Heomodor passed last Saturday, October 3rd, at 4:40 am. Just to be ornery, she died of a Pulmonary Embollism rather than the illness she has been fighting for the past few months. She is now buried next to my brother, as she wished.
Showing posts with label Heomodor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Heomodor. Show all posts
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Requiescat In Pace
Heomodor passed last Saturday, October 3rd, at 4:40 am. Just to be ornery, she died of a Pulmonary Embollism rather than the illness she has been fighting for the past few months. She is now buried next to my brother, as she wished.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
On Being a Black Hole of Emotional Need
The best news I have to share with friends these days is this: my fear that enrolling myself in educational programs was somehow causing my loved ones to develop life-threatening or life-ending illnesses is now demonstrably untrue. For the first time, a loved one has been diagnosed with one of the "oh shit" illnesses while I am not anyone's student.
So, there's that.
I tend to hole up somewhere when I am in this sort of emotional state, and wait for six months or so until I can call people and chat about my life without getting sloppy about it. It seems tacky to emote all over people who just want to be happy and tell you about how their 2 year-old draws perfect replicas of Monet's greatest hits. But that wouldn't really be fair this time, because the person who is now mortally ill is Heomodor, and, truth be told, EVERYONE likes her. My friends like her more than they like me. By a lot. My ex-friends lament the loss of my mom in their lives. They do not miss me.
I'm a grouch. I scare people. I stand outside libraries in my leather jacket and discuss battle poetry. I ask uncomfortable questions. Since working as a CNA for years, I have very little sympathy for people with bruises and papercuts. Hard to get worked up about a papercut when you've seen a gangrenous leg almost fall off a guy. Since studying medieval literature, I have very little decorum left. Things that other people think is the most filthy thing imaginable I would say in church, because I got it from 12th century nuns anyway. I have been called tough countless times, and people were astounded and amused when I attempted to object.
My mom is not like me. She was raised to be ladylike, to be stoic when necessary, to be taken care of when possible, to listen. Strangers tell her their life stories because they feel like she will understand. People confess crimes to her, because they "know" she won't judge them harshly. Repairmen charge her less than they charge others, because she's so gentle a soul they can't take advantage of her. Once, when I was in undergrad and my income did not allow us to live in a great neighborhood (OK, but not great), I was reprimanded by a plumber for making my mother live in a working class town, when she clearly belonged "by the water." This was code for on the North Shore of Long Island, where the wealthy to obscenely wealthy live. Richard Nixon once pronounced my mom adorable and gave her a little booklet full of newly minted five dollar bills as a souvenir of meeting him. Luciano Pavarotti once hugged her when she "gently corrected" his phrasing. I'm not kidding.
Due to a fear of being alone, and some financial and health issues, gentle Heomodor has followed surly old me around for quite some time now, from undergrad to grad school cities, and now resides with me several states away from home in Virginia. So, I am the party responsible for disseminating some very bad news to lots of people with whom I don't always communicate as much as I should. Again, I hole up when stressed, and being responsible for my mom has often stressed me out. So, I have to call these folks and say "Mom is dying." And I really, really want to have a nervous breakdown, and get very uncharacteristically sloppy about it all. But I can't really request that level of support from people with whom I have not put in my time in some time. And they will be suffering themselves. Plus, I am so very bad at being emotional. I do it all wrong and upset people.
I really, really hate being weak and needy.
So, there's that.
I tend to hole up somewhere when I am in this sort of emotional state, and wait for six months or so until I can call people and chat about my life without getting sloppy about it. It seems tacky to emote all over people who just want to be happy and tell you about how their 2 year-old draws perfect replicas of Monet's greatest hits. But that wouldn't really be fair this time, because the person who is now mortally ill is Heomodor, and, truth be told, EVERYONE likes her. My friends like her more than they like me. By a lot. My ex-friends lament the loss of my mom in their lives. They do not miss me.
