I hear you there in the dark spaces, screaming of what you would do if let out of the carefully compartmentalized corners I have placed you in. You raged loose at the world threatening that if you could not have all things beautiful than no one could, oh the hateful things I have heard you whisper for hours upon days as l forced you away from those that you might hurt with your bile and fury and self-immolation the anti-phoenix consuming yourself in a thing of horror; perpetual death.
Every year, the hate/grief surges forward. Logic and culture dictate that you should be resolved, completed, distastefully acknowledged and then swept away. “Move on, just move on”, is the well-intentioned mantra. “Forgive and Forget.”
Forget? If I could but disentangle all the living horror wrapped around the pure memories of love/grief I would. I would swallow bottles of pills and undergo surgery if I could forget.
Forgive? FORGIVE? Forgive the self-centric and narcissistic? Forgive the incompetent and idiots? The blind-siding hatemongers?
- student doctors, so proud that they can rhyme off 9 possible reasons why there are white smudges on the xrays, but can’t look at a medication chart to properly adjust a bowel management program;
- screaming nurse yelling at a heavily sedated dying man, that he can’t talk to her like that, because she called his husband a fag;
- ‘friends’ who shopped for a suitable knick-knack, while visiting both before and after death, claiming that they had given it to him, so they should get it back, including gifts that he and I had given each other;
- RBC – the bank from hell that drained as much as they could from his account before I finally needed a lawyer to pit the CRA against them to do what should have been done in the first place. Not to mention that the money in the account was actually mine, since that was the account we paid bill out of so I just topped it up. That didn’t piss me off as much as keeping from being able to mourn properly with everyone else at the same time, so I could close off the estate;
- Ashes. His brother screaming for the ashes before the cremation has taken place. Nagging, hounding, even after I said not until spring, and then bitching about his lost work time that he was holding. Telling me how I was hurting his father. What a rotten person I was. Then when I send the overflow ashes to his dad, AS PER HIS REQUEST, it still wasn’t good enough, because he wanted it planned so he could be thered.
- The sister-in-law who spent most of her last visit with us bitching about being a PSW and how she hated working with sick people. We were talking about the bad PSW we had in to help Jaymz, and had to get rid off. Then she hugged him tight, after we told them to barely touch him, as the cancer was in his bones and in the back. He started to cry from the pain, and she thought it grief, so she squeezed him harder and rubbed his back until I yelled at her. But I was the asshole.
- Shamma. Mother of his godson and did not even call for almost a year, after he told his godson he couldn’t cut hair anymore. Then she tries to come down the day I was forced to place him. Then she played nice-nice at a luncheon, until he went to the bathroom, and tried to read my beads for keeping her from him, as this was “her time” to spend with her son’s godfather. Then she tried to show up the day he died and put pictures of her and her child up in my house.
- Susie mother-fucking Goulding. You righteous bitch. Bursting into tears at your last haircut, not being able to take the pain of knowing Jaymz had cancer. Carrying on to the point that I simply had to leave as it was easier for he and I. Arriving at the palliative ward, demanding entrance. I asked her kindly to wait so I could get an update from the doctor, see how Jaymz was, and then maybe have her up. (She had driven in after being told not to come until she had spoken with me, but she called from her car when she was almost in the city.)She was already calling up to the room to speak to the doctor, as I was riding up the elevator. With all the commotion, I missed speaking to the doctor myself that last night. Knowing his wishes that if he was ever unconcious that he didn’t want people to see him, I went down and tried gently to say “no, he’s in a coma. No, don’t go up.” Then so angered I could deny her access to her BEST FRIEND, she handed me the receipts for all the gifts she had brought. And I didn’t punch her out when I handed it back and said “get yourself a refund”. Then still not respecting anything, called for an update, found out he was dead, and called and left a cheery message that she would give us her staff discount at her flower shop for funeral arrangements. Sweetie, darling… all his friends knew there was no funeral. None of them had heard of you before. You were a client. Your only redeeming feature was that you had a baby, and he wanted to hold a baby before he died. The sound of your name still brings me to full rage.
- I hated the consoling nurse who tried to shush me as I wailed hanging on to his cooling hand, as I tried to feel any sign of life beneath the crisp linen.
- I hated the funeral home for neatly combing his hair into a part, and for lying him in the chapel with comforting music.
And cancer. I fucking hate cancer. I hate that I did my best and it simply wasn’t good enough; I hate there was no miracle drug or standard treatment worth taking; I hated that it took my love away quicker than I had found him.
Psychoterrierpy 