A few decades ago, a member of Greenpeace appeared at my door, soliciting funds. He told me, “There really is only one issue – the environment.”
Ten days ago, I was at the end of my “morning” ritual: drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, gobbling pills, crying and admonishing myself to write that letter to the Ontario College of Physicians and Surgeons about the appalling treatment (or lack thereof) that Michael received from a specific doctor, when I came to a decision. “I will not suffer this for one more day.”
So I wrote the letter. I’d made notes on December 24 (!) complete with dates and quotes. I’d imagined those notes needed work but in fact they did not. All I needed to do was write a cover letter, print off a form, have it witnessed and get the package in the mail and I did.
It was a relief, for a few days, but not anymore.
I’m so sad that he died. I’m so angry about the way he died. I want that doctor to be held accountable for what he did, in the Emergency Room on Dec.1 (“You want me to admit him with gas?”) AND when Michael was finally admitted to hospital on Dec. 20 and the same goddam doctor was his attending physician on the floor.
We could have done an anticipated death at home. All you need is a brave patient, a brave primary caregiver and proper pain management. He was brave, I was brave (and experienced at the process) but he didn’t have proper medication because he wasn’t diagnosed on Dec.1. It would’ve taken that doctor five minutes to have a portable ultrasound machine wheeled into the room where Michael lay. I respectfully disagreed with the doctor’s diagnosis but to no avail. So we went home. We lacked the information and assistance we needed to do things right.
This “morning” I went through my usual routine, including the crying. I should have dug my heels in. It would’ve humiliated Michael and probably angered the doctor but I should have done it. We could’ve had a peaceful last Christmas together and I would have that to remember (as I remember my Mother’s peaceful last Thanksgiving.) We could have created something beautiful, together; a small, sweet triumph wrested from the maw of tragedy.
There are so many things I should have done but more to the point, there are so many things I should be doing. These past eleven months I have been stripped of almost everything that defines me. I’m a lousy feminist. I was a lousy wife, for the most part and, if you ask anyone but me, a pretty lousy mother. I wouldn’t have defined myself as arrogant but I’ve been humbled so thoroughly that I must’ve been arrogant. I’m not even middle-class, anymore.
Light another cigarette. Eat a chocolate muffin. Ponder.
I hung my identity on “writing” before I even clearly understood that I was female. I decided to be a writer when I was twelve. But professional writers (especially, I think, genre writers) gotta write and get published. I will have published two short stories this year, but neither of them was written this year. I have two short stories under consideration for publication but of them, only one was written this year. The sum total of my creative writing in 2014 is one new short story.
Wait! What about all my fabulous face book posts. Don’t they count? Well, no, they don’t.
What about how hilarious I am on Twitter? Isn’t that writing? Oh Gawd no. It is not. Here's me playing a hashtag game. I love hashtag games.
#Thingsthatcanimprovethanksgiving The Get Smart "cone of silence."
Well, I’ve heard from a representative of the Ontario College and Physicians. She said she usually lifts sections from a complainant’s letter to forward to the doctor in question but in my case, my letter is so clear and well-written that she’s going to forward the entire letter to him. So I will count that as good writing, although it isn’t creative writing. I just told the truth.
It’s been a tough fucking year but it’s almost over and I’ve taken great strides forward. A lot of the particulars have been dealt with. But December looms large and I know, every “morning,” that I have managed to circumvent grieving in many different ways and, now that I’m all safe and sound in my new little apartment, it’s coming home, too.
I should be writing.
I should be teaching.
But more importantly, and I have been told this repeatedly by my grief peeps, I should be grieving and sleeping.
Never in my life have I gone for so long on so little sleep. I don’t like going to bed because I think about Michael when I go to bed and I don’t want to think about him because it makes me so terribly sad.
I want to: smoke cigarettes and watch TV and hangout on social media.
I don’t want to read, I don’t want to teach, I don’t want to write.
I think what I need to do (as opposed to what I should do) is start taking care of this microcosm of the environment that is me. I need to stop polluting this poor body with cancer-sticks. It makes no sense to fight the good fight, have surgery, have a mammogram, visit my doctor, begin the long process of getting a shrink, and so on and on if I’m going to kill myself with cigs. I needed them but they’ve done their job. Now I have to get rid of them.
I need to shower (even if the water gets cold in five minutes) and I need to eat right (which means I have to cook every day, not just a couple of days a week) and I need to go outside and breathe fresh air. I need to clean up the mess that is me.
I need to stop thinking that I should be a voice of reason on Twitter. Twitter is for laughs and sex (virtual or real.) Twitter is not about making sense or pointing out fallacies in other people’s comments. Of course, it’s not a bad place to get attention and I am starved for the kind of attention I used to get. But that was unsolicited attention and it died with Michael. It is no more likely to come back than he is. I was lucky to have it and now I have the bad luck of learning how to live without it.
I need to stop digging deep into international issues. It occurs to me that I don’t really care about Bill Cosby’s reputation. Or perhaps more to the point, what I think about Bill Cosby is entirely irrelevant to everything. I don’t even really need to write. There’s a plethora of erotica authors out there; the world doesn’t need my stories. If I want the world to have my stories I’d better write them.
In order for me to get anywhere, I’m just going to have to succumb to grief, cry myself to sleep and sleep. That’s the first order of business. I was dreading Dec. 22 but I now realize that Dec.1 is when the horror really began and it’s days away. I can’t escape it; I have to go through it.
When I’m ready to write I’ll write. When I’m ready to consider the issues of the day, I’m going to concentrate on the environment. We’re all in it together but my country is rich in natural resources and our evil Prime Minister is dedicated to destroying those resources. Google Stephen Harper + environmental issues if you’re interested but be forewarned – it’s really ugly. Here's a pic of Harper addressing the United Nations General Assembly in September of this year.
I’m going to go make myself something to eat and then I’m going to allow grief to take me where it wants me to go. I don’t know how long this is going to take. But it really can’t be more of a waste of time than trying to avoid it is and I have faith in myself. I am a tough prairie broad and I will come out the other side.
I’ll end this thing with some good news:
Good news week! says Greenpeace.
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