Another Funeral

To be frank, when I got a call from my cousin David, I knew someone died, and at first I thought it might have been my uncle as he had heart surgery not that long ago. I never would have expected it was my cousin’s husband Dan.

Five years ago we attended their wedding. And here it is five years and two months later and we’re burying my cousin’s husband, age 38.

In all likelihood, he died due to COVID, but we will never know as my cousin opted out of an autopsy, which left me no other recourse but to do what I always do and connect the dots. 

August 24th my aunt (mom’s sister, who is his mother-in-law) tested positive for COVID, and has been sloppily adhering to limiting in person stuff to people in her pod/bubble. 

Three weeks later, he was found, stone cold dead on his kitchen floor. His co-workers came to the house when he wasn’t reached by phone. 

Entirely plausible he had been exposed to COVID, if not this one time but likely multiple times by everyone in their “pod.”

So, three weeks after my aunt tested positive, there we all were in the funeral home to say goodbye to Dan and try to (feebly) support my cousin who was in shock. 

The only people wearing masks in the funeral home besides myself was my cousin David & another cousin, and my aunt and uncle were both there bare faced. Of course my sister, brother, brother-in-law, and niece all were barefaced too. 

The funeral home was a full house, and several people in attendance had persistent coughs. 

This illustrates quite keenly my justification in avoiding family gatherings, that the majority of people sadly cannot be trusted to do the bare minimum to protect others or protect themselves. It is as if mom’s death meant nothing to them, and doesn’t even serve as a warning to them. Perhaps they have forgotten about her already. 

On Childhood Abuse RIP Anne Heche

Someone’s worth is what remains when we subtract one’s bad characteristics from the good, and the sim that remains is our true value. 

While I am not an apologist for the destructive behavior which sadly led to Anne Heche’s passing, as a survivor of childhood abuse, I do possess empathy for her, and sympathy for her friends & family she left behind. 

I know all too well, and all too personally, that when our tormentors die, all the damage that they wrought does not miraculously dissipate and correct itself. 

Ms. Heche’s death did make me pause for more than a moment and reflect how random it all is, how we survive and cope in the aftermath of emotionally destructive childhood abuse. 

I could have been a statistic in many ways. I could have been a pregnant teen. I could have ended up in relationships with domestic violence. I could have become an addict. I could have been many of those things, but did not. 

This is not to say I came out of my childhood, or my almost 54 years, unscathed. The after effects of abuse presents itself differently in everyone whose formative years were impacted by abuse. 

For me, most notably, I have had problems with nearly every relationship I have had with women in authoritative positions in my life: my grandmother, mother, aunt, women I encountered in the military, as well as my boss, and work associates older than myself. 

Perhaps this is one of the contributing factors behind my difficulties to find a job elsewhere. Then there’s the issue of spending my first 30 years totally lacking any self worth. 

All that is MY legacy of abuse. 

Recently Jennette McCurdy’s book “I’m Glad My Mom Died” was published. Much like Anne Heche’s book, “Call Me Crazy,” it is a biographical account of childhood abuse. I wish these were isolated books, but there are countless books out there (remember Mommy Dearest, by Christina Crawford?). And this isn’t unique to mothers & daughters—the very night my mom died, I watched Cracked Up: The Darrell Hammond Story. 

It is a predictably easy thing to blame our mothers for our struggles. It is easy because for too many of us it is true. 

I don’t need to publish a book or have a movie made about my abuse, and that doesn’t make my reality any less real than anyone else’s. But I do feel an uncomfortable kinship with these women (and Mr. Hammond as well). 

Reading articles & books or watching films depicting their abuses resonates deeply with me—it is so eerily familiar, we are all telling familiar stories, so familiar, it is as if we are sharing the same narrative, or perhaps we are distant members of the same family. 

Catharsis: This Is Us

It's been two years and two weeks since mom died, and I'm still unpacking everything (will the unpacking ever end?). 

And in keeping with where we are in the pandemic (yes yes! the pandemic continues!)--we're not at the beginning, and we're not at the end, we're at the beginning of the end. I can only hope I'm at the beginning of the end of that horrible initial phase of grieving.

What does a ruminator do? Ruminate! That's all I can do--it's not as if I can have any conversations with mom anymore. So all I can do is rehash everything and have conversations with myself.