I'm a grouch. I scare people. I stand outside libraries in my leather jacket and discuss battle poetry. I ask uncomfortable questions. Since working as a CNA for years, I have very little sympathy for people with bruises and papercuts. Hard to get worked up about a papercut when you've seen a gangrenous leg almost fall off a guy. Since studying medieval literature, I have very little decorum left. Things that other people think is the most filthy thing imaginable I would say in church, because I got it from 12th century nuns anyway. I have been called tough countless times, and people were astounded and amused when I attempted to object.
My mom is not like me. She was raised to be ladylike, to be stoic when necessary, to be taken care of when possible, to listen. Strangers tell her their life stories because they feel like she will understand. People confess crimes to her, because they "know" she won't judge them harshly. Repairmen charge her less than they charge others, because she's so gentle a soul they can't take advantage of her. Once, when I was in undergrad and my income did not allow us to live in a great neighborhood (OK, but not great), I was reprimanded by a plumber for making my mother live in a working class town, when she clearly belonged "by the water." This was code for on the North Shore of Long Island, where the wealthy to obscenely wealthy live. Richard Nixon once pronounced my mom adorable and gave her a little booklet full of newly minted five dollar bills as a souvenir of meeting him. Luciano Pavarotti once hugged her when she "gently corrected" his phrasing. I'm not kidding.
Due to a fear of being alone, and some financial and health issues, gentle Heomodor has followed surly old me around for quite some time now, from undergrad to grad school cities, and now resides with me several states away from home in Virginia. So, I am the party responsible for disseminating some very bad news to lots of people with whom I don't always communicate as much as I should. Again, I hole up when stressed, and being responsible for my mom has often stressed me out. So, I have to call these folks and say "Mom is dying." And I really, really want to have a nervous breakdown, and get very uncharacteristically sloppy about it all. But I can't really request that level of support from people with whom I have not put in my time in some time. And they will be suffering themselves. Plus, I am so very bad at being emotional. I do it all wrong and upset people.
I really, really hate being weak and needy.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Whew!
[Post edited to eliminate idiot spelling errors and extra-awkward sentences. Medium-awkward sentences and less idiotic spelling errors have been left intact. Not really, or not purposefully. I'm just covering my butt.]
For just a moment, I may actually be my normal-ish self. Though I haven't quite figured out what normal looks like without some sort of looming emergency, academic or familial. Heomodor had all her problem areas addressed surgically this week, with some hours of high drama in surgery during which the surgical staff ran around quite a bit and shouted. Just like on the TV. Well, they didn't have sex in the broom closet in between laps around the O.R., but still. I was actually convinced, for the past month or two, that Heomodor was not long for this world. Good job, team of three surgeons! And a nice touch it was, your meeting with the whole fambly as a unit to explain stuff. Even the spindly one who adopted the 'benevolent but dismissive father-figure" status for himself while taking command (and, who did the least of all three) deserves a good pat on the back for his contribution. He also deserves a kick in the pants, but I'm tired this week. Which brings me to this question...why would someone who actually performs an iconic role [dramatic surgeon] in our culture double down by adopting another one [father knows best] in a conversation related to his work in his first iconic status? I mean, seriously! Next time wear a cowboy hat, too, why don't you?
For just a moment, I may actually be my normal-ish self. Though I haven't quite figured out what normal looks like without some sort of looming emergency, academic or familial. Heomodor had all her problem areas addressed surgically this week, with some hours of high drama in surgery during which the surgical staff ran around quite a bit and shouted. Just like on the TV. Well, they didn't have sex in the broom closet in between laps around the O.R., but still. I was actually convinced, for the past month or two, that Heomodor was not long for this world. Good job, team of three surgeons! And a nice touch it was, your meeting with the whole fambly as a unit to explain stuff. Even the spindly one who adopted the 'benevolent but dismissive father-figure" status for himself while taking command (and, who did the least of all three) deserves a good pat on the back for his contribution. He also deserves a kick in the pants, but I'm tired this week. Which brings me to this question...why would someone who actually performs an iconic role [dramatic surgeon] in our culture double down by adopting another one [father knows best] in a conversation related to his work in his first iconic status? I mean, seriously! Next time wear a cowboy hat, too, why don't you?
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