I have not been blogging. There are perhaps three of you who read this, and so the fact I've not been blogging may have gone largely unnoticed in the world. Regardless, I feel the need to explain.
I have been distracted. The distraction is male, caucasian, six foot one, dark haired, blue/hazel eyes, handsome, has a heart of gold (which he'll modestly deny) and is everything I would have wanted had I ordered him from Amazon. Yeah - it's been pretty good stuff, and we all know that's normally what I'd be all about in my writing.
If you know me, you already know I'm extroverted. Even if you don't know me, most folks with a blog fall into the extrovert category on some level. But only some of you know my introverted side - which is as strong and dominant as the extroversion. Just take a look at my Meyers-Briggs scores, and you'll see I've no middle ground on this one. I'm either an open book, or I'm not.
We are apparently in 'Not' mode.
Despite the fact that I have been filled with thoughts, have been writing, have even started a few blogs posts, I have nothing to say here. Really, I don't. Maybe it's that there's still so much to process, so much unnamed yet. Maybe it's that I want to protect him from my extroversion. Maybe I just don't kiss and tell. Maybe I'm still struggling with the idea that this is a bit fairy-tale for me. I'm used to the Grimm brothers, or at least Aesop's fables. I'm not used to stories that hint at happy endings. I may even be mildly intimidated by such a concept.
Not that intimidation has ever stopped me. Intimidating situations attract me, actually. If I'm intimidated, there must be something to learn, and that is how I start most of my adventures in life. I like adventure.
And, this is an adventure, and a damn good one at that. No idea how it will turn out. Isn't that exciting? I find it exciting.
Whatever the reason I've not been able to write about this, I think I'm done trying to publish anything about it here. In time, I may find things suitable to post. For now, I intend to enjoy my distraction and, apparently, keep it all to myself. Sue me.
It may happen, then, that I'm still absent from this a while yet, but it's my goal to get back to blogging daily or near daily. I hope you'll stick around to read what comes in the next week or so. There is really a lot to mention, even if I'm taking the man off the table as a subject. There's Mr. Bi-polar and my 911 call last week, there's the car, there's MARVIN who refuses my calls on Tuesdays because he is busy, amazingly high heating bills, and thoughts on the 83rd problem in life, known to buddhists as the problem of not wanting any problems.
So. See you later this week.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Stephen Craig
I have tried to write about you and your death so many times in the year since you passed, and have been unable to. The words come out wrong. They don’t mean anything, they don’t say anything.
Stephen, it is so hard to miss you as badly as I do. It is so hard. There are so many things that I wish could be different. I wish you’d never been born with a bad heart, that you’d never had diabetes, that you’d never faced amputation of your legs versus death, that you’d have never chosen to die without letting us know.
It took me six months to stop saying that I’d give anything for you to still be alive. Once I realized what you’d have had to give up for that to have been possible, I found it easier to accept. For you to be alive today, now, you would have had to have your legs amputated, at the hip, and you never wanted to live like that, having seen grandad suffer that way. But it’s still hard. It was so unexpected for all of us Stephen. Dave, me, Melanie, your kids. None of knew what you were facing medically, and none of us knew you’d made the choice to die until you were gone.
And, on some levels, I have to thank you for hiding the truth, for flat out lying to Dave and I. You weren’t taking your insulin. You left everything here in Michigan when you left for the kids in Texas. Everything. Your testing equipment, your needles, your insulin. You had none of it in your truck, in your bags. But you told David you were testing and taking your insulin. You flat out lied. And I thank you for that. Because you were right - neither Dave nor I could have kept from asking you to have the amputation. We would have been selfish. And you would have yielded to us, out of your love for us. I could not live with the guilt of that today, and so I thank you for sparing me, for sparing David, and yourself, from what you had said so many times you could never live with. How many times did I hear you say that you’d die before you let that happen to you? So, I understand. You’d have done it for us, and that would have been wrong. For our little family of stubborn, willful, obstinate, independent SOB’s, that would have been wrong.
