These past few days have been incredibly rough and traumatic, and it wasn’t even my loss.  It was mine by association.

C. and I spent five days with this man when he was in the hospital last month.  I fed him, washed his face, sang songs with him, held his hand, brought him special treats, advocated for him, made sure that his daughter got to see him, and asked questions.  I did more for him than those who claim ownership of him.  And I’m erased, dismissed.  I’m his real daughter’s partner, but I’m not “family.” I’m shoved aside in favor of a horrible bovine stepdaughter who chewed gum during his funeral and talked on her cell phone during his visitation.

I think part of dealing with grief is telling the story of the trauma.  I would rather talk about C’s cousins (her mother’s people, not her father’s people) who embraced me, told me that they loved me, and included me like the family I am.  I want to talk about the funeral home usher who made sure that I got to stick by C’s side, and that C and her sister were rightfully recognized.  I even want to talk about the Mormons who brought over a ton of food for those gathering after the funeral.  But instead, all I can think about is the horrible stepdaughter who listed her siblings’ names first in the obituary as his children, and C. and her sister as an afterthought.  The funeral home usher who made me leave my partner’s side where I belonged.  C’s aunts and uncles who lied about coming over after the funeral, instead choosing to go elsewhere instead of sharing their grief with their brother’s daughters.

I am letting my mind spin out these stories in the hope that it will later want to focus on the good, the love, and the true family.  Do you think it will?

I’ve also been more introspective than usual lately.  It is interesting to me to observe the ways in which my life has changed and continues to change.  I am less rigid about things.  I am willing to reconsider long-held and deeply-felt convictions.  This feels scary, a little.  After all, who am I if I am not someone who thinks this or believes that?  Is this bad?  Is this wrong?  Is it okay to change my mind about things?  I mean, I’m still me underneath it all.  The essence of my identity is the same.  But I feel different, changed, enhanced, softened.  And I’ve basically had to give myself permission to be different, to change my mind about things, to reconsider what I think about this or about that.

There are ideas about living, and then there’s actual living, so says a sage friend of mine.  The gap between these two things, for me, has been widening, and this scared me at first, but now I’m embracing it.   I’m trying to, at least.

These musings have little to do with not watching TV, except that perhaps not watching TV facilitates introspection.  Perhaps this all sounds cryptic, and maybe I’m still too shy to say outright these things I’m thinking about.  But they’re in my mind and in my heart.

Kay Ryan says:

The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space—
however small—
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn’t
be so hard.

–from “Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard”

But then life got serious all of a sudden.  The day after we had company for dinner we found ourselves on the road to Pine Bluff, Arkansas, where C. is from.  We had news about her sick father, and the news was bad, and we decided that we needed to hit the road right then so that C. could see her dad.  After some scrambling to tie up loose ends at work and arranging for cat care, I drove us to Arkansas.

We spent the next few days almost exclusively at the hospital, with interludes at C.’s mother’s house for sleep and food and rest. By the time I left yesterday, C.’s father was much more alert and lucid, initiating conversation and demonstrating that his sense of humor is still alive and well, and eating the food we brought him as well as some of his hospital food.

There are some troubling issues in play regarding C.’s father’s health situation and the decision-making about his medical care.  I can’t get into it here, but suffice it to say that I have witnessed first hand the utter necessity of advance directives, of having your wishes known in detail and in writing, and having a trustworthy person appointed to make medical decisions when you have reached the point when you are incapacitated.  C. and I are going to get our own papers in order once she’s back home.

I left C. behind in Pine Bluff and headed home yesterday.  She’s going to spend more time with her dad and also try to work with the social worker and chaplain to try to straighten out some of these issues.  I am glad she is there.  I am glad that she’s getting this time with him, when he’s more aware and talkative.

And yet, I am so, so lonely.  I miss her so much.  Before C., I was a very solitary person, and I loved nothing more than endless stretches of time, home alone, with no one to please but myself.  But domestic bliss has changed all of that.  I still want and need alone time, but it’s different now.  Until I got home yesterday, I had never ever spent a single second alone in our new home.  Any time I spent away from C. was at work, or running errands, or whatever.

Ever since I set foot back in our home last night, I have had the TV on constantly.  We have an old TV, so I don’t get any channels, so I am watching TV on DVD.  Specifically The Golden Girls, my old favorite, a source of comfort.  While I’ve amassed a whole arsenal of things to do instead of watching TV, all I want to do right now is have the TV on, constantly, for company, for comfort.