Just so you know, I’m going to swear. A lot. Because it seems like the thing to do.
After a few days of working from home last week, I came back in to the office to find out my gay work husband was in the hospital. He didn’t feel well, went to the ER and was diagnosed with high blood pressure and with having diabetes. By the end of the week, as far as we knew, he was at home, and on the mend. A little insulin and he’d be fine, his kidneys were recovering from the drama and a wee little insulin pill was all he needed, and he had to quit smoking, cut out sugar (not that he was nuts with either). I kept my distance, after all he was a work friend, so I gave him privacy. I muddled through my weekend, hassles with the kids, making H give up her Nuk, M lying about trivial shit and getting in trouble, not knowing he’d died Thursday.
As I sat at my desk this morning cursing DST, a minute before nine, the email came.
He died last Thursday night. Hours after sending an email to his team from home.
FUCKITYFUCKFUCKFUCK. I didn’t even try to not cry, to not grieve. I just let it go. Fuck the small metal cubes that meant that everyone could hear it, fuck them all.
I’m only 36, and fuck all if I was unprepared to lose a peer. Someone just a few years older than me.
I can sit here now, trying to find my Zen. I have tried, and mostly succeeded to remember that death happens. I have made it through the death of three grandparents and two uncles by knowing that it happens. When it is time, there is nothing to be done but accept. Anger and despair do not bring people back. Go through your Kubler-Ross steps and move on.
I just wasn’t ready for this one, so it seems that much more acute. Even my uncle’s suicide, while not expected, was not a shock either. People who are 40 shouldn’t just up and fucking die. Happy, cheerful, people who brighten your life.
I think I’m at the anger/denial stage. I just want to kick a puppy or something for being so fucking cute.
I’m trying, so hard, to channel all of my rage and disbelief into something good, even though it hurts and I’m filled with so much self-doubt.
I’m pre-diabetic. That could be me if I’m not careful. That could be my husband, who turns 40 in a little over a month.
I make excuses, I put it off, I eat the cookie, I say when I get through my ADHD evals, when it warms up, when.. when… when… I have a gym membership I used for a whole month, then I stopped going. I have healthy food to eat at home then still eat out.
Shit has to stop, and now. No more half assed. No more bullshit. I have to figure out what it takes for me to get through. No more fucking excuses. No more tomorrow.
Of course it’s not that fucking simple. I sleep less because toddler doesn’t sleep, I am not as productive at work, I feel the need to work extra, no time to go exercise, I sleep worse because I’m not working out. Vicious fucking cycle.
I don’t want to die though. I want to be healthy. I want my husband to be healthy. I want to annoy the fuck out of my kids for a long time and see all of the crappy, not fun, totally shitty sides of being parent pay off with a toddler who quits crapping her pants and a big girl who realizing it is worse to lie about how her impulses can’t be controlled and she colors lips on her stuffies with pink marker than it was to actually color lips on her stuffies. And you know, all of the other stuff after that.
So, I’m trying, I am remembering when I get to making excuses that my good friend died from what, to the best of my knowledge about what happened, was something preventable, or treatable, depending on how you look at it. I need to get over my shit and just do it.