My need to set up and feel at home in this room is a bit silly, as I will only be here for two months.
I keep going through old crap to decide what I would really be upset to leave behind.
As is, I am sleeping on someone else's bed. However, I've been fairly content these days, if a little lonely, which, quite frankly, I feel is deserved.
A prospect that may turn out to be nothing still seems much preferred to a sure fire thing that was making me unhappy. I tried being what I deem "normal" and I didn't like it. It didn't fit. I need to be in something that is normal for me, rather than the society which has shunned so much of what I am.
I started reading old messages about how I have to stay here for so much longer and how I 'can't possibly' pick up and move, no matter how much I'd like to. That all seems silly now. I've been consistently unhappy and feeling out of place for a very long time. It was less so in MA. I think that's why, though my time at Montserrat ended rather poorly, I miss it so much. If it's NY causing this disjointed feeling, it is better to just move.
Ever since I got past the idea of uncertainty and the thought of possibly taking a risk for once in my life, I've felt better. There is a sense of relief where once there was fear. A sense of hope seems new to me.
I don't really expect everything to work out perfectly. There have been some people who feel the need to warn me, as though I haven't thought of every possible worst case scenario already. I am a negative person by habit at this point. There is absolutely no viable reason to explain how stupid I'm being or how I'm going to fail one way or another. These are people who clearly do not understand how my life has gone thus far.
I already lost everything once. I lost it and pretended that it didn't matter. I lost it and tried to replace it with something everyone else deemed more meaningful. I've still felt empty. It just does not make sense to continue living my life for everyone else. It isn't your life. It's MY life and I will live with any "consequences".
What? I might wind up homeless? I've been there.
I may not be able to find a job, and go days without food? I've done that.
I may not be able to follow my dream, and may instead be forced into something I don't care about? ...Really? If one more person even says this to me, I may actually snap and kill whoever says it. What do you think put me back in Albany to begin with? Does anyone really think I wanted to live the life I'm in? Somehow, "friends" notice that I am unhappy and just chalk it up my being an angry person. Believe it or not, I can be quite serene.
I'm ready for a change. Even a bad choice. Anything. A bad choice is still a CHOICE and that is something I have not had in a very long time. Even if my arm falls apart. Even if I wind up in so much pain that I pray for death. I don't care. It will be worth it, because at least then, I can say I tried. At least then, I will be able to say that I did not die after having just given in forever and giving up everything I am.
I would rather live one more day as my true self, than 80 more years as this strange canvas upon which someone else has already painted.
The last time I took off my mask for a bit, I found that very few people preferred my real face.
I have been told over and over again that I always look unhappy when I am not, and then only one or two people notice when I am actually upset. My mask just does not line up with what I'm feeling most of the time. It's as simple as that... and I'm tired of it.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
About My Parents
Some may wonder how I wound up this way. It was a combination of many things, I assure you, but I'm sure a hefty hunk of it comes from the fact that I was not only born from my parents, but raised by them.
They sing together and everything. Honestly, watching them together over the years gave me higher expectations than any Disney movie.
The following are a couple of tales from my parents. Little bits from the way my mom tells it and little bits from my father's version smooshed together, makes for a conglomerate of awesome that probably doesn't really resemble what actually happened at all.
There’s an old picture of their chorus… Everyone was supposed to be wearing black pants (black skirt for girls), a white shirt, and a black tie. You can pick out my parents rather quickly, as my dad is wearing a paisley tie, a shirt that’s something other than white, and blue jeans. My mother? Her skirt is just a liiiiittle too short and she’s got a big honking Minnie Mouse bow on her damn head.
While my father was quick buddies with the entire wrestling team in high school (just in case), his real love was the theater. He and my mother were in musicals together. Yep. High school. Yep. Disney or what?
Around this time, he looked over to see my mom. She was surrounded by her friends (mostly gay men) and he decided to give it a shot. She said no. In fact, the story goes that when he said “Want to go on a date?” she laughed right in his goddamn face.
My father taught me the art of determination.
He’d ask her, she’d say no… Eventually he said “It’s okay. You’re gonna marry me one day” and she LAUGHED forever. (Can you tell which parts my mother told me?)
One day, she had left a book at school Being the adorable obsessive stalker my father was, he trudged through the snow for who knows how far to give her the book. My grandmother said, “You should go out with the boy”, and so she finally agreed to a date. My mother had a few other prospects at the time, and my father was not necessarily top of the list, but he had set about to change that. A few dates and some songs later, she was hooked.
