Feb. 7th, 2000. - UtenaSama's first High Curried Trip...
When I asked Dios to make this page with me, I fully intended to have a section with journalistic entries so that the things that we really wanted to say or the things we actually feel would be seen.
So here is what I am feeling...
Someone's at the door, one sec...
My great-grandmother, who would be 90 this year is stead fastly dying as I type. And I know I should feel a greater effect of sorrow or pain, but I do not. This may be some odd lashback from my semi-newly found religious Buddhist beliefs that the 'Eternal Sleep' is supposed to be a welcomed thing, *shrugs* who's to say? I grew up with my great-grandmother for a few years while my mother was on her young Dr. Kildare hang-out-with-my-coke-addicted-med-student-friends & her I-married-a-raging-alcoholic-that-likes-to-slap-me-around-and-fondle-my-wayward-daughter period. When my mother cleaned up, she quickly whisked me away, back to some condo where she could be a closet junkie, without an abusive husband. Trust me, for her that is the best upgrade to be expected.
So, I became the favorite of my now dying great-grandmother, and neglected to visit her much after that, wether from my own developing junk habbits, or because I was simply too involved in my own bizzare lil life.
My family has a great history of death, just last year we had two suicides and a Leukemia victim. One of my aunts commented that my grandmother's death is the first of the 'slow crop' this year. Heh. Somehow, that IS a tad amusing.
I did not attend any funerals last year, especially for the suicide victims (an uncle and a distant cousin) because I myself was battling cancer, and kidney disease, and the occasional rave.
Sometimes we don't have time for death.
But now it's seems to be making time.
Because this old woman took care of me during my mother's personal hollocaust, and because of her still deep rooted attachment to me, 'they' are making me visit her. 'They' are forcing me to watch her die. Like some sort of strange pennance or an unexplained karmaic backlash for never really talking to her as much as I should have.
And she just lies there, with those kind and frightened blue, German eyes ...she's fully aware of what's happening to her, she can feel it no matter how much morphine you pump into her, no matter how many ativan shots, or vicodin pills you give her, she knows. And worst of all she knows that I know. Reminds me of an infant, lying there, helpless, almost no control over any of her basic motor functions, and all I can think of is my god, is she ever going to die??? What a fucking selfish thought. I know it is, but so what? I can't take her kind eyes, and that smell that lingers in the house. As if death had a fragrance all it's own. You can even smell it on your clothes after you've left the house. Like survivors of Auschwitz.
Ugh, and school semester starts next week, as if my fill of anxiety were never enough.
Maybe, just maybe she will pass before next week. Maybe she will stop asking about me.
Then again, I really don't know of anyone in my family who ever really asks about me the way she does. If she dies, then the attachment goes. My family is not a close knit one by any means, but she is a thread that keeps me tied. *sigh*
Last night the family gathered to discuss her will, and who gets what drugs that are left from when she does go (hey, can't let good morphine injections go to waste ...), etc. I get the house I live in now, which is really her house. That bothers some, but I have already decided to sell it. Move on.
*closing my eyes*If I could only have a great moment of clarity, some kind of dramatic breakthrough that would allow me to justify my lack of enthusiam about her death, with the exception of the universal Buddhist 'embrace death as you would life' scapegoat I have been spewing out for the past couple of days. That is my High Curried Trip for this week. Her death, and my continuance, and the fact that there seems to be a lack of 'High' or "Curry'. Just a whole hell of a lot of Trip.
~Finale~
