but seem SO important in the moment.

I am telling myself that this all has to do with being sick and isolated and off my game and away from work.  Because, I am NOT going to the hospital again, not now.  Someone, perhaps my therapist or maybe my sister, told me that extended illness could really mess with your mood.  Well, here is living proof.

Like a fool, I have been dredging up these memories of DSB.  You see, he was an ass, but I DO have some good memories of our time together.  And with those memories at the forefront, it’s hard to keep in mind all of the negative.  And it makes me think — where did our love go wrong?  Was it me and all my craziness?  Did I need too much, ask for too much?  Did he love me the most he possibly could and it just wasn’t enough?  Was he just that limited?  But more importantly — I think it was my fault.  It could have been, right?  I could  have made it work if I CHANGED him more.  How ridiculous, right?  Sadness will do that to you, make you think that way.

You see, I’m calling this sadness, and not depression, because the two are entirely different.  I’m still functioning — I just feel really crappy off and on.  I had a very nice evening yesterday with Mom and the Big Dawg.  I even ate some real food — steak and a baked potato.  It doesn’t get more real than that, right?  That should make me HAPPY, right?  It did, for a little while.

And then I got home and it was just me and the pup and I started to think about how excited Rascal would always be when you came home and how DSB was always, always waiting in the office with some trashy TV on to hear how it all went.  There isn’t anyone to tell how it all went when I get home now.  There isn’t anyone to kiss me goodnight or to nag at me to take meds or encourage me to get to bed.  The last voice I hear of the day now is Mom’s, or Dad’s, several hours before I go to bed, and while I know they love me dearly, it’s just not the same.

I got up in the middle of the night last night, and have on several other nights here lately, and was surprised that the light wasn’t on in the office.  Like I expected him to be there.  Why would I expect that or even want that?  I think this must be all  part of the grieving process, that I can’t believe I’m STILL going through.  If I look at it, though, it’s only been a little over two months that he’s been gone.

So is this normal?  Is this grief for DSB and a longing for someone to just be there?  Or is this madness brought on by all the medical problems I’ve had the last six weeks, not including the mental health issues toward the first part of that?  Maybe it’s both.  Whatever it is, I hate it.  Fucking hate it.  Half the time I feel like I’ve got it together and the other half I’m just falling apart.

It’s As if You’d Died

I just tried calling DSB, on the last number I have for him.  It went straight to voicemail.  I don’t know what I would have said, had he answered.  I probably would have just continued crying, as I have been for the past hour.  I know I haven’t been great about responding to comments in a timely fashion, but everyone keeps talking about grieving and grief.  I guess it is now sinking in that this is what I am left with — grief.  And I have to find my way through it.

I feel like, for the moment, I am over being angry and celebratory over our break-up.  Now I just feel sad.  The way it feels now, its as if DSB had died and I am left with the emotional and physical wreckage, and I can’t see or talk to him anymore.  Those are all true things, about the wreckage, about not being able to see or talk to him.  But he didn’t die; at least not in a physical sense.

Which is strange, because I have been preparing for him to die for the last six months.  He has just been so sickly and has had some close calls and I spent many nights waking up to check if he was still breathing.  I spent the last six months thinking I could lose him in a split second to another blood clot or from not being able to breathe due to the pneumonia or a septic infection in  his wound vac.  I have been preparing myself, anticipating his physical death.

So why isn’t it easier on me?  If I had been so sure that he was going to pass away from physical reasons, and be gone, then why is it so hard that he is alive and gone?  I made him go.  So that should make it easier.  For some reason, it doesn’t.

I find myself lacking closure.  Everywhere I look, there is a piece of him.  A necklace he gave me, our matching recliners, the entire office in general, TV shows we watched together, sitting at the dining room table having coffee.  It’s just too much.  There is too  much of him in this house and it makes me feel terrible.  It gets worse when I sit outside and think of all the times we hung out in the backyard with the dogs, when we very first got together, and grilled every night and sat back and bullshitted until past the time the sun went down.