They were, again, in shows together. He sometimes had to play her father… which is awkward… but they would pass notes to each other down the chorus line. As his name started with G and hers with S, you can imagine how many other people probably read a lot of shit they did not want to know.
When college happened, they were spending less and less time together. My mother decided that, maybe, they should break up due to that. My father decided “I know how to fix this!” and asked her to marry him. She said she’d think about it.
Well, she didn’t want to give him an answer over the phone, so she went on an adventure to see him in person!
She reports that she ran out of bus fare along the way… Which lead to hopping on a friend’s motorcycle.
Yeah.
The problem was, my father was sitting there expecting a call. More than that, he was pretty much assuming that the love of his life was going to say no. As such, he had a friend over to comfort him when he got the bad news. This was made complicated by the fact that his “friend” was a hot red head named Ester.
My mother was unamused, standing in the doorway. She took the ring off of her finger. My father says, to this day, he can still feel where the ring bounced off his cheek.
Ester drove my mother home. “You know, we really weren’t… I mean… He’s not even my type… Umm… Awwwwkwwwwaaaarrd…”
Some time past.
My mother, being a woman, wouldn’t answer his calls. Her friends would answer and say she was busy.
My father was not having that shit.
He sat in the lobby of her building holding a small Donald Duck. My mother, being completely obsessed by all things Disney, sighed and let him speak.
“His friend is outside” said my father.
She opened the door, and sitting before her was a three foot tall Mickey Mouse, with ring in hand.
They were married in Autumn. …That sounds pretty, I know. The problem was, it was the 70’s. My father was not the style guru he is today and my mom was… My mom. Her favorite color is orange. My dad being color blind probably didn’t help the situation. Otherwise, he can be quite the savvy fashionista. My father wore a crushed brown velvet suit. He had facial hair at the time and he was not a light man. My father… Looked like a bear. A dirty-hippie, song singing… bear.
So, yeah. That's the kind of love story that any relationship I ever have will need to live up to. Fuuuuuuuu.
Here are some others as they have been told to me over the years.
My father vs driving (as told by my grandmother):
She says that one day, when my father was a budding teenager, he came back from practicing his driving. He had the steering wheel in his hand.
My father vs the newspaper and the microwave:
It had been raining. Normally, when it rains, the newspaper is put into a little newspaper condom to keep it dry. This rain must have been unexpected, however, as the paper was damp.
My father decided that the fastest way to dry the newspaper would be to put it into the microwave.
He was smart about it though, and very proud of himself at the time. He would stop it every so often to make sure that it was drying, but not on fire. He'd check it, then put it back in.
Content that it was done, he tucked the paper under his arm and walked up the stairs to the bedroom, pleased in the knowledge that my mother would soon come after with his "personal tea".
As my mother tells it, as soon as my father opened up the paper, the inner part hit oxygen and burst into flames.
She, without much expression on her face (as if to say "Yep, saw that coming...), tossed the iced tea onto my father, putting out the flames. She says she then turned around, without a word, and went down to get him another cup of tea.
I'd like to think that she checked to make sure he was okay... or something?
I wish I could say that this was an isolated episode, but there was also a "paper towel vs toaster oven" incident that was quite similar.
...This is also the same man who dropped the same fishing knife into the same toe twice, about a year apart. However, he is a very intelligent man, despite these moments. Really, it just makes him all the more interesting.
They sing together and everything. Honestly, watching them together over the years gave me higher expectations than any Disney movie.
The following are a couple of tales from my parents. Little bits from the way my mom tells it and little bits from my father's version smooshed together, makes for a conglomerate of awesome that probably doesn't really resemble what actually happened at all.
There’s an old picture of their chorus… Everyone was supposed to be wearing black pants (black skirt for girls), a white shirt, and a black tie. You can pick out my parents rather quickly, as my dad is wearing a paisley tie, a shirt that’s something other than white, and blue jeans. My mother? Her skirt is just a liiiiittle too short and she’s got a big honking Minnie Mouse bow on her damn head.
While my father was quick buddies with the entire wrestling team in high school (just in case), his real love was the theater. He and my mother were in musicals together. Yep. High school. Yep. Disney or what?
Around this time, he looked over to see my mom. She was surrounded by her friends (mostly gay men) and he decided to give it a shot. She said no. In fact, the story goes that when he said “Want to go on a date?” she laughed right in his goddamn face.
