Caterwauling

The head is too full and heavy to raise it above a pillow, but too active to be exhausted. Fridays are too long in my world, and facing them without any sleep? ARGH.

I dream about my grandfather from time to time. For those just joining us, the incompetent twats at the Veterans Administration Hospital in Pittsburgh killed him for no good reason. My biggest regret, other than taking him there, was that I didn’t just kidnap him and take him to a real hospital. The tragedy haunts me and will continue to haunt me forever.

In every dream, I see him getting up out of that bed and being fine. The night we buried him, I dreamed we’d held the funeral in Bethesda, Md., and he jumped out of the coffin. He was trying so hard to tell us something and to ask what the hell happened to him, but his mouth was sewn shut. And in every single dream, I am frozen, terrified, immobile. Because while I want so badly for him to be alive and fine and back here on this earth, I somehow know that I am dreaming and can’t be anything but skeptical.

I know he’s trying to send the message to me that he didn’t want to leave, that he fought so hard and still wants to be with Mom and me. And we want him back. If I could wish for anything on this earth right now, it’d be to have him walking it again.

Last night’s dream was no different — only this time, the prayers worked. We got him to a real hospital and he lived. And seeing his blue eyes — seriously, cerulean is the color; I’ve never seen a shade like it and never will again — was so comforting. The world was OK again for a few seconds.

I hate it that I can’t immerse myself in a dream. Instead it’s like I’m always taking notes so that I can sort out the images and meanings later on. Or maybe it’s that I know I’m going to wake up with my heart broken all over again.

On the subject of loss, I surprisingly didn’t bawl (too much) during “Grey’s Anatomy” last night when George’s father died. There’s this part of me that wants everyone to be as miserable as I am, in that regard, and I’m glad they didn’t let the character live. I did cry, though, when Cristina grimly welcomed George to the “Dead Dads Club.” I hate the word “dead” now — it’s not fair to use it and my beloved grandfather, who raised me as a daughter, in the same sentence.

On “Grey’s,” I loved the Addison/Sloan storyline. It speaks to how we keep certain dates in our heads forever that are better left forgotten yet can never truly be. You justify every decision a million different ways but in the dark corners of your mind, you just wonder. And it’s not a huge deal and it was probably for the best anyway, but then there’s that date that you were either looking forward to or dreading, and even though you don’t commemorate it and maybe don’t even remember it on time, but it’s there. I just found it funny that Sloan, the one who doesn’t remember occasions, couldn’t forget that one.

And goofy, lovestruck Callie. Is that what we look like, so exhilarated and excited and thrilled to be alive when that gay boy loves us back? I like her better when she’s ballsy and no-bullshit, but you have to admit, she’s never looked prettier as when her character is thinking about nerdy, sweet little George.

Yeah, I’ve had WAY too much time to think about this. 😉 Now to do the early-a.m. workload and hopefully I’ll not fuck it up today!

I know the first day of a new year is an arbitrary date, an artificial separation of a 12-month cyclone and an upcoming, new, glorious, wondrous, hope-filled era.

My “new year” to-dos usually spring forth on my birthdays, or on Feb. 1. I figure, if I’m incapable of writing the correct year on my rent check or in the timely stuff I do for work, who am I to stick to a resolution to get my shit together?

That said, this year feels different from the last one already. It started off “right,” I guess. And I want it to continue that way. To that end, I do have some goals — loose ones, as I know I would rather surpass expectations than fail to live up to them. Or at least if I don’t meet them, I really don’t have far to fall!

1. Mentor someone. I am 32 going on 86, some days. Might as well save some others the hard knocks I’ve suffered. I have two people in mind and one is even willing to submit benefit from it.

2. Volunteer. Outside of the mentoring, of course. One day or one project, TBD.

3. Take a class. Either a one-day business class or a series of yoga classes. I don’t know. I need “me” time and I’ll be better about honoring it this year.

4. Publish one freelance article. One. I set such a huge goal in 2006, and I felt terrible not living up to it. If I get one out of my system, whee if momentum should follow.