But you must understand that I hate it. I hate that I never said goodbye to you. I hate that when Ruth insisted on taking you to a hospital, and they’d stabilized you, that you said you were way too sick to die, and I BELIEVED YOU. Like a damn fool. Why didn’t I say goodbye then, just in case? Why didn’t I leave for Texas then to see you? Did I even remember to tell you I loved you? On the one hand, I know that you know that, but on the other hand, did you know that? Did you know how much I loved you? Respected your crotchety, grumpy, smug ass? Did you know? Do you know now?
Overall, your death was as close to having come at your own hands as I care to ever see anyone I love get. Suicide is such a selfish thing to do. But in this case, it was going to be either your selfishness, or ours, and I thank you that I don’t have to carry the weight of my own selfishness when I think of you. I carry instead the loss of one of the most important people, one of the most important men I have ever had in my life, and it hurts like hell. But if losing you and grieving is the cost of having loved you, I’d love you twice as hard in a ‘do-over’ knowing I’d hurt twice as hard now. Gladly.
You are worth every fucking tear I shed, Stephen. Every fucking one. Thank you for having loved me. Thank you for letting me love you. Thank you for the trust that you, I and Dave shared. Thank you for everything you ever taught me. Thank you for being my brother. I will miss you, your wisdom, your smart-ass mouth and mind, for the rest of my life.
Rest in peace, Stephen Craig. I love you. I always have, and I always will.
Stephen, it is so hard to miss you as badly as I do. It is so hard. There are so many things that I wish could be different. I wish you’d never been born with a bad heart, that you’d never had diabetes, that you’d never faced amputation of your legs versus death, that you’d have never chosen to die without letting us know.
It took me six months to stop saying that I’d give anything for you to still be alive. Once I realized what you’d have had to give up for that to have been possible, I found it easier to accept. For you to be alive today, now, you would have had to have your legs amputated, at the hip, and you never wanted to live like that, having seen grandad suffer that way. But it’s still hard. It was so unexpected for all of us Stephen. Dave, me, Melanie, your kids. None of knew what you were facing medically, and none of us knew you’d made the choice to die until you were gone.
And, on some levels, I have to thank you for hiding the truth, for flat out lying to Dave and I. You weren’t taking your insulin. You left everything here in Michigan when you left for the kids in Texas. Everything. Your testing equipment, your needles, your insulin. You had none of it in your truck, in your bags. But you told David you were testing and taking your insulin. You flat out lied. And I thank you for that. Because you were right - neither Dave nor I could have kept from asking you to have the amputation. We would have been selfish. And you would have yielded to us, out of your love for us. I could not live with the guilt of that today, and so I thank you for sparing me, for sparing David, and yourself, from what you had said so many times you could never live with. How many times did I hear you say that you’d die before you let that happen to you? So, I understand. You’d have done it for us, and that would have been wrong. For our little family of stubborn, willful, obstinate, independent SOB’s, that would have been wrong.
But you must understand that I hate it. I hate that I never said goodbye to you. I hate that when Ruth insisted on taking you to a hospital, and they’d stabilized you, that you said you were way too sick to die, and I BELIEVED YOU. Like a damn fool. Why didn’t I say goodbye then, just in case? Why didn’t I leave for Texas then to see you? Did I even remember to tell you I loved you? On the one hand, I know that you know that, but on the other hand, did you know that? Did you know how much I loved you? Respected your crotchety, grumpy, smug ass? Did you know? Do you know now?
Overall, your death was as close to having come at your own hands as I care to ever see anyone I love get. Suicide is such a selfish thing to do. But in this case, it was going to be either your selfishness, or ours, and I thank you that I don’t have to carry the weight of my own selfishness when I think of you. I carry instead the loss of one of the most important people, one of the most important men I have ever had in my life, and it hurts like hell. But if losing you and grieving is the cost of having loved you, I’d love you twice as hard in a ‘do-over’ knowing I’d hurt twice as hard now. Gladly.
You are worth every fucking tear I shed, Stephen. Every fucking one. Thank you for having loved me. Thank you for letting me love you. Thank you for the trust that you, I and Dave shared. Thank you for everything you ever taught me. Thank you for being my brother. I will miss you, your wisdom, your smart-ass mouth and mind, for the rest of my life.
Rest in peace, Stephen Craig. I love you. I always have, and I always will.
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