The last time I posted to the blog I was keeping vigil, waiting, from afar. Maria and I'd left Oregon, my Mom and Dad, other family, and my Grandmother. My Grandmother, in hospice, fading little by little, and my Mom and I texting back and forth, staying in touch.
The last time I checked in here I thought I was ready for what was inevitable... not necessarily "prepared," or totally at peace, but aware of what would happen, what to likely expect. I wasn't aware that I was relying on some degree of "normalcy" to prevail. There is something profound, or maybe utterly meaningless, in before and after. We have these markers, sometimes happy, like before Christmas and after Christmas, sometimes tragic, shared, big, like before 9/11 and after 9/11... and anyway, I seem to notice the things that are pronounced or seemingly significant in before, and after.
Mister Foo. Did you know? He would give these hugs, with his paws on your shoulders if you were crying. He'd sleep on your legs, if you were sick, or if he just wanted to. He had this mass to him, and it was such a comforting thing to have his sympathy, to feel he cared. And he sang. Honestly... he would come padding up whenever Happy Birthday was sung, and he would meow, and look so besotted and charmed. I wrote about his musical interest, before. Lately, we'd been singing to Mister Foo a lot, usually Happy Birthday, but more recently, Christmas songs. The last time I sang to him it was I Saw Three Ships and he dashed to my side, looking me in the eyes, and meowing.
The last time I blogged, we had three cats, and only Cairo and Chango would have their picture taken. About one in the morning, November 5, William woke us, because he hadn't been able to get Mister Foo in. Mister Foo always came in, sometimes a bit late, but this was unprecedented. We looked everywhere. We tapped a spoon on his favorite can of food, and opened every door to every room, calling his name. It was a cold, damp night. Our shoes, or bare feet, were wet, we murmured hopeful assurances, and looked further, and further from home. Geoff drove around the neighborhood. We walked outside our fenced yard. We called, we breathed slowly, through pursed lips.
For more than a week every phone call, each new text, rang like a portent, a heavy, solemn thing, perhaps the one. Each day, every long moment, was passed knowing it was coming, Grandmother's passing, and I thought I am ready. This is what is inevitable, and I felt sad, distracted, and sometimes relief for her, sometimes anguish for what I wanted to cling to, hope for, but I was not prepared. The call came after two in the morning, and we would have been asleep, at least some or most of us would have been in beds, dreaming; that is what I would have expected. So when the phone rang, and we were all awake, cold and worried, dreading the unspeakable likeliness that we had lost our darling Foo, I knew, with certainty and heartbreak, that we'd lost Grandmother, too.
One, or the other, but one at a time. Seriously. It's wrong to conflate these. Right? It's two things, separate, unequal. And I want to deal with each of them, mourn, process, and think of each incident in its own way, time, order. But. No... what can be reasoned, and understood intellectually, will not always stay neat and tidy in separate files, not for me, it seems.
Nothing I can say or do is going to come out right. I will say things poorly, overshare, or be so reserved that I feel myself disappearing, shrinking. And that's just what I am contending with in my own head. Conventions, and other's opinions, assure that what I do or say, what I omit, or shy away from, will be misconstrued, or called into question. A part of me wishes I were not inclined to write, to blog, to love photographs and photography, to chronicling details, moments, ideas, feelings. If I could hammer nails all day, that could be a good thing. If I didn't feel compelled to sort my thoughts and emotions, and look at them on paper, it would be easier to feel private, unjudge-able.
A part of me longs for traditional ceremony, a system and order. We would all agree to to make a statement, wear black, close our doors, fast, or feast, get drunk and burn things, or weave a tapestry and sing hymns... just something arranged, understood, approved, so I can know what to do, how to be, when to go outside, when to sit still, where to put my hands when people are speaking to me. Everything is mixed up, contrary. I want to be held, but sometimes I fear a hug will make me fall apart, like it's all I can do to make myself hold together, contain everything, walk upright. I want to share this post, but I don't want pity, or attention, or to "make a fuss." I want my cat. I want to curse, eject all of the really sharp, profane expressions. I could break things. I forget to eat, but I want to consume everything... a whole cake, all of the tamales. Everything is mixed up, and I don't want to expose this to anyone, but if people knew, if people know, then I won't have to say, I am very sad, and I don't know what to do, and I may not say or do the "right thing." Yes... to have that much understood, that could be a good way to start.