As always, the 3rd is for hate

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.

 

Fruits of the devil

ImageThough there were always dogs on the farm when I grew up, the 1.1 lbs dustbunny was really my first dog.  I had a beautiful black german shepherd for all of one week, but the rest of my housemates proved to be allergic, including my at that time, other half, whose dog it really was.  As there was another dog in that house, no one suspected allergies just a bad bug going through which no one else seemed to be acquiring, and got better throughout the day, so that one was gone before I had a chance to get attached.  

And while I absolutely adored HRP La Principessa Roxie, there was never any question that she was my hunny’s baby.  I was definitely useful for my opposable thumbs, and for a comfy lap while napping, but that is the function of a dog’s staff!

No, little AnW – AttentioN Whore – was happy (still is) to get some belly rubs and climb all over anyone who said the magic phrase “OMG she’s cute”.  Still does.  Nevertheless, there was no saying whose puppeh she was, especially if she decided to crap in some obnoxious, hard to access area, which in a house full of tchotchkes was everywhere.

“Yer dawg…” was the common refrain I would get coming home, rather than those words of yesteryear ‘hi hunny, how was your day’.  “Yer dawg chewed/pooped/peed/barfed/ate/drooled/snotted/bit” etc. whilst the Principessa maintained innocence from her pillow, and fuzz muffin nipped my ankle.

Selectively forgetting that Principessa had been notoriously hard to housebreak initially as well, hunny did what any stressed spouse would do:  saved it up until I got home, only to read my beads.  ‘Yes, dear’, was the mantra response of choice.  ‘As you wish’, a la Princess Bride – which used to cause swooning – only got me The Eye.

Strangely, the puppeh seemed to denote that HerFather always seemed to get the short end of the stick from YesDear.  And though YesDear treated her very well throughout the course of day, bribing her with noms, belly rubs, cuddles’n’kizzez, like any addictions involved sex trade worker came running when her crack daddy came in.  No longer could I sneak quietly in the front door: puppeh was (still is) a very chatty little thing, burbling and warbling like Blue’s Clues’ Blue on meth laced helium. 

“Brr? Brrrrr?  Merf. Merf!”

“Oh, god,” my hunny would say to his clients, “HerFather’s coming.  You thought she was something before, wait for it, you wait until he opens that door and she will. Not. Shut. Up.”  In a stage whisper, he’d add “It’s the damn cutest thing”.

As the door opened, I carefully watched for the projectile ball of fluff shoot out from strange location, i.e. under the couch as above, or between the pages of book or some other crazy crevice, going into a higher trilling register, “BRR?  BRRRR? Brr-brr-brr!  BRR-BRR-BRR!”  Lumbering around the apartment, I was sure to nearly crush her 3-4’s a night, as she was usually happily at my ankle.  Several times, she would sit on my foot, and I simply wouldn’t notice until I went to walk and shot her across the room.

Of all her bad habits, of which there are many, the one command that I have managed to make work is “No Voice!”  The last thing I ever wanted was a yappy little mutt.  Chatty doesn’t bug me, but you those other dogs…the cheewho-ah, who-ahs, for example: “BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKbreatheBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK”.  Can’t stand them.  Even today, she can have point second of a loud voice to bring my attention, but if she doesn’t subside to a grumble after me saying “I hear you, Zyll”, then gets the command “No voice!”

However, like some people never forget their baby’s first word, I cannot help but still chortle thinking of Zylly’s first bark.

HerFather just arriving home, and YesDear already done for the day, and already launching into a tirade as HerFather walked tiredly in the door.

“Yer dawg…”

“Brr-brr-brr!”

“Yer dawg pooped…”

“BRR-BRR-BRR!’

“Yes, dear,” I automatically replied, which was a bad decision, as the chastisement had not yet been fully voiced, thus rendering any acknowledgement moot.

Hunny gathered up a lungfull, in order to properly castigate me, an effort but still manageable in those first days of his diagnosis.  “I was SAY-ing…”

Dustbunneh puppeh, my living satellite ceased her orbit around me to run between my feet and plant her teeny self between HerFather and YesDear, opened her Gund teddy muzzle and let out a mighty…”arf”.  Then promptly having scared herself with this tremendous sound sat on her haunches and looked upwards and adoringly at me, little tongue lolling, before throwing another menacing ‘arf’ at YesDear.

In the time it takes diarrhea to hit toilet water, he was in tears laughing at the absurdity.  “THAT has got to be the GAYEST thing I’ve heard.”  This statement was coming from a hairdresser prone to wearing silver lame shirts to do laundry.

“Bitch, don’t make me set my dark fluffy minion of e-vile upon you!  She will devour you like a pestilent tumour, like fruits of the devil!!!”

By this point he was clutching his gut, and had nearly stopped breathing from laughing.  “If that was my tumour, it wouldn’t be a problem…I’d just need to point the hairdryer at it!  OK, stop it hurts.”

Instantly I stopped and stepped towards him on the couch, but lurched short, “Oh crap!”

He stopped laughing as well, “What?”

“What I just stepped in.  Fruit of the devil…puppeh crap.”

It was a good night.

The Monster

ImageThe fuzzy little monstrosity above is the puppeh on the second day of being in my life. The puppeh like most children came into being because my late love got me very drunk whilst watching Bolt, and when I was an emotional sobbing heap (I cry easily during Pixar and Disney crap) planted the suggestion of getting a dog.

Another dog to be correct.

You see, already reigning supremely was Her Royal Puppiness, La Principessa, Roxanna Elsa Eldora… or was it Aldora?  I’ve got the papers somewhere, but that was the munchkin’s name.  Roxie for short.  And she was the cutest puppy on the entire face of the planet, not spoiled, but heavily indulged. Heavily, heavily indulged.  7.2 lbs of Shih Tzu runtiness had one trunk of outfits, and a casket of jewelry…the real bling to boot.  She was bathed bimonthly at the least, and had her own stylist every 6 weeks.  Yes, one of THOSE dogs.  

But she was a good sport about being fawned over, and it mostly did not go to her head.  She was the ultimate lap dog, and would just lie contently to the point that you would forget that she was there.  I kind of liked that, as she reminded me of a cat, and I really am more of a cat person.  I had a cat for aeons, but we’ll discuss her another time.

Where was I?  Right.  So the Principessa was used to be waited on and worshipped, as my hunny was a hairdresser and worked from home, meaning that there were always people there, and she was always getting attention.  But then he decided to contract cancer (another blog), and was going to die (another blog), and then she would be alone since I worked in an office, ergo, champagne, Bolt, another puppeh for the Principessa for company.

After a week of surfing “puppy porn” as everyone was wont to say, I saw the monster with her sisters. She was looking at the camera and into my soul.  I screamed for my hunny – as he was about to start cutting a client – and said “THAT ONE”.  He dropped the scissors, the client was right into it and 45 minutes later the hair was done, and the deal struck with the breeder, for pickup the next day.  As my car was in the shop, his client drove us.

Weighing in at a whopping 1.1lb, the fluff ball entered our lives.