My father taught me the art of determination.
He’d ask her, she’d say no… Eventually he said “It’s okay. You’re gonna marry me one day” and she LAUGHED forever. (Can you tell which parts my mother told me?)
One day, she had left a book at school Being the adorable obsessive stalker my father was, he trudged through the snow for who knows how far to give her the book. My grandmother said, “You should go out with the boy”, and so she finally agreed to a date. My mother had a few other prospects at the time, and my father was not necessarily top of the list, but he had set about to change that. A few dates and some songs later, she was hooked.
They were, again, in shows together. He sometimes had to play her father… which is awkward… but they would pass notes to each other down the chorus line. As his name started with G and hers with S, you can imagine how many other people probably read a lot of shit they did not want to know.
When college happened, they were spending less and less time together. My mother decided that, maybe, they should break up due to that. My father decided “I know how to fix this!” and asked her to marry him. She said she’d think about it.
Well, she didn’t want to give him an answer over the phone, so she went on an adventure to see him in person!
She reports that she ran out of bus fare along the way… Which lead to hopping on a friend’s motorcycle.
Yeah.
The problem was, my father was sitting there expecting a call. More than that, he was pretty much assuming that the love of his life was going to say no. As such, he had a friend over to comfort him when he got the bad news. This was made complicated by the fact that his “friend” was a hot red head named Ester.
My mother was unamused, standing in the doorway. She took the ring off of her finger. My father says, to this day, he can still feel where the ring bounced off his cheek.
Ester drove my mother home. “You know, we really weren’t… I mean… He’s not even my type… Umm… Awwwwkwwwwaaaarrd…”
Some time past.
My mother, being a woman, wouldn’t answer his calls. Her friends would answer and say she was busy.
My father was not having that shit.
He sat in the lobby of her building holding a small Donald Duck. My mother, being completely obsessed by all things Disney, sighed and let him speak.
“His friend is outside” said my father.
She opened the door, and sitting before her was a three foot tall Mickey Mouse, with ring in hand.
They were married in Autumn. …That sounds pretty, I know. The problem was, it was the 70’s. My father was not the style guru he is today and my mom was… My mom. Her favorite color is orange. My dad being color blind probably didn’t help the situation. Otherwise, he can be quite the savvy fashionista. My father wore a crushed brown velvet suit. He had facial hair at the time and he was not a light man. My father… Looked like a bear. A dirty-hippie, song singing… bear.
So, yeah. That's the kind of love story that any relationship I ever have will need to live up to. Fuuuuuuuu.
Here are some others as they have been told to me over the years.
My father vs driving (as told by my grandmother):
She says that one day, when my father was a budding teenager, he came back from practicing his driving. He had the steering wheel in his hand.
My father vs the newspaper and the microwave:
It had been raining. Normally, when it rains, the newspaper is put into a little newspaper condom to keep it dry. This rain must have been unexpected, however, as the paper was damp.
My father decided that the fastest way to dry the newspaper would be to put it into the microwave.
He was smart about it though, and very proud of himself at the time. He would stop it every so often to make sure that it was drying, but not on fire. He'd check it, then put it back in.
Content that it was done, he tucked the paper under his arm and walked up the stairs to the bedroom, pleased in the knowledge that my mother would soon come after with his "personal tea".
As my mother tells it, as soon as my father opened up the paper, the inner part hit oxygen and burst into flames.
She, without much expression on her face (as if to say "Yep, saw that coming...), tossed the iced tea onto my father, putting out the flames. She says she then turned around, without a word, and went down to get him another cup of tea.
I'd like to think that she checked to make sure he was okay... or something?
I wish I could say that this was an isolated episode, but there was also a "paper towel vs toaster oven" incident that was quite similar.
...This is also the same man who dropped the same fishing knife into the same toe twice, about a year apart. However, he is a very intelligent man, despite these moments. Really, it just makes him all the more interesting.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Parties
We had another party. ...People who don't know me in person will look at this blog and think I'm a drunk.
Some of my buddies decided to make "Skittles Vodka". I tried one. Took me three sips to get the shot down. It was like... cold medicine.
To give you an idea of what went down, here are some pictures:
Fun fact: This was a fifties themed party.
I'm not joking. We had music, my parents played Jenga with us, two girls wound up tied up, clothing eventually came off (my parents were gone by that point)... Chaos. BUT it was a fifties party.
