"the hardest thing in this world is to live in it"
Toby
June 1990 – July 18, 2007
In your long life, you brought great peace, and great joy. You were a wonderful companion, through to the very end.
Om mani padme hum I bow to the jewel in the lotus
Om ami dewa hrih Diety of endless light
Om vajra sattva hum May you open the gates of samsara
A a ha sha sa ma And purify the life
The shrillness of the phone pierces through the fogs of my dreaming, and habit forces me to grab it and check. It’s my father, just my father. Unthinkingly, I note the time and hit mute. It’s only 6pm, they said they would call after camp was over, status on the sick family dog. I fall back into dreams, the phone silent.
I wake again, on my own, night beginning to soften the brilliant blue sky, birds quieting down in the gloaming. I call my father, but there is no answer. No answer? At that time of day? Odd. Check messages.
There is a tightness in my father’s voice. A vagueness I recognize. I call my sister.
The cancer has returned.
I zombie-drove home from Lake George last night, a drive I remember in fits and spurts, which is always a terrifying thing in retrospect. Likewise, my memory of getting into my apartment and bed has a dreamlike quality to it, and I know it’s not entirely accurate, if only because some details I remember are actually, by physical evidence, not true.
One of the cats has made me very aware of how unhappy he was I had been gone – although it’s excessive, even for him, and I’m beginning to wonder if I need to take him to the vet. He meowed almost nonstop for some 12 hours – or at least, that’s what I remember. Did it actually happen?
I woke up at some point, got out of my clothes, and noticed that I am literally a giant bruise over my torso, thighs, up and down my calves, and spotted on my arms like a leopard. My foot was bloody, as was my right hip – I assume the foot is from a blister that I wasn’t aware I had popping, but I can’t figure out where, when, or how I managed to slice my hip open.
The last 24 hours have been surreal, in a literal sense – I fall asleep but am unaware I am asleep, I wake up and wonder if I am still asleep, or really awake. I fell asleep mid-conversation twice, and apparently had one conversation entirely asleep.
To say I am exhausted is, in short, an understatement.
But I am also satisfied. I pulled off a difficult task with minimum problems, and those that existed were resolved quickly – or at least I hope they were both resolved, and quickly resolved. The general consensus appears to be that the retreat was well organized and just good, and although I didn’t have a chance to do everything I wanted to, or talk to everyone I was hoping to talk with, the time wasn’t about me, and the people it was about seemed happy.
But, five days of being “on” has apparently worn me to the bone; it’s been a long time since I’ve done theatre, and I’m out of practice. My stamina was fading rapidly by Sunday morning, and I was grateful that by packing up Sunday afternoon, I could move to autopilot and not worry about anything other than not crashing my car on the way home.
…in fact, as I notice the hypersaturation of colours in the room, and the clear sounds of birds chirping, and the disembodiedness in my hands, I’m not entirely convinced I am awake as I type,…
I’m having one of those days where, although I woke up calm and collected, everything has broken into fragile shards around me as the day has gone on, and I know, I know that I’ll be in ragged pieces soon. I have so much to do, and no one who can help me with it. I had been planning on asking for a significant amount of help today, only to find out that the people I needed to ask the help of have opted to not be here.
Wonderful.
So I have to duct tape myself together, and make magic happen even though the only thing I feel is going to happen is me finally snapping apart at seams that shouldn’t be stressed, at this point. It’s so far beyond the Scotty principle that I don’t even know what to call it…
…although a friend wonders if people focus so often on my being a super-woman, of making magic and miracles, that they forget I’m human, I’m a novice, and I need both help, and support.
There is always a reason that magicians are adrift from the rest of their party – perhaps this is it.
I walked home late this evening, through what we casually refer to as “rape central” at work, and jokingly mentioned to Michael that I would be back online soon, provided I was not eaten by a grue. We proceeded to have the following conversation when I got home, and I maintain that I am right. On all accounts.
Kelly: I was not eaten by a grue.
I think the misanthropy scared all possible grues away. Perhaps the misanthropy made ME the grue?Kelly: Hmm. Maybe the grue really just just a misanthropic, cranky person who wants nothing more than to be left alone, but no, no, those damned adventurers keep coming and disturbing it while it’s trying to do things, or sleep, so finally it just snaps and EATS them. Because at least that way, it’s getting food. And probably b33r, since what adventurer is without some sort of groggy liquid?
Michael: I think you need to get out more
Kelly: That’s just because you think there should be less people in the world, so you’re hoping I actually prove that the grue is just a cranky misanthrope.
Michael: Gotta admit, it’s a good plan