Every detail. Everything happened so quick. From the moment mom was officially notified that the virus was in the nursing home, then she was sedated before I could say my final goodbye, and then roughly 10 days of radio silence, her borked out of her mind, shallow breathing and sitting in her own filth, neglected by the people who were tasked with caring for her, until the dreaded, inevitable call came through that she was gone. (She died on May 4th; and the nursing home that neglected her got their full monthly payment from Medicaid, basically rewarding them for doing nothing.)

I have been stuck in an existential feedback loop, truly sad that I wasn't able to talk to her. I wasted too much time trying to advocate for her, when I should have just talked more to her. I thought there was more time. Then she was gone. I thought I was prepared for it. I thought I was emotionally detached enough. Trust me, nothing prepared me for what I've been experiencing.

Last night, I watched the second-to-the-last episode of This Is Us. This was a show she'd probably have thoroughly enjoyed. The final episodes are devoted to the ultimate passing of the mother, Rebecca. The scenes of her transitioning from being alive to being dead involves her character on a train, encountering people who were significant in her life. Rebecca is young and vibrant, and though she cannot see the people saying their goodbyes to her, she can hear their voices as if they were in another room. 

As I had hoped while watching this episode, I had hoped I'd gain something cathartic and useful regarding the death of my own mom, since I wasn't able to be there with her. And fortunately, I had that catharsis.

In early 2014, mom almost died of a ruptured gallbladder. As was the case with most of mom's health crises, they always held off on surgery until she was at death's door, because the surgery itself could have killed her. This time they waited until she was in sepsis. 

I remember showing up at the hospital and she was in post-op recovery, totally out of it, and we weren't convinced she would pull through. I crouched down and whispered in her ear, "Mom. It's me. I love you. I still need you. I still need my mom. But if you need to go--go. Don't stay for me. I love you."

Coincidentally, she rallied, and managed to live another 6 years after. This was beginning of 2014, and by winter holidays 2014, she had caused a rift between me and my sister, which caused me to stop going to family gatherings as I was avoiding my sister. 

People are complicated; life is messy. 

Life is complicated; people are messy.

The universe saw fit to give her nearly 6 more years, and yet, because of her own words and deeds, it threw a monkey wrench into how that precious remaining time was spent. No matter how much time we think we have, it's never enough. I wish I were more prescient & present. But as much as I beat myself up, I am not a mind reader. I am a human just trying to make the best out of a less than ideal situation. 

From Xmas 2014 until July 2017, I avoided all family gatherings. I'd visit mom on Columbus Day, or a week before/after her birthday or Mother's Day. And sadly, Mother's Day 2017, the universe fucked me. I had an issue with the lock on the front door to my home, and despite the car loaded up with gear and food for a weekend at mom's, I had to stay home and deal with a locksmith, as Maharajah was in the UK on business. 

Life is what happens when you're busy making plans. 

Man makes plans, and God says "HAHA!"

Before I knew it, July 2017 she took a series of tumbles at home, which resulted in her deciding to stay in the nursing home. Columbus Day 2017 was spent helping my sister empty out the house and prepare it for sale. I didn't visit mom that time because I was filthy and exhausted and angry--angry at her, and angry at my useless brother. 

Winter holidays 2017 was spent heading to Singapore for a cruise, and dispatching the last of dad's cremated remains at the Equator January 3, 2018--the start of the 10th calendar year since his death. November 2018 we headed to India for the wedding of a cousin. I think I might have seen my mom one other time, perhaps Columbus Day 2018 which again was a thankless visit. 

My final visit with her was December 2019, when I visited and dropped off a bag of treats for the holiday. It was a good visit. I stayed with her for two hours, of nonstop chatter. It was a good visit.

Not much happened from Christmas until mom’s birthday in March. Shady Pines was quarantined a couple times, allegedly due to the flu. We hoped for the best & hope this mess would pass soon. 

Then in mid-April 2020, my last chat with her, she was exhausted, and was "presumptive positive" with COVID. Despite the fact she claimed she was feeling better--I think that might have been the ativan talking.

My last good bye was what I'd call an "every day" type of goodbye. Unlike all other times, I concluded the call with an "I love you," which was out of character for me. 

