I’ve gotten quite settled into the routine already. I almost wait for the clock to strike somewhere approximately near 6PM pacific standard time to do my nurse duties of administering two pills in pill pockets and 0.2ml of diuretic to my cat Oliver. I always thought it was comedic when white people brought around their dogs in diapers, and now I’m lying by my cat who’s dragging his butt across concrete. I love him regardless.
When I first heard the news, I freaked out as if he was going to die right there. I call my boyfriend, who says, “atleast he has another year” and I get very upset with him. I hang up and cry some more while the technician brings me Boxed Water and some tissues. I finally understood why an entire level of snack cart is with travel sized packs of tissues, it’s for people like me. They probably see many people weep loss every day, and I wonder if it makes you somehow immune to it.
The cardiologist confirmed that he has about a year or so. Well, death is always inevitable for every living thing, but when you put a time stamp on a thing that’s alive, how do you decide what the rest of that time looks like? My boyfriend is right. He has at least another year with me. A year is a really long time. I’d like to think more, because I believe miracles happen to me as much as I believe I’m incredibly unlucky at times. I’d like to believe the walls of his heart that have been caving in for god knows how long disappear. He appears before me, a young, orange kitten, and here for us, is another lifetime.
How do you grieve someone you have not yet lost? Is the preemptive grieving just foolish, or am I preparing myself so when it comes, I would stand stronger than ever against the waves of emotion that would otherwise rock me.
Today is day 3 of the rest of our lives. I worked at a holiday market with the vibe of an Anthropologie store with not much success. I spent my time reading Grief is For People by Sloane Crosley. She talks about a burglar, her best friend’s death and Joan Didion’s words about her husband’s death. Here I am, grieving through writing about Sloane grieving things talking about Joan Didion grieving. Haha. It is only the human condition to seek some semblance of understanding through others.
I’m so overwhelmed with my own misery so I confide in my dad. He’s great, although he really loves God. God is great too, but God cannot always mend a heart that does not know why it’s always in pieces. You can only pray to survive the shattering. I tell him the mean first thoughts I have about certain people and how I wish to change that because that isn’t nice. He said your mother taught you that. He alleviates the blame of his guilt by saying my mother is the root of the issue, when his negligence was probably a contributing factor in my adolescent development as well. He tells me, I have an illness. Yeah, I know. On the drive home, I say everything I’m grateful for that I can come up with on the top of my head, because that’s usually the remedy. Two of my friends asked me what I’ll do to feel better. I first answered that I’m going to do nothing and ignore it. My second answer was that I made a steak and having other people in the house makes me feel less alone. I’m not sure what I will do with the rest of my night, but Sey is in town.:)
When we are forced to confront the fate of mortality, I find myself hurrying to focus extra hard on the present. I’m bad at it, but life is a process or whatever. Because if I lose right now, I won’t have tomorrow.
Today is day 3 and his BPM is 26.
shari wei 