We had hula hoops.
Also, my boyfriend was wearing his roller skates ...in the house ...while drunk.
Some of my buddies decided to make "Skittles Vodka". I tried one. Took me three sips to get the shot down. It was like... cold medicine.
To give you an idea of what went down, here are some pictures:
I'm not joking. We had music, my parents played Jenga with us, two girls wound up tied up, clothing eventually came off (my parents were gone by that point)... Chaos. BUT it was a fifties party.
We had hula hoops.
Also, my boyfriend was wearing his roller skates ...in the house ...while drunk.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Stuff and Nonsense
So, first off... My buddy and I have been working on a novella for a while. Hopefully it'll be done and up to download for the kindle soon. It'll be part one of three, but each part holds it's own story.
Also, I now have a formspring thing because people ask me lots of Deddrie questions and I'm too stupid to figure out how to make a frequently asked questions page for the site. Eventually, the site will have all of these things. Really. I swear.
There's the formspring link down there. Hopefully this works. I don't know.
Answer Questions
Also, I now have a formspring thing because people ask me lots of Deddrie questions and I'm too stupid to figure out how to make a frequently asked questions page for the site. Eventually, the site will have all of these things. Really. I swear.
There's the formspring link down there. Hopefully this works. I don't know.
Answer Questions
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Deddrie!
So, after a very long time without it, www.deddrie.com is back up and running a bit smoother now. At some point, I'll be asking for help with making the archives page look the way I want it to (and be a separate page) and all that stuff... Yep. I'm learning the interwebs!
Monday, March 7, 2011
Grandparents.
My grandfather passed away a couple of nights ago. I'm starting this post with that news.
To understand who he was, you'd really have to know his children and his wife.
He, himself, was a meteorologist. You know, a weather guy. The guy who KNOWS by SCIENCE that it will rain tomorrow, because he has the tools to talk to the sky itself... and then he's wrong. That guy.
I am convinced that, somehow, he actually did always get the weather right. Not because he was psychic, but because I think the sky was probably terrified to let my Pop-Pop down.
He was my father's father. Now, my dad has always been a momma's boy. He's very proud of this fact. However, his father's influence is very clearly there.
This got me thinking about my grandparents in relation to my own upbringing and values.
There are five grandparents in my life:
1.) My mother's father is the first. I never met him. He passed away when my mother was eight years old. However, from stories told by my grandmother and by my mother's sisters, I knew that he and I had a lot in common. He had a wonderful sense of humor and a good work ethic. He loved his family. That's really all I need to know.
The story of his death was a bit muddled when I was a child. I was told that he was on the phone with a friend, was told a joke, and laughed so hard that he died. In reality, he may have been laughing when it happened, but it was a heart attack that did him in. This led to my mother stating that we have "heart disease" in the family, and that I should watch out for it. While high cholesterol and high blood pressure are common among us, it should be noted that my mother's father had suffered more than one heart attack (and yet survived, which was not so common at the time) and he was a heavy smoker. As such, I don't know if I would brand us as a heart attack family.
Still, the idea of passing away while laughing is kind of nice.
2.) My mother's step father, Grandpa Walter, was a tailor during WWII. He made Nazi uniforms in order to survive. By the time I met him, he was already attached to oxygen. Unfortunately, all I really knew directly was that he didn't think I was old enough to play board games, and that paprika is only used for color and has no taste.
Turns out, he was actually a very interesting man, from Nazis to a strange court case involving something he didn't do. He even came complete with "evil stepsisters" for my mother.
3.) My mother's mother is a different story. I knew her as simply "Grandma", but she'd sign everything "Grandma Mildred" or "Millie". I had a chance to know her, thankfully. She didn't get along with my sister, (there was an incident which led to her reading a Smurf book to my sister, but replacing every "smurf" with "dumb") but she was someone I personally looked up to. She was a writer. She was witty and very intelligent. She did not take shit from ANYONE. You could be the president, but if you tried to talk back to this woman, she would have put you in your place without a second thought.
Grandma would always say that she wasn't terribly happy about outliving everyone. All of her friends and both of her husbands were gone. She told me that if she ever lost her mind, I should just proclaim her dead. I listened.
She, very sadly, suffered from Dementia towards the end. I guess she knew it was coming. She'd go back and forth between being aware and in pain, or being physically healthy but having no idea where she was. She once called the house to ask when "Benjamin", her first husband, was coming home. We told her that he'd be back very soon.
