you just can’t ever win

So this week has been hard. To say the least. I crashed through a few stages of grief today which was very difficult. But to explain this all further, I must set the scene.

My grandfather has been “supposed to die” about 20 times since I’ve been born. I’ve been living a large part of my life waiting for him to die. Each time, he’s made miraculous recoveries. He was even pronounced dead once, for about 4 minutes. But then he comes back, and continues along his life. I don’t know if it’s the stubborn Scottish temperment or the strong MacLeod blood (we don’t accept our own deaths easily), but he’s made it through everything so far. I know he’s older and each time, the chances of him going are greater and greater. But the last time I saw him, at Thanksgiving, the dialysis center told him they wouldn’t take him every other day anymore because they weren’t cleaning enough out of his blood. Basically, his kidneys were working again and he no longer needed dialysis. People who go on dialysis rarely come off without a kidney transplant. So that was great news back at Thanksgiving. He’s been very sick for about a year and a half. Its been a roller coaster for my grandmother and the rest of the family. But he’s pushed through everything. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard “He’s not going to make it through the night.” So when I heard it on Sunday, I didn’t buy it at first. But then Mom told me what was going on.

My father and grandmother were sitting at the hospital with my grandfather, who was drugged up on pain medication, waiting for him to go. His kidneys had failed and there was a serious leak in his chest, which was filling his chest cavity with blood. They couldn’t repair the leak and even so, my grandfather had refused any operations. He had oxygen in his nose and an IV in his arm for the pain medication, but nothing more. No heart moniters or pulse readings or breathing tubes. He was literally just waiting to die now. If the pressure in his chest from the blood didn’t kill him, the failing kidneys or the loss of the blood would. I’m not sure we even know now what excatly it was that he died from. His body was just spent.

After my mother told me all that, I knew the end was near. But I also knew that my grandfather could defy medical knowledge again and last a few days longer than anyone expected just to prove that he could. He did last longer than anyone expected, but he finally died Monday morning. I was pushed into prep mode. I had to take care of work and my doctor’s appointment and pack and do this and that. I couldn’t think about it cause I had to just go. I cried a little when my mom told me and again on the plane. But I had things to do and didn’t have time to freak out. I was also in a lot of pain and some shock still from my car accident. Don’t forget about that wonderful little thing.

When we arrived on Tuesday, my father and grandmother, in high spirits and giggling like small children, picked us up from the airport. They were very strange, but smiling was better than crying. There were things to do at the house, like get the obituary to the newspaper, via their website, before we could go to lunch. My father was planning on staying in one of the hotels close to my grandmother’s house, but they were booked up and we spent some time trying to track down a place to stay that was cheap and close to my grandmother, but not a complete dive. We finally found a Holiday Inn Express that was to my father’s liking. Grandma had a 1:30 appointment for her hair to be done. It turned out to be easier for her to take herself while Mom, Dad and I went and had lunch together. At some point, towards to end of our eating, my father started talking. He told, in amazing detail, the last days spent with his father. He recounted it later and I’ve summarized the story for my other grandmother, but I’m not ready to repeat it again. He couldn’t finish the story, just started crying. In the middle of this sports bar/restaurant, my mother, father and I just clung to each other and cried. I’ve never seen my dad really cry like that before, and as much as I was hurting, it hurt for me to see him in that much pain. It was good for him to tell the story and good for us to listen. At this point, I still hadn’t completely accepted the fact that my grandfather was completely gone. It just hadn’t registered somehow. I was also in excrutiating pain most of Tuesday. My arm and chest weren’t just bothering me, I was nearly crying from the pain. I was trying not to throw fits and demand attention, but eventually I needed to insist that my mother and I find the Therma-Pads the doctor recommended and a sling to take the weight of my arm off my shoulder. As much as I didn’t want to complain, I needed to take care of myself as well. My mother was great and helped me get what I needed. My uncle Kevin and his wife Cindy arrived at some point and shortly after that my uncle Doug and his wife Kathy along with their youngest Ann arrived. At one point, before dinner, I was sitting in the living room with all the girls, except my mother. Ann’s older brother, Greg, is getting married in August and she is a bridesmaid. Grandma asked Ann what color her dress would be. When Ann answered black, Grandma flipped her lid. Black was not a color suitable for a wedding. Was Greg’s fiance, Mary, not only ugly but stupid?! I’m not even kidding when I tell you that’s what she said. She ripped in the girl first for picking the colors black and white for her wedding and then ripped into Greg for picking such a plain, ugly girl as a bride. I was so embaressed and shocked. She’s mourning and in pain. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Bullshit. She would have said the same thing if my grandfather was still alive. I was glad Greg and Mary weren’t there. When she was done with them, she started explaining the funeral service on Thursday. Ann and I are both exceptional musicians and had offered to play at the service. Grandma, through my father, said no, which was her right. She and my grandfather had discussed what he wanted at his service and they agreed it was not what they wanted. They have the right to do as they please. As much as I wanted to play, I was fine with that. But then, oh then she got started on my other grandfather’s memorial service. She said that it was a ridiculous show. Every grandchild had to get up and do a song and a dance. Then the four children got up and gave long, tearful eulogies. It was stupid and pointless. She didn’t want to have her grandchild perform like circus monkies and stutter over endless verses. She also didn’t want every child playing whatever musical instrument they were attempting to learn.