5. I had suggested such achievable goals as joining the circus, getting committed to the loony bin or getting back to smoking a pack a week, but my friends have redirected me appropriately to note that: A. Why do I have to run away to be in the circus, as am I not already there? B. Either drive someone else nuts and/or get THEM committed. (Or, see letter A.) and C. Drinking more red wine is much healthier for the heart.

So there you have it. I’d ask what your resolutions are, but hah, guess who turned off the commenting feature? 😉

Random theater here, kids. The doors are locked behind you. We’re all doomed, so get comfy. Too bad the popcorn costs more than the movie itself and this is all the entertainment we can afford!

1. It took Eight. Hours. EIGHT!!! to drive from Pittsburgh to Georgetown. EIGHT. Gah. My ass hurts. Our beloved interstates 76, 70 and 270 were parking lots. Only the Beltway was moving, in an ironic twist.

2. I’m convinced the hospital’s just trying to kill my grandfather. Seriously. He walked in there a month ago and now he’s crying himself to sleep, he’s in so much pain. His doctor is a sniveling little cunt. And I probably shouldn’t have called her that.

2.a. “Well, he IS 80,” is NO excuse for abuse and neglect. Whore.

2.b. Picking a fight with my mother four times in front of me won’t win you any points, either. When I get to the point when I snap at you, “It’s not a competition,” kindly back away and go back to being inept like you were before.

2.b. explained:

My great-aunt M. (my grandfather’s younger sister) and her two sons D. and B., none of whom I’ve met in my 32 years but gawd, I was missing out on some great people, drove in from Ohio Friday only to see the same shriveled shell of a man that I had just met the night before. (How much damage can they DO in a week? Apparently plenty. Jesus.)

(Aside: My cousins? Are HOT. Holy shit, I wouldn’t even know I was related to them, as Mom and I look NOTHING like that side of the family. Gah. You could end up with someone and never know that you shared their genetics!)

We had a “family meeting” with the bitch of a doctor, who refuses to tell my mom anything otherwise. My aunt cried the whole time but stopped as I got into an insane discussion with the doctor and asking her how we came in to treat a bladder infection and now it’s dementia and end-of-life care that are the topics of discussion.

(I’m lethal when it comes to medical discussions — don’t act like you’re out-educating me because I’m educated, too, you whore.)

So anyway, dementia is a surprise to me, but thanks to the infection after infection that he’s contracted at those hellholes, it’s made the dementia advance. Thus, she says we should give up on him. I of course tossed in my two cents that maybe if they’d manage the goddamned pain they keep putting him in, maybe he would no longer be driven insane from it and PERHAPS he’d be normal again.

Let me say this. He doesn’t recognize me anymore. AT ALL. Dementia, as it were, is not an overnight-onset condition. It takes years before it’s even perceptible. It’s a gradual decline. How can he go from being my best buddy last week and this week he looked at me and called me two other names (caveat: when he wasn’t sobbing himself to the sleep that never comes)?

Let me also say this: I am not exactly the biggest fan of private hosptials, either. I can tell you stories about fighting for my own life and begging for them to not let me die. And when the assholes finally figured out I wasn’t lying to them, the cuntfaced surgeon came in to pat herself on the back for saving me just in time. GAWD.

In any event, in the meeting, we were all surprised by the dementia. The doc had first said it was caused by all the infections, but when I repeated her words back to her, she said, “I didn’t say that.”

Five people heard it, but OK, fine.

She backpedaled and said that it’s been there for awhile because it can’t just happen overnight, but that the infections aggravated it.

I’m feeling rather litigious right about now anyway; this gives me another reason to go visit my friendly neighborhood smart guy. Ah, Johnnie Cochran, we miss you. …

I asked about all his meds and he’s getting a pharmacy pumped into him, but what she wouldn’t talk about was dosages (yeah, 5 mg of pain meds? My backaches require about 300 times that, but OK. Whore.). She was reading his history to us on a computer and surprising my mother, who sits there ignored every day, just like him. He went eight hours without pain meds today and they think that’s normal? Christ.

