My so-called journal

Today was mom's memorial, and I got the day off from both my clients to go to Branford, Connecticut for the burial of her ashes next to my dad's coffin.

I was to sign away my rights to be buried in the family plot [gladly], but forgot I needed to be there for this; so I decided to play hooky—from my job and from the memorial—and instead take a personal day. Steve—my brother—called me around 9 AM. "What are you doing?" he asked frantically.. Eve—my sister—had intended to send me the form, but apparently had figured I was coming up so sending the form was one less thing she had to do. We hadn't even been able to talk last weekend, because she'd been mad at me.

I still haven't talked to her—she's presumably still mad—but Steve gave me the number of the cemetery and I had them e-mail me the release form, which I signed in the presence of a notary and faxed back. Done and done.

I also had to go down to the Supreme Court building because I had gotten a Jury Duty summons the other day, and I'm deaf as a post. (Well, not deaf as a post, but tinnitus prevents me from hearing in the echo chamber that most courtrooms are.) I'd been excused from service over 20 years ago, and then I mysteriously received a summons again about a week ago. Why should I go up to every judge whose jury I'm potentially a juror on, only to have to tell each one I can't serve?

Unfortunately, I only got two years, after which I'll have to get tested again. "It's not going to get any better," I said. Supposedly I hadn't given them enough information—but tinnitus doesn't show up on audiologists' tests. And, as I said, it doesn't go away—mine doesn't, in which the auditory nerve is damaged—I'm not hoping it gets worse in two years, but it's not going to get better.

Actually, I wish I could have gone to the memorial, but it would have been difficult getting there. I got cold feet: all these people I hadn't seen in years, that—in truth—didn't give a rat's ass about me. I just couldn't do it.

Corky was found to have disk disease when I took him to the Animal Medical Center a couple of weeks ago; clearly this had started some time ago but no vet had diagnosed it—during the time he'd had Cushing's disease, that was his primary problem—and I wasn't aware enough of the symptoms to know what was going on.

I was ordered to crate him in order to rest him, but this made him so crazy he began to self-mutilate. He was also crying out in the night from the pain.

Saturday I took him to a vet downtown to address the situation, including the stress of being crated. By this point, Corky wasn't able to walk easily, and I had to carry him up and down five flights of stairs. True, he was a 14-pound terrier, but it was still difficult.

Dr. DeLorenzo was patient and asked me a couple of times if I was sure I wanted to do this; I had to admit it was the best thing to do, since there wasn't even a pain reliever I could give him. Baby aspirin didn't help.

She started him with a drip of Valium, then gave him sodium pentobarbital. I know it was the right thing to do, but it's less than a week and the house feels empty. I'm so sad that he's gone, and even though I have photos of him, this is the third death I've had to deal with in less than a year. The effect is cumulative; it's just not fair.

I had tried to keep him healthy, and even brushed his teeth every night, so this really came out of left field. I'm so tired of death.

Because I've tried to stick to my routines and keep busy, the reality of Richard's death is just hitting me now, two months later. Even though I was at his side when I saw his head slump forward, and even though he hasn't been home at all in two months, and I haven't been back to the hospital in that time. I mean, I have his ashes in a can in the other room, but it's hard to put two and two together sometimes.

And the memorial service will be November 20th at a church around the corner. I've graciously offered—in a FB message—to Richard's girlfriend that I'd stay away so she could share about their special bond. She replied, "Thanks."

My plans are to take myself up to Harlem for a vegan soul-food brunch and totally blow off the memorial. In a group chat on FB Sara muses that she'll probably stay at the memorial just to say a few words and then go home to Cold Spring, so conceivably I could slink in after I was sure she'd left. Slink in, right: because I've always felt like I was the "other" woman, even after I'd lived here over 20 years. That's why I'm not buying into that "sneaking in after I'd made sure the coast was clear"; people who know of my plans say they'd always thought of me and Richard as a couple and would be puzzled not to see me at a memorial for him.

Sara was there first. She used to plan activities for the two of them, Richard said, probably in an effort to keep them together.
I've also taken a very hands-off role in planning the memorial next month: my downstairs neighbor Elizabeth told me up front: "I'm an excellent event planner," and proceeded to take care of most everything; I paid for the rental of the room. I complained to her once that she took over everything, even things I wanted to do, and she said she'd cleared it with me first. (She hadn't; but at that point I gave up and figured I'm not going to be there anyway, so who cares?)

She did try to involve me in decisions, saying, "How do you like the setup of the chairs; do you think they should be facing the park?" I told her I didn't care since I wasn't going to be there.

I've been very depressed today, and it's a strange feeling; I haven't been depressed like this in well over 20 years. It'll pass; I just don't know when.

I've been meaning to put together a post about the events of the past month, but I just can't—my roommate died about a month ago. It's not like it was unexpected; he had had cancer for several years, and pretty much kept it at bay, until the last clusterfuck that did him in. Cause of death: congestive heart failure, a result of a heart attack several years ago that was probably a side-effect of chemotherapy.

Plus, he was 83, meaning that the only way we would die together would be if we were to die in a fire. Fortunately that didn't happen.

I miss him terribly, though; for the first two weeks after he died, I wasn't willing or able to believe he had passed on, even though I had been at his side when his spirit left his body. I would walk in the door and automatically think he was home.

He was embalmed and cremated, and now his ashes reside on the shelf beside those of Tipper, our beloved golden retriever who passed away in the mid-90s. And that's probably as complete as it's ever going to be.