I was sitting in the chair next to her, seething. I mean, filled with rage and wanting to just scream at her. At my grandfather’s funeral, I played the prelude on the piano and at my grandmother’s request, The Lord’s Prayer on the handbells after the prayer during the service. There were Scriptures that my grandparents wanted read during the service. The other grandchildren decided they would like to read them. We rehearsed the verses with them, so no one would stumble over the words or not know how to pronounce something. It was excatly what my grandfather and grandmother wanted. And here’s my other grandmother telling us how stupid andridiculous everyone looked, while I sat there. I’m still seething and furious with her for that. I respect that is not what she and her husband wanted. She has every right to do the service exactly how she wants. But she had no right, none, to critize how others grieve and do their services. Everyone keeps saying, that’s what she does; she criticizes everyone around her. And her husband just died and she’s dealing with a lot. That’s fine, but there is a line and she crossed it. If she had done it with me and my mother out of earshot, that would have been one thing. It would have still been bad taste, but it wouldn’t have hurt me or my mother. My mother didn’t hear it, but I was so furious I ended up leaving to go outside the garage where I cried. Cindy had not heard that part of the conversation and thought I just missed my grandfather, but I was so mad I didn’t know what to do. My grandmother can be so cruel and inconsiderate sometimes. I’m still beyond furious with her about this. I haven’t really looked at her or gone to her since it happened. I am still so upset over it.

Dinner was sausages and brats from a great German butcher shop. Beer was the beverage of choice so my mother and I went to the store to get that along with what I needed for my arm. I was so used to not drinking at the conference due to the Vicodin I was taking and the fact that I needed to be able to drive. I told my mother I probably shouldn’t drink. Her answer was “Hunny, you are in immense pain. Alcohol will enhance the Vicodin, so drink away!” It turned out to be a good idea. Two bottles of Smirnoff Ice later, I was sitting at the dining room table, completely pain free and flying high as a kite. It was enjoyable. That night at the hotel, I showed my mother the only nice Florida-summer clothes I had. I had left my winter church clothes at school since I wouldn’t need them over the summer. My only summer church clothes are demin and khaki skirts with tank tops. Church is not formal in the summer and its hot. She decided I had nothing appropriate, or rather nothing Grandma would approve of. So tomorrow we would need to go to Beall’s for new clothes before the viewing and before the funeral. After the early comments from my grandmother, I wanted to wear blue jeans and a ratty tank top. My mother reemed me out for not bringing better clothes, and ignored me when I told her I didn’t have anything else. I went to bed mad at my grandmother and mother. At that point I just wanted to go be with my other grandmother.