I also find myself avoiding any meals or foods that he generally liked or wanted to have around.  This is the longest I’ve gone in two years without eating biscuits and gravy.  Or breakfast, really, of any kind.  In the early parts, he always cooked up a big breakfast on the weekend, sometimes on the weekday if we had the stuff to do it.  He loved making breakfast, but he always made such a damn mess.

I miss the sweet things that he did for me back in the start of our relationship.  The thoughtful birthday and Christmas presents, the sweet emails or putting stuff to make me smile on my FB timeline.  I don’t know what I did to make him stop loving me the way he did in the beginning.  It’s as if, over time, I started to emanate some sort of negative energy and he just couldn’t stand to be close.

I don’t know if there was something I could have done to make him love me like he did in the beginning.  I guess I just wore him out.  He wore me out, t0o.  I think we both decided to end it at the same time.  It’s probably good we’re over, but it feels like my entire world is falling apart and I have to scurry around and pick up the broken pieces.

I Sing Because I’m Free

It will be two weeks this Wednesday that my Grandma passed.  I feel like I am still dealing with the aftermath, but things get better every day.  I went back to Mass this past Sunday and it was really helpful.  I wish I had taken RCIA this past fall, but there’s always next year.  I guess I just wasn’t ready at the time.

My buddy, Pond Princess, has loaned me her rosary and I am learning to pray it.  I find it very soothing and like the prayers I am meditating on are being heard.  I just keep praying for God to make me willing, and to help me to turn things over to Him.  In some ways, I am very willing, in other ways, very willful.  It is a daily struggle to take things as they come, without trying to orchestrate my own life.  It’s all about letting go and floating.

I have been trying all I can do to use the skills that DBT has given me.  I am staying busy, and working constantly at turning my mind from the pain.  I accomplished a lot over the weekend, and that feels good.  I am also using sacred self and trying to take care of myself.  My sleep and eating has been out of whack, but I know that will settle down if I just get back into my routine.  It’s the getting there that’s the hard part.

Prayers for Pond Princess’ mom and more for my family, as it seems we keep going through the death and dying of our loved ones.  If you don’t pray, give some thought or light a candle for us.  My family and I feel loved and blessed by all of our friends, and I know that right now we are leaning hard on all of you.

Lauryn Hill and Tanya Blount, His Eyes are On the Sparrow

 

Complaints and Possible Regret

The past few weeks have been both amazing and trying.  I have found that I have much less anxiety with being in a different office than my supervisor, and she supervising me from a distance.  What is clear, however, is that she clearly feels wronged that I went to her supervisor with my concerns, and she now does not give a damn about what I do to an extent.  What is also clear is that I really need to mind my “P’s and Q’s,” because she is a vengeful person and I have no doubt that she will throw me  under the bus at any moment.

So, the anxiety is still there.  She is basically ignoring me, which I suppose is fine, but it makes for very uncomfortable exchanges between the two of us.  Or, rather, very uncomfortable when I attempt to tell her anything and she ignores me.  It doesn’t seem to matter what I say, her answer is “Ok.”  Nothing more than an “ok.”  Well whatever.  I wish I didn’t care so much, but I do.  This is painful.

To some degree, I regret going to her supervisor because it has made her swing her attitude even further against me, but at least now I have my own office and am not stuck in that hell-hole with her and my other two negative co-workers.  I trust about 1.5 people in the whole facility, and a few at Central Office.  It is difficult not to have a go-to person when I am having a problem, because I sure don’t feel like I can bring anything to my direct supervisor and she has discouraged me from contacting anyone else.  In a way it is still a very negative work experience, and I guess I should just get a thicker skin, and realize that there will be no pleasing her, no returning to the easy relationship that we once shared.  In some ways, I am grieving that loss and dealing with my own issues about wanting to please everyone.  I just don’t understand why people (myself and her included) can’t just get along.  I really don’t.