I spent too much time being angry with her, and too much time waiting for an apology or a true reconciliation that never happened. The best I could muster was a silent resignation and granting her or the situation amnesty. 

I always wished things were different, and I have always suffered because of this attachment or reasonable expectation or hope for things to be different. Hope, to me, has always been a dangerous thing.

For two years I've grappled with the finality of all this. I've grappled with the fact she was depressed for possibly her entire life (and my entire life, too)  and intensified immensely after the passing of my dad in 2008, and not even the passing of her abuser, her father in 2012 elicited any change in her mood or mindset.

I knew for a long time she didn't want to be here. I remember in 2008 when dad actually survived the surgery (which there was only a 10% of survival), her response wasn't a THANK GOD!, rather, her first words were, "I guess he forgot what a fucked up world this is."

For two years, I've tried to find some solace or greater meaning in her death, that she got what she wanted--to cease to exist. Her physical suffering was over. 

Sometimes I feel that way myself, but that's just the surface shit--the reality is, I want to cease suffering. And isn't that exactly what death is? The discontinuance of suffering?

So while watching This Is Us last night, I was reminded that I did say my final goodbye (albeit in 2014). I want to think there was some greater meaning to me thinking upon that last night watching This Is Us, and I shouldn't quibble over whether I said it in 2014 when her death seemed to be imminent but wasn't. 

Perhaps this is my subconscious self telling me to be kind to myself. That it doesn't matter when I said it, but the fact remains I said it at all.

Two Years Ago, Exactly

Hard to believe. It's been two years since this last voicemail from mom, the voicemail wherein she tells me she was informed the virus was in her nursing home. 

I spoke to her a couple times on the phone after that, relatively casual conversations given the dire circumstances. I was reassuring her I was contacting the ombudsman and the NJ Department of Health in regards to it--to no avail. And the last few times I tried calling her, either she was on the phone with someone else, or her voicemail was full and I wasn't able to get in touch with her.

Quickly thereafter (within a week thereabouts), she was "presumptive positive." One by one, each resident in the wing of her nursing home either died in their beds, or were whisked off to the local hospital to die. Eventually her roommate went to the hospital. At this point, mom was hysterical, screaming out for my father (who died in 2008). 

Hospice came in to sedate her before I even had a chance to say goodbye. She languished for another 11 days until her ultimate passing, pretty much neglected by hospice as well as the nursing home itself whose solitary task was to care for her. There was one CNA for 67 residents. They weren't even able to put her phone to her ear so I could talk to her. 

The sad thing about having a vivid imagination is that I can totally envision the position of her body, I can totally smell the neglect, I can totally hear the shallow inconsistent breaths. I can envision her corpse being handled with disrespect, and I can envision her corpse languishing in a refrigerator unit for fifteen days until it was cremated. 

I wish her final voicemail to me was something else. Something where she feigned being upbeat or cheery. Even one of her patented vague voicemails, in a terse clipped tone, "It's your mother, call me."

2020-2021 Photo & Meme Dump

In no particular order, here are some photos and memes I've had on my phone for quite a while, and I want to dump them herein, to free up space on my phone and perhaps a reader might find some use or enjoyment (if possible) from them. 

Also worthwhile mentioning, I don't give a shit if you're vaccinated or not. Wear a fucking mask to help stop the spread. The virus doesn't care about what *you think* your Constitutional rights are.

So, of course he caught COVID!

One would *think* that mom's death from COVID early on in the pandemic would be enough for family members to take this shit seriously. NOPE!

One cousin got married last year; and his sister got married at the beginning of November. The latter was a big, splashy, formal affair--one to which Maharajah and I were not invited. We would not have attended anyway, as the majority of those relatives are Trumpists and not vaccinated, but more importantly, they don't wear masks.

My sister and her husband attended this wedding, despite the fact my brother-in-law has Stage 4 lymphoma and an exacerbation of his MS. My sister showed me the photos--nary a mask in sight, so OF COURSE he caught COVID.

Several weeks later my sister resurfaced with a text, and in one breath she mentioned how OMICRON is going like gang-busters where she lives, and in the next breath she suggests we get together for Xmas. My reply was, "Are you effing nuts?"