The viewing hours were on Wednesday evening at the same funeral home that my other grandfather was at. Part of that was hard to be at the same place, but the setup was very different which helped. We were not in the chapel and the body was laid at the other end of the room. It created a feeling of being at a different location, which helped. The family went in first at 6:30pm. That was the hardest. Everyone was in tears and holding on to the person nearest to them. My 14-year-old cousin Matt was closest to me and we ended up leaning against each other most of that time. It was perfect because my dad needed my mom more than I needed her, but I still needed someone. Eventually, my grandmother walked away and waited for the outsiders to arrive. I eventually got control of myself. My mother and I were driving up to pick up her mother and bring her to the funeral home as well. Remember, two and a half years ago, her husband had his Masonic services in the same place. We explained to her that it was completely different. By the time we arrived, there was laughter and talking coming from the room. No one was near the casket, choosing instead to stand further down the room to sit and talk comfortably. As the viewing hours were drawing to a close, the family went back up to say their final goodbyes. Dad was supposed to tell the story of the last days with Grandpa at dinner earlier that evening, but we were not in a private room and he decided to tell it instead at the house after the viewing hours. I had planned on going back to my other grandmother’s house for the night, but I wanted to be with the family when Dad told the story again. So instead I was to take Grandma back to her apartment, then return to my grandmother’s condo to hear the story, then drive back north to the apartment. Which was fine. It would give me some time alone and in control. So as the family went up and said goodbye, I didn’t really say goodbye the way I wanted to. I couldn’t lose it again because I had to drive. As much as I had already cried and even seeing his empty body lying in the casket, I had not accepted it completely. I couldn’t make it real in my head.

The storytelling was not as good as when my father did it solo. My grandmother kept interjecting and adding things. It was her right as she was there as well, but he did it so well alone. I still cried, but I’m not sure anyone else did. I also was reliving his earlier storytelling, not hearing it for the first time. I drove back to my grandmother’s apartment. I had called Manny earlier and let him know I would need to talk that night. I needed to get things off my chest. Somewhere in my rantings, I missed the exit and went too far. I figured it out and turned myself back around. I continued trying to deal with everything, when Manny interrupted me, saying he was at a party and really needed to go. I’m fine that he was at a party, and he’s not my boyfriend, so he’s not on call 24/7. Even as my boyfriend, it was never like that. But that’s why I had called early in the day to check and make sure calling then would be a good time, he would be able to talk. He had told me that was fine, and then ditched me. If he had said he was going to be busy, that would have been fine. I would have held it in or called someone else, but he didn’t and I’m none too happy with him at the moment. He’s called twice today, but I have less than no desire to talk to him. I ended up calling Megan and recounted the last two weeks to her, which includes the car accident, Alyssa and everything up to that point. It was so good to talk to her and I’ll actually see her soon.