In other crap news, my Grandma died yesterday.  It hasn’t fully hit me yet, but I know it will.  Right now, I am just feeling guilty because I haven’t seen her since this past Spring, even though we live in the same town.  After my Grandpa died in 2004, it was all I could to to bring myself to visit Grandma.  I was so angry at her for such a long time and then felt nothing toward her.  No sense of obligation, no sense of love, nothing.  As QoB said last night, her death is somewhat the loss of what could-have-been.  That desire for acceptance never faded, but it seems that I lost that from her a long time ago.  Now, there is no going back and trying again.  In some ways I care about that, in some ways I don’t (at least not right at the moment).  I think what I am struggling with most right now is my complete ambivalence about her death.  It’s difficult to think that I cared so little that I don’t have an opinion or a feeling about her passing.

The Wallflowers, I Wish I Felt Nothing

 

The House That Lives

Today called for the breaking out of a new candle.  It is now lit and to my left side, along with my Sondra dragon and my favorite framed picture of my grandpa.  I feel like we need each other right now.  To add to the comfort factor, I have a cold Chelada and am cooking myself some Fordhooks.

We had a family reunion of sorts today, under the general guise of garage sale preparation.  Sondra’s sister was here from TX.  We haven’t seen her since the funerals a little over a year ago and it’s bizarre to see her in this town without Sondra here.  Dave’s wife and kids were here, too.  Gavin even came over.  It was a mixture of sad and sweet to see everyone together.  Left me with some serious memories floating through my head.

It seems like just the other day since Sondra passed.  I remember the whole week like it is in Technicolor, engraved on a stone that I must have swallowed at that time.  Living in this house, I am reminded of her every day and often it feels like she is right across the table smoking a Kool and chomping on ice.  I don’t really know how to describe it.  I think she knows I have needed someone to be there.

Karis and Annette went to the gravesites today.  I haven’t been and don’t know that I will ever.  That is not where Dave and Sondra are for me.  They’re right here in this house and I see them every day.  As for Grandpa, he’s out at the lake.  He’s also here with me in my kitchen when I’m frying eggs and eating sardines right out of the tin.

I have so many beautiful memories of growing up with those two in my life.  There have been times in my life, in times of desperation and despair, that I have asked God to wipe my memory clean from the horrible things I have seen happen.  So that I can start over and not be haunted.  Upon reflection, I realize now that this would be the worst thing that could possibly happen.

All of the memories, with Sondra, with Grandpa, with QoB and Big Dog, they can’t be replaced and I visit them often.  Even while I am making new memories with my family, the memories of growing up and coming to where I am now give me comfort.

Sure, there are things in my life that I wish I would forget, but if it meant that I were to lose one of those positive and heart-strengthening memories, I’ll deal with the bad ones.

I wish I had given my mom a big hug and kiss when she left today.  I wish I could be more patient with how hard this is for everyone else, not just how it affects me.  I find myself praying and praying here recently.  For courage and strength and compassion.  For my family, as big as it can be.

MTLI.

We didn’t get to hear it when you wanted us to, Sondra, so here it is:

Pink Floyd, Comfortably Numb

Worth Remembering

I’ve been thinking a lot about Sondra and my grandpa this week.  I think it all started when Sondra wasn’t at my sister’s bridal shower, and the realization that Ab won’t be able to dance with Grandpa at her wedding.  I can’t pretend to imagine what that’s like for my sister, or my mom.  Absolutely awful, I suppose.  Sometimes, given enough contemplation and thought and silence, things just hit you. 

Brad Paisley, featuring Dolly Parton, When I Get Where I’m Going

Opposite to Emotion

I’ve gone a long time without a post, even for me.  Without making excuses, I’ve had a lot of stressful crap come up lately and have been drowning doing my best to keep my shit together. 

My godmother, Sondra, died last Saturday.  It was expected, but it continues to baffle me just how much it is affecting my life.  To make it even all the more unreal, her son, Dave, died early Friday morning, the day before she did.  It was completely unexpected, an awful accident.  Words can’t even describe and it still feels just surreal.  We spent all of last week going to funerals and attending to related business.  Completely horrible.  I’ve never been so relieved for a week to be over. 

My physical health has continued to deteriorate.  I had already been somewhat motivated to do something about it and had been eating a bit better, but after Dave died at 39, after Sondra passed, something happened without me noticing it.  I think death sometimes makes you realize that you need to take care of business so that you can live.  And in a way, I think that’s what happened, although there wasn’t any specific thought about it being related, or that “they died so I should _____.”  I can’t explain it.