She's an LPN. She should know better. And yet? This is so fundamentally ON BRAND for her. It's taken me a half century for me to truly open my eyes to her true nature, and it's just disappointing. I have to teach myself to just acknowledge my thoughts and feelings and let them go, because in the end they serve zero purpose, and just further entrench my negativity bias.

I'm angry because I lack the cognitive dissonance to set aside my legitimate worries and go visit her. So what if I am living in fear? I'm hoping my fear is what keeps me from getting sick or dying. 

Wanting To See A Connection To Choices We've Made

It's been over 17 months since mom died, and she hasn't seen fit to visit me in my dreams. I vacillate between thinking death and the afterlife (if there is any) gives us the ability to go wherever we want to be. I just have not felt her presence. I felt a splinter of her presence, with a very vague sense she apologized for leaving, but not something as vivid as the dream I had where dad visited me. Even in death with infinite possibilities of being able to move her energy wherever she wants to be, she isn't visiting me. 

Death is like being permanently & relentlessly abandoned and rejected.

Seventeen months of silence has given me nothing but time to ruminate and even question what I remember. I feel as if I were gaslighting myself, questioning reality as I experienced it, "Was she as bad as I remembered?" "Was she a good person who did or said hateful things, or was she hateful with intermittent moments of good?"  

I am pretty firm in my belief I wanted better things for her than she wanted for herself. And initially after she died, I was furious, and in some ways I still AM. I am not resigned to it yet, but my prevailing emotion these days is just pity. 

All this time also has made me analyze choices I've made in my life, namely chasing after men who were otherwise unavailable to me, whether they were married, or a different religion, culture, or skin tone.

My first husband was Jewish. And after four years of marriage, I converted to Judaism, in preparation for us to have kids. In a way I hoped also it would lead to me finally being accepted by his father. (This never happened.) 

I also think of how my first husband was a byproduct of domestic violence & rape, and he was also LITERALLY an abortion that lived. He was not wanted by his father, and quite frankly, what kind of mother tells their son they were an abortion that lived? (His fraternal twin was aborted, and by the time they realized this, it was too late to do anything about it.)

I think of the devastation of my divorce, and I cannot help but think of similar themes with my siblings.

The lesser of the parallels is: my sister married a man who was the byproduct of an affair. His birth father didn't want him--and still doesn't want contact. His birth mom died, and he was raised by his maternal grandmother. Despite this genesis story, my sister's marriage has lasted 30 years, and seems healthy/functional enough.

The greater of the parallels is: my brother married a woman, who, like my exhusband, was Jewish. There are far more parallels between my brother's first marriage and my first marriage. Stunning parallels, in fact. 

(I now wish I had asked my parents what thoughts they might have had where 2/3 of their kids married people who were from a different religion than our family was.)

Just like me, he went through the conversion process (though there is a lot to be said about his conversion!), and he had a Jewish wedding. 

After several abortions (after genetic testing they realized those fetuses carried the gene for the health issue his wife has), they finally had a child together.

Not only was his first wife Jewish, but she also hung around, benefitting from his regular paycheck. Unlike my first marriage, she stuck around twice as long as my ex did. And just like my ex, she left him emotionally devastated and destitute, just like my ex. Within a week of her leaving him, she left him with the mortgage in arrears and the house about to be foreclosed. She destroyed his world.

I see parallels between all three of these spouses--though my sister's seems the most functional of all the "first spouses."

I see us all as having some degree of abandonment or rejection life trap/schema. Each of us gravitating to people who were either damaged goods, or with tragic genesis stories. 

I say this not with any snobbishness, but I feel my choice in my second husband was more grounded than my first. I wasn't making a desperate choice. I wasn't looking to be saved. I wasn't looking to save anyone. I wanted someone with less emotional baggage than I had--and I think I got exactly that. 

I see us all as having made similar choices in mates. And even though I have remarried, I married someone who isn't from the same culture or religion I was raised in--yet despite that, his family have accepted me completely. I truly feel like Ruth from the bible.

I am not sure if this post is cohesive, or if I just merely WANT it to be cohesive. I know I want it all to make sense. And therein is my suffering: my attachment or expectation or need for things to make sense.

I see each of our marriages as byproducts of being emotionally abused--byproducts like how water ripples when you cast a stone into it.