Thursday was the funeral service and graveside service. I got up about 8:30 and took a shower. My grandmother took me to the breakfast nook in her retirement village, which I love. We sat for a long time and talked about her husband’s funeral and everything that was going on. She’s easily my favorite grandmother, even without the earlier comments from the recent widow. We were to be at the church by 12:30 for the 1pm service. I was fine at the church and before hand. We gathered and prayed and lingered in the hallway. The family was going to walk in after everyone else was in place, right at 1pm and then the service would start. My cousin Matt walked me down the aisle and sat between his mother and I. On my other side was Cathy, then Doug, then Grandma. I don’t know what order they sat behind us, but the rest of my immediate family was back there. At some point, during the greeting or opening hymn, I got very angry. I mean, nearly violently angry. The service was all about how John wouldn’t have wanted us to focus on him, but instead focus on God and God’s glory and how he was now with God and yadda yadda yadda. It’s fine and I understood what they were trying to do. But my grandfatherdied. He’s no longer here. And someday I’ll see him again and everything will be perfect. But I’m not there yet. I’m here on earth and I’m sad. I miss him. I’ve never understood people, Christian or not, who believe that Christians should always be happy even when someone they love dies. I think my grandmother took comfort from the message the pastor gave, but I took very little. I’m not angry that he’s dead, because everyone eventually dies. I was angry that this smiling idiot of a pastor expected me to find comfort in a psalm that talked about the perfect glory of God and His throne. That’s all well and good, but I’m left down here. I’m trying to mourn and you want me to be chipper and upbeat. I was angry that the service did nothing for me except make me more angry. I was further angered by the fact that I had nothing to do. I don’t know how to show emotions like a normal person. My emotions come through my music, through my instrument. I needed an oboe or a piano to really be able to say goodbye, to really be able to mourn and get through this. I needed to release my emotions through the music. Not only was I not allowed to do that, but I had been mocked and scorned for it. My grandmother thought I had been a circus monkey performing for the crowd. Someone I was expected to love and respect showed me no respect and only cruelty towards my dealing with it. She lost her husband, but others also lost a father, a grandfather and a friend. She is not the only mourning. I was angry that I was angry. I wanted to jump up and down and scream. Something, anything. I wanted to wail and pull my hair out. My cousin, Ann, wailed at the casket the day before and my grandmother rebuked her. I’m not asking my grandmother to wail and cut her hair and beat her chest, but if it helps me to do that, don’t mock and scorn me. I remember some scene in a book or movie or somewhere. Someone says, “What do you want me to do? Run up and down the streets naked?” The reply was “Yes, if it helps.” I don’t care how my grandmother chooses to mourn, but don’t rebuke the rest of us. I was so angry sitting there. And I was in so much pain. I still hadn’t accepted it, but I was angry. Matt walked me out of the sanctuary and I couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down my cheeks. I saw my grandmother give me the evil eye for still crying and I wanted to shake her. At some point, I got control of myself and we drove to the gravesite. There was a piper who led us from the side of the road out to where his casket and the flowers all were. He later led us back to the roadside. He played Scotland the Brave, Mull of Kintyre and Skye Boat Song. Any control I had at that point was lost as he played. My father and I walked together and I was still crying. The family took a moment by the casket before taking seats under a tent. My mom and I were in the last row. The cheery pastor began to speak again. At “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” I lost it again. I couldn’t get control of myself and I was tired of trying to control myself. I stared out at the rest of the graveyard and ignored the pastor who kept spouting away. We sang the doxology and the friends where dismissed. The family gathered again around the closed casket.

The clan tartan in mostly yellow with red and black. The four children had a large arrangement of various yellow flowers with four red roses and a black bow that read ‘Dad’. Ann and I had decided on a stem of yellow daisies for each of the granddaughters, a red carnations for the grandsons and great-grandson with a black bow reading ‘Grandpa’. I had the idea that each grandchild could take the appropriate flower and either lay it on the casket or keep it. My grandmother and the four children also laid red roses on the casket. I pulled a bloom off my stem before placing it on the casket. As the family began to walk away, Matt was again next to me. Our grandfather’s parents are buried not far from his site and we, with others in the family, wandered over until we found it. I placed the bloom I had taken on the the marker and then Matt walked me back to the road. I was still crying and couldn’t see where I was going, but he kept me steady.