I started the process of a database physical on Wednesday.  I’m pretty shaken up about all of it.  Filling out this long questionnaire, listing all of these things, all of these “symptoms” that I experience, realizing that it will likely all add up to some sort of diagnosis, probably diabetes, maybe even more, something worse, I don’t know.  It’s overwhelming to think about.  I have abused my body for years and years — I guess I always just thought I’d have “time” to do something about it, and then you’re 23 and then 25 and then 27 and things are at a breaking point.  It’s really ridiculous and I feel nothing but shame, guilt, and fear about it. 

It feels like most days I don’t really know what to do with myself.  I try to really structure my time at work, make sure I have appointments all day, so that I actually get things done.  Then most nights I get home, and all I want to do is go to bed.  I don’t want to blog, don’t want to walk, just want to make myself not feel all of these feelings and all of these thoughts and memories that come up when I am awake and not occupied.  I can’t stand being in my own skin. 

Dr. Love has really been doing a good job at getting me to do things.  We have gone to the dog park for the past couple of days and last night took a walk and did the Bowflex.  My mom called last night and made plans for the majority of the weekend.  It’s good for her, it’s good for me.  Neither one of us want to dwell too much.  Just too fucking painful. 

I hope I can get back to a place where I can put my feelings down here in a somewhat coherent way.  Right now I just have everything so pushed to the side that it’s almost impossible to get in touch with what’s inside there…and I don’t really friggin want to, either, is the thing.  Even though I know it’s making me miserable.  I just keep thinking that I need to buck up, go to work, keep myself occupied in the evening, and do it over and over and over and I’ll start to feel better eventually.  That’s the hope, anyway.  Right now I just feel incredibly disconnected. 

This song means something deep and true to me, something timeless, reminds me of I time I wish I could remember better.  Just enjoy and feel sad that you can’t hear The Wallflower’s version, but this guy is pretty good. 

ChicagoSoul covers The Wallflowers, Josephine

Mercy

If there was ever a time, a desire to be “fuzzy wuzzy” (as in my last blog), it is now.  Right friggin’ now. 

I think I have blogged about my godmother, The Bird Lady, before.  I think when I blogged before, it was about all of the wonderful stories that she would write about her childhood, growing up poor in the South, and then email to all of her loved ones.  Remember now?

The Bird Lady has been in my life since birth.  She has been my mother’s best friend for over 30 years.  She has watched us grow up, and has always been a fixture in our lives, sometimes more than others, but always there in one way or another.  Like a child unwilling to believe, to see, I never thought I would meet a day when she would not be around.  Granted, that day has not come yet, but it is coming soon, all too soon for me to bear.

The Bird Lady has fought a long painful battle with severe osteoporosis and spinal/nerve problems.  She has also struggled with a host of other medical problems, all related to an over 50 year steadfast practice of the eating disorder, anorexia nervosa.

She has been in unbearable pain for the past three or four years, often unable to leave the house for anything other than short periods, at some times unable to leave her bed.  Through it all, underneath it all, she has remained the godmother that I know and love. 

A few months ago, she had back surgery, the details of which I am still not clear on, but basically it was supposed to help her increase her mobility and give her less pain.  She survived the surgery, but has been, from what I understand, from what I refused to hear for quite some time, bound to her bed and home since then.  Her weight plummeted from an already very unhealthy 90 or so pounds to around 75 pounds (she is 5’9, maybe 5’10).  Her heart, already weakened from a heart attack last year and 50 plus years of a raging eating disorder, is failing.  Her lungs, complicated thoroughly from years of smoking, are failing. 

A few weeks ago, she developed a raging infection around her surgery site.  They went in, removed the metal rods that were holding her vertebrae in place, and were planning on putting in longer rods.  They did not.  They did not believe she could take any more trauma, any more anesthetic, so they sewed her back up.  Their initial plan was to revisit the surgery in six weeks.  To make her stronger, to get her weight up, to get her stabilized. 