I will admit, I did not visit her often during this time. I wish I had had the ability to see her more before then. My sister went, knowing Grandma would not know who she was. This was not as kind as it sounds. I think everyone knew what it really was about.
In any case, eventually, Grandma got to go home to her husbands. I had let her go by that point, because the woman I love and still wish to emulate, had already gone long before her body caught up. I should have gone to the funeral for my mother. That I know. However, I thought that having time to be with her sisters would be helpful. I have since attempted to get closer to my remaining relatives, but I don't know how well that's working.
I live far away and while growing up, my anxiety and pain kept me from trusting anyone, including my blood relatives. I blame my sister for a lot of that. Or rather, I blame my reaction to my sister for a lot of that. I did not really know what Borderline Personality Disorder or Bi-Polar Disorder were at the time. Of course, with an eight year age difference and parents who also did not really know, my knowing would not have kept me safe.
Still, last Winter, my boyfriend and I managed to make it to Nevada, where my father's family resides.
This brings me to
4.) Mom-Mom
and finally, 5.) Pop-Pop.
Mom-Mom told us never to call her "Grandma", because it made her feel old. She's that kind of person. She's very stubborn and strong willed. She's started to waiver mentally a bit these days, but she still maintains a personality and inner strength that I find inspiring.
My father being a "momma's boy" is not an insult. Believe me when I say this. True, she treats him like a child even now, (he was well into his fifties when she called the police because he had been "missing" for a couple of hours in Las Vegas) but she, much like Grandma, never takes any shit. This is what makes the next part so difficult.
With Pop-Pop gone, as strong as Mom-Mom is, she doesn't drive and does not really take care of herself. Putting her in a group home of some kind would be preferred. It's Vegas, so she'd still get to go gambling, and she'd be able to go to a dinning hall and meet people. She is social and should remain so. However, she has this image of people rotting away, left and forgotten in an old, dingy hospital setting. This is far from the truth, but it is difficult to convince her of this.
Seeing all this makes me more desperate to get over my fear and to get my license. I want to be able to help Brian more, and to not wind up completely dependent on him. I care about him, but I don't want to be stranded if he wanders off (emotionally or otherwise).
My parents are currently over in Nevada, talking to her and attending Pop-Pop's funeral.
It might be the left over flat affect from the PTSD, but I don't seem to react to death in the "right" way. At least, not in the American sense. Perhaps, growing up with my father as clergy, I managed to get a sense that there is something else after this world. Perhaps (and more likely), I have lived the kind of life that has led to my simply not caring one way or another, provided the life lived was lived well.
After all, everyone dies. If everyone does it, it probably isn't so bad.
Pop-Pop was ready to go. He said goodbye to my father. When I saw him, he told me he was "tired of being tired" and he laughed at this. Even in the pain he was in, he still laughed. Maybe it was to make sure we didn't feel sorry for him. Perhaps he didn't want to upset anyone. I think he simply understood the ridiculousness of it all.
When you get to that point, you have to laugh. It's the only way to go.
To understand who he was, you'd really have to know his children and his wife.
He, himself, was a meteorologist. You know, a weather guy. The guy who KNOWS by SCIENCE that it will rain tomorrow, because he has the tools to talk to the sky itself... and then he's wrong. That guy.
I am convinced that, somehow, he actually did always get the weather right. Not because he was psychic, but because I think the sky was probably terrified to let my Pop-Pop down.
He was my father's father. Now, my dad has always been a momma's boy. He's very proud of this fact. However, his father's influence is very clearly there.
This got me thinking about my grandparents in relation to my own upbringing and values.
There are five grandparents in my life:
1.) My mother's father is the first. I never met him. He passed away when my mother was eight years old. However, from stories told by my grandmother and by my mother's sisters, I knew that he and I had a lot in common. He had a wonderful sense of humor and a good work ethic. He loved his family. That's really all I need to know.
The story of his death was a bit muddled when I was a child. I was told that he was on the phone with a friend, was told a joke, and laughed so hard that he died. In reality, he may have been laughing when it happened, but it was a heart attack that did him in. This led to my mother stating that we have "heart disease" in the family, and that I should watch out for it. While high cholesterol and high blood pressure are common among us, it should be noted that my mother's father had suffered more than one heart attack (and yet survived, which was not so common at the time) and he was a heavy smoker. As such, I don't know if I would brand us as a heart attack family.