From there, Greg, Mary, my nice grandmother and I returned to the church to pick up the flowers left behind by the funeral home, per my father’s instructions. We returned to my grandmother’s apartment so I could change and collect my things. We also picked a planter to leave at her apartment. After a short, but nice visit (free of judgements and criticism) we returned to Grandma’s condo, just in time to swim for a short bit before dinner. My parents and cousin Tim were already in the pool. The water was very warm, but felt nice and we were able to talk and hang out. Dinner was at the same place Grandpa had his last meal less than a week earlier. It was the family, plus my other grandmother. It wasn’t intended to be this way, but the adults ended up at one table and the grandkids pushed a together table. It was a lot more fun than I thought it was going to be. Mary is only about a month older than I and the youngest was Tim, about 10 or 11. We had a really good time, recalling stories of past family reunions and hearing about Lauren, Matt and Tim’s younger sister, who had stayed at home with her father. She is, as her mother puts it, a royal terror. As opposed to previous reunions, the cousins were closer in age, or at least old enough not to be annoying, and everyone really had a good time.

I think I finally understand how the Florida streets work. I’m still really mad at my grandmother, but there’s little or no point in starting a fight with her. My mother chalks it up to her just being herself and missing Grandpa. That’s fine, but someone should tell her how rude and cruel she can be sometimes. If she thinks I’m being sensitive, then she can leave my life. I don’t want people in my life who make me feel like crap. I already a father who does that and he’s got it perfected. He has been good to me this week though. He understands that I want to be with my other grandmother and I need my freedom. I’ve been able to drive my grandmother’s car and get out. He said to me tonight that he missed me and wished we could spend more time together this week, but I understand he needs to be with his mother and siblings. Saturday or Sunday he said we can start looking at the paperwork for my car.

I’m just dealing with too much and I’m not being allowed time or space to deal with everything. I had the accident, but then Alyssa was being…well, bitchy, and I had to watch my step. Then I came home and literally the next day my grandfather died. So I had to race around and put my life on hold, which usually I can do. But I couldn’t put a hold on the pain in my arm and chest. I couldn’t put a pause to the flashbacks I have ever so often of the accident. I’ve never been really terrified of my own driving. I don’t drive drunk and I’m always in control of my vehicle. Even when I’ve been slipping and sliding on snow or ice, I’m ready for it and in control. I’m not worried I’ll have an accident. I’m more worried about the other idiots on the road – like the woman who whacked into my car without warning. If it had been head-on, I might have seen it coming, even if I couldn’t stop it. I would have been prepared, even a little for it. But I wasn’t and its highly unnerving. I’m okay driving, better than I thought I would be. But it’s that feeling of being out of control.

I’m still angry and in pain over everything. As a Christian, yes – everything will be alright in the end. If it’s not alright, it’s not the end. But why doesn’t it have to still hurt so much? I’m angry, really angry. I can find reasons and explainations for being mad, but I’m not mad. I’m actually really angry. I want to go back home, go back to therapy and figure out what the hell is going on. I’m prepared to deal with depression and mania and suicide. I have plans in place for what I do. But this anger – I don’t know what to do with it. I’m trying to remain relaxed and find ways to release even a tiny bit of it. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to drive down the coast and meet up with the family sans Grandma on the beach for breakfast. But I’m still angry and I don’t really get why.

You just can’t relax
And you can’t rely
On anyone for anything
So you make your complaints
And all everyone’s let you down
You just can’t ever win

Convinced there’s a war on
It’s always everybody versus you
Convinced that your critics are watching
And you’ve always got something
You’ve always got something to prove

So tie the noose
And raise the cross
The martyr’s arrived
A desperate plea for sympathy
It’s all you’ll need

A laundry list of problems doesn’t make you interesting
And never getting help doesn’t make you brave
Not listening to reason doesn’t mean that you have faith
You’re just cutting off your nose to spite your face

So tie the noose
And raise the cross
The martyr’s arrived
A desperate plea for sympathy
It’s all you’ll need

And you want it all
You want it, you want it all
You want it, you want it all
You want it, you want it all
You want it, you want it all
You want it, you want it all
You want it, you want it all
You want it, you want it all
You want it, you want it all
You want it, you want it all
You want it, you want it all

Sympathy for the Martyr ~ Straylight Run