From there, the details are fuzzy.  A lot of it, I don’t want to hear, don’t want to understand.  Even the aforementioned details are from scraps that I have listened to here and there.  I just don’t FRIGGIN WANT TO HEAR IT.  Because that would be accepting that there is a problem, accepting that she is not going to make it through, accepting that she will leave us soon.

From what my sister has told me, The Bird Lady is done fighting.  She does not want the quality of life that the next surgery would afford her, IF she would even be able to have the next surgery.  From what I understand, the next surgery would be at least six weeks away, if she makes it those six weeks.  From there, it would be IF she survives the surgery, then IF she survives the rehabilitation process.  And then, they can’t give her any sort of guarantee that the surgery would hold, that it would last, that her quality of life would improve.  I believe they are saying that there is a good chance that it would not improve.  

At any rate, she would be in the hospital for at least the next few months, if she were to survive that long, only to go to a nursing home after.  But she is done fighting.  She is giving up.  And I am trying my damndest to understand, to be ok with that. 

At this point, The Bird Lady is going to hospice.  She made the decision Saturday and will check in later today.  Her family is overwhelmed and are doing everything that they can to talk her out of it.  The doctors say that she is of sound mind and that this is not an irrational choice.  She is just done fighting.  Just done.  My sister has tried to explain this to me over and over — she just is not interested, will not accept, the poor quality of life that would be afforded to her if she was to continue fighting. 

And I want to understand this.  I need to understand this, to accept this, to be able to move on. 

But DAMN. 

Up until last Friday, I “didn’t know” that her condition was so serious.  I hadn’t seen her since Christmas, had talked to her on the phone only in passing (and Lord knows that I am beating myself up something CRAZY about the lack of contact, the lack of friggin EFFORT on my part to connect with her).  Apparently things have just been getting worse and worse, and I have refused to hear it, refused to listen to it, refused to ask questions.  My mom says that she was going to tell me how dire circumstances were a couple of weeks ago, but that there was never a good time, because she knew how I was going to react.  I can understand that, from my mom’s point of view.  She was trying to protect me, trying to make sure that I would have the support that I need when it came down to it. 

In my mind, though, I went from believing that Sondra was going to be just fine, to being told that she was not going to be just fine.  In my mind, I believed that this surgery was not a big deal, that she would fight the infection and would be up and working in her flower beds, flying her pigeons, working on stained glass, and playing bridge three times a week again in no time.  I believed this because THAT IS WHAT I WANT.  Of course, we can’t always have what we want. 

I am not in a very good space right now.  I’m trying to come to terms with all of this, but it’s unbelievably hard.  I am still in shock and denial right now.  There is still a large part of me that says that she will change her mind, fight the infection, and wait for the next surgery…and that she will be absolutely FINE afterward.  Unfortunately all evidence points to the contrary, so I am just struggling in my mind and heart with her decision.

My sister tried to explain hospice care to me yesterday.  I think at first (and even still), I didn’t understand exactly what would be the “cause,” if you will, of her death.  People don’t die from back surgery, RIGHT???  No, they don’t.  She is choosing to not fight the infection.  WHAT??  I don’t understand.  Why not?  I just don’t understand.  I can’t wrap my brain around it.  It seems so simple in my head — fight the infection, have the next surgery, move on with life as we know it, just don’t friggin’ LEAVE.  So very selfish on my part.

My sister has also tried to explain to me time and time again, and I am having an inability understanding this, to even hearing this — she doesn’t want to go on, she doesn’t want the quality of life that this would afford her.  But I don’t understand.    And maybe it’s because I haven’t seen her, haven’t talked with her, and just don’t know how bad off she is.  My hope is that I can talk to her and make myself understand what she is feeling, what she is thinking.  I need/want/have to understand so that I can be supportive.  I just don’t know what it will take to get there. 

All I can say right now is, thank God that I have Dr. Love.  He is standing by my side, ever watchful, ever protective, making sure that I am doing what I have to do.  Every minute, every hour that passes by, I realize more and more just how lucky I am to have someone that loves me, that understands me, that cares for me the way that he does.  It is something that I have never had, and I am forever grateful that I found him.  Forever grateful. 

YouTube won’t let me embed this video, so you’ll just have to click on it. 

Joe Nichols, Size Matters