one of the ways grief fit into it all
Mar. 3rd, 2013 01:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
So, most of you know that my partner Mike died in late 2006. One of the things -- one of the many things -- that was hard about losing Mike was that he was going to be with me when I went through the hip replacement surgery.
Mike was matter-of-fact about medical issues, and I was so grateful to him for that. When he was doing dialysis, he chose CAPD, which is done at home. I used to joke that it was the perfect mad scientist dialysis method, because he could do it in his own lair and control all the procedures. It suited him immensely. We'd sit there companionably, masked and adhering to all relevant medical protocols, playing computer games or reading with the IV stand and the bag hooked up to him. Just another cosy domestic evening, you know?
I sort of had that in my mind for getting through my own surgery and recovery. I didn't have any idea how difficult it would be just as surgery and aftermath. Nobody did, even though we knew it was non-standard. We expected three days in the hospital maximum, and then home. Instead, it was three or four days in the hospital (I don't actually know; I was too drugged up to tell) and two weeks inpatient at the attached facility for rehabilitation and physical therapy, and then home. And no Mike. Yes, Juan was wonderful. Yes, I had other excellent help. But I missed my Mike. He would have made medical jokes in all the right ways, and we would have shared it, like we shared all those things before.
Tonight I am finishing reading a brilliant, brilliant book by Susan Palwick. It'll be coming out in May, and it's called MENDING THE MOON. I'm almost at the end. A character has just said, "God, I miss [character name]. I'll be a complete mess when [other character name] dies, because then I'll be missing everybody at the same time. [...] I'd counted on [character name to get me through [....]" And I had to put the book down for a bit, because yeah. The aftermath of the hip surgery was hellish, but the really hard part was that there was no Mike there to talk about it with. And I felt awful and selfish, feeling that way. But it was true.
If there had been a Mike there, it would have been easier to stick up for myself, too. Grief made me small and scared and the kind of person who clutched on to everything and was afraid to lose it, even if that thing really wasn't right. Like people and connections with a couple of them. It made me clutch some things that were right, too, and the clutching wasn't very good for them either sometimes. Anyhow, I'm thinking about this stuff tonight as I read.
It's a really good book. A really, REALLY good book. I haven't told you about the complicated ways graphic novels and fanfiction are woven through the storyline, but they are. I've got a handful of pages to go, and I'm in that place where you get, when a book is so good and you're really hoping the author doesn't blow it at the ending.
[a little while later]
Nope. The author didn't blow it. This is not an easy book. And thank God for that. I don't think any book about grief could be easy. Not if it told the truth. I'm really glad I read this now. Shortly after Mike died, Patrick said, "What you should read right now is THE YEARS OF RICE AND SALT." So I went and got a copy, and he was right. It was the right book to read at the beginning of dealing with that grief. And somehow, this is the right book to read now, at whatever stage it is I am at.
I think the hip replacement surgery and the grief were a real one-two punch. (Though given how many people I cared about died in the two-year period of 2005 and 2006, it was more like an eleven-twelve punch, but anyhow.) I think I've been rebuilding since then. And I'm more grateful than I can say to the people who have been good companions on the journey. (I'm working on forgiving the few people who were lousy companions, too. I hope their own journeys are going better.)
If you wind up reading MENDING THE MOON, you'll get what I mean when I say that right now, I'm a Comrade. I can't wait for other people to read it so we can talk about it. I wish Mike could read it. But the wishes like that don't have sharp edges any more, and the grief isn't a whirlwind of nothingness any more. And I can finally walk most days without a cane, and it hurts less most days than it did before the surgery. And I have good people in my life, ones who aren't resentful when other people do kind things for me or when I ask for encouragement.
I don't have any clever summary, because, well, things aren't over. They go on.
It's just nice to feel good about that again.
Mike was matter-of-fact about medical issues, and I was so grateful to him for that. When he was doing dialysis, he chose CAPD, which is done at home. I used to joke that it was the perfect mad scientist dialysis method, because he could do it in his own lair and control all the procedures. It suited him immensely. We'd sit there companionably, masked and adhering to all relevant medical protocols, playing computer games or reading with the IV stand and the bag hooked up to him. Just another cosy domestic evening, you know?
I sort of had that in my mind for getting through my own surgery and recovery. I didn't have any idea how difficult it would be just as surgery and aftermath. Nobody did, even though we knew it was non-standard. We expected three days in the hospital maximum, and then home. Instead, it was three or four days in the hospital (I don't actually know; I was too drugged up to tell) and two weeks inpatient at the attached facility for rehabilitation and physical therapy, and then home. And no Mike. Yes, Juan was wonderful. Yes, I had other excellent help. But I missed my Mike. He would have made medical jokes in all the right ways, and we would have shared it, like we shared all those things before.
Tonight I am finishing reading a brilliant, brilliant book by Susan Palwick. It'll be coming out in May, and it's called MENDING THE MOON. I'm almost at the end. A character has just said, "God, I miss [character name]. I'll be a complete mess when [other character name] dies, because then I'll be missing everybody at the same time. [...] I'd counted on [character name to get me through [....]" And I had to put the book down for a bit, because yeah. The aftermath of the hip surgery was hellish, but the really hard part was that there was no Mike there to talk about it with. And I felt awful and selfish, feeling that way. But it was true.
If there had been a Mike there, it would have been easier to stick up for myself, too. Grief made me small and scared and the kind of person who clutched on to everything and was afraid to lose it, even if that thing really wasn't right. Like people and connections with a couple of them. It made me clutch some things that were right, too, and the clutching wasn't very good for them either sometimes. Anyhow, I'm thinking about this stuff tonight as I read.
It's a really good book. A really, REALLY good book. I haven't told you about the complicated ways graphic novels and fanfiction are woven through the storyline, but they are. I've got a handful of pages to go, and I'm in that place where you get, when a book is so good and you're really hoping the author doesn't blow it at the ending.
[a little while later]
Nope. The author didn't blow it. This is not an easy book. And thank God for that. I don't think any book about grief could be easy. Not if it told the truth. I'm really glad I read this now. Shortly after Mike died, Patrick said, "What you should read right now is THE YEARS OF RICE AND SALT." So I went and got a copy, and he was right. It was the right book to read at the beginning of dealing with that grief. And somehow, this is the right book to read now, at whatever stage it is I am at.
I think the hip replacement surgery and the grief were a real one-two punch. (Though given how many people I cared about died in the two-year period of 2005 and 2006, it was more like an eleven-twelve punch, but anyhow.) I think I've been rebuilding since then. And I'm more grateful than I can say to the people who have been good companions on the journey. (I'm working on forgiving the few people who were lousy companions, too. I hope their own journeys are going better.)
If you wind up reading MENDING THE MOON, you'll get what I mean when I say that right now, I'm a Comrade. I can't wait for other people to read it so we can talk about it. I wish Mike could read it. But the wishes like that don't have sharp edges any more, and the grief isn't a whirlwind of nothingness any more. And I can finally walk most days without a cane, and it hurts less most days than it did before the surgery. And I have good people in my life, ones who aren't resentful when other people do kind things for me or when I ask for encouragement.
I don't have any clever summary, because, well, things aren't over. They go on.
It's just nice to feel good about that again.