Still, the idea of passing away while laughing is kind of nice.
2.) My mother's step father, Grandpa Walter, was a tailor during WWII. He made Nazi uniforms in order to survive. By the time I met him, he was already attached to oxygen. Unfortunately, all I really knew directly was that he didn't think I was old enough to play board games, and that paprika is only used for color and has no taste.
Turns out, he was actually a very interesting man, from Nazis to a strange court case involving something he didn't do. He even came complete with "evil stepsisters" for my mother.
3.) My mother's mother is a different story. I knew her as simply "Grandma", but she'd sign everything "Grandma Mildred" or "Millie". I had a chance to know her, thankfully. She didn't get along with my sister, (there was an incident which led to her reading a Smurf book to my sister, but replacing every "smurf" with "dumb") but she was someone I personally looked up to. She was a writer. She was witty and very intelligent. She did not take shit from ANYONE. You could be the president, but if you tried to talk back to this woman, she would have put you in your place without a second thought.
Grandma would always say that she wasn't terribly happy about outliving everyone. All of her friends and both of her husbands were gone. She told me that if she ever lost her mind, I should just proclaim her dead. I listened.
She, very sadly, suffered from Dementia towards the end. I guess she knew it was coming. She'd go back and forth between being aware and in pain, or being physically healthy but having no idea where she was. She once called the house to ask when "Benjamin", her first husband, was coming home. We told her that he'd be back very soon.
I will admit, I did not visit her often during this time. I wish I had had the ability to see her more before then. My sister went, knowing Grandma would not know who she was. This was not as kind as it sounds. I think everyone knew what it really was about.
In any case, eventually, Grandma got to go home to her husbands. I had let her go by that point, because the woman I love and still wish to emulate, had already gone long before her body caught up. I should have gone to the funeral for my mother. That I know. However, I thought that having time to be with her sisters would be helpful. I have since attempted to get closer to my remaining relatives, but I don't know how well that's working.
I live far away and while growing up, my anxiety and pain kept me from trusting anyone, including my blood relatives. I blame my sister for a lot of that. Or rather, I blame my reaction to my sister for a lot of that. I did not really know what Borderline Personality Disorder or Bi-Polar Disorder were at the time. Of course, with an eight year age difference and parents who also did not really know, my knowing would not have kept me safe.
Still, last Winter, my boyfriend and I managed to make it to Nevada, where my father's family resides.
This brings me to
4.) Mom-Mom
and finally, 5.) Pop-Pop.
Mom-Mom told us never to call her "Grandma", because it made her feel old. She's that kind of person. She's very stubborn and strong willed. She's started to waiver mentally a bit these days, but she still maintains a personality and inner strength that I find inspiring.
My father being a "momma's boy" is not an insult. Believe me when I say this. True, she treats him like a child even now, (he was well into his fifties when she called the police because he had been "missing" for a couple of hours in Las Vegas) but she, much like Grandma, never takes any shit. This is what makes the next part so difficult.
With Pop-Pop gone, as strong as Mom-Mom is, she doesn't drive and does not really take care of herself. Putting her in a group home of some kind would be preferred. It's Vegas, so she'd still get to go gambling, and she'd be able to go to a dinning hall and meet people. She is social and should remain so. However, she has this image of people rotting away, left and forgotten in an old, dingy hospital setting. This is far from the truth, but it is difficult to convince her of this.
Seeing all this makes me more desperate to get over my fear and to get my license. I want to be able to help Brian more, and to not wind up completely dependent on him. I care about him, but I don't want to be stranded if he wanders off (emotionally or otherwise).
My parents are currently over in Nevada, talking to her and attending Pop-Pop's funeral.
It might be the left over flat affect from the PTSD, but I don't seem to react to death in the "right" way. At least, not in the American sense. Perhaps, growing up with my father as clergy, I managed to get a sense that there is something else after this world. Perhaps (and more likely), I have lived the kind of life that has led to my simply not caring one way or another, provided the life lived was lived well.
After all, everyone dies. If everyone does it, it probably isn't so bad.
Pop-Pop was ready to go. He said goodbye to my father. When I saw him, he told me he was "tired of being tired" and he laughed at this. Even in the pain he was in, he still laughed. Maybe it was to make sure we didn't feel sorry for him. Perhaps he didn't want to upset anyone. I think he simply understood the ridiculousness of it all.
When you get to that point, you have to laugh. It's the only way to go.
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