Anyway, so later, the whore came into the hosptial room and snapped at my mother that she’d just seen in his records that he was diagnosed with the early stages of dementia in November 2004. Mom said she didn’t know that, and the whore said it was in the records that my mother knew it. Mom said something and the doctor kept saying, “You didn’t bring it up. You didn’t mention it. You said NOTHING in the meeting about it.”

That’s when I got mad enough to say, “It’s not a competition!” to the doctor. She’s got short-man syndrome — always has to prove she’s right, that she’s the one with all the power. I hate her. I said, “She’s not always allowed to be in the room when he’s examined — she doesn’t get all the information. You guys tell him things that he doesn’t repeat to her.”

Oh, was she PISSED.

Mom had a greater comeback — “Yeah? Around the same time, he got diagnosed with an enlarged prostate. When do you feel like getting around to treating that one, since you left the other neglected for two years?”

Heh.

The bitch stomped out.

Anyway, I’m horrified at the fact that he’s getting morphine twice a day and has to beg for painkillers every four hours on top of it when he can’t even speak. I can’t understand him and he knows we can’t understand him and he’s so frustrated that he’s becoming slightly combative. THAT’S NOT HIM. And holy shit is he strong, too. I had to wrestle him back into bed because he somehow polevaults himself out and he’s not allowed to get up.

Which brings me to brighter stories.

3. These yin-yangs keep saying he has no appetite, yet they give him appetite-increasing meds and then leave his tray four feet from his bed where he can’t reach it. The trays go back and they say, “He never eats.” Because he’s not fucking Houdini, geniuses.

Wobin, however, has raised hell and now he has a “sitter,” someone who hangs out in the room all day and makes sure he stays in bed and feeds him. Actually, the nurses are supposed to do the feeding but we had a great sitter who could work magic with him. He’ll eat if you tell him to. I fed him, too. I’m not good at it — he ends up wearing it when I’m at the helm, but those of you who have known me for way too long know I always used to say that “I always end up with more ON me than IN me.” Heh — holds true with food, too. 😉

So anyway, it was almost supper time and I said to him that it was almost time for dinner. So he turns to me, bright and clear, and says, “Great — where are we going?” And Mom said, “We’re staying here, Dad,” and he looked horrified and said, “Oh, no, we’re not going to eat here!”

LOL

I always tell him that he’s stronger than they are stupid. Which I think holds true for eternity but I’m afraid they’re the ones (not) pushing the drugs. *sigh*

4. More funnies — I think Grampy’s developing a lil’ jungle fever in his old age. When he’s a little more with it than usual, he’s flirting up a storm with the nurses. We love it. I’ve been wondering what he would say when I brought someone home who’s more apt to get a tan than me, but now I’m not so worried anymore. 😉

5. So Mom and I and her friend had breakfast at Eat ‘n Park this morning. (Go on, watch the Christmas commercial. We all need a good cry!) Per usual, the service was horrible and the food was delicious (perhaps only) because we were starving. Anyway, I was just saying how much I missed being around rednecks when some asshole walks past our table, clearly done with his meal, and belched so loud, the plants above my head rattled.

I was already pissed off from having to send my breakfast back twice and this did me in. I yelled, “PIG!” and he kept walking. I looked at Mom, who was at the end of the booth, and asked if he’d gotten anything on her. (That was a wet burp. Classless. Gah.)

6. Odd observation on the VA. Lots of doctors and nurses are from the countries these guys fought against. My grandfather doesn’t care — the man loves everybody and is grateful for everything (and nothing) — but a lot of his roommates are downright offended that they’re being treated by the Vietnamese or Chinese or Korean. It’s really weird to watch some of these guys react — like, that’s who they were told to kill. The flashbacks are readily apparent sometimes.

7. Mom says I talk in my sleep, talk in the shower, talk to my food, talk to my ass. I drive her crazy. She feels bad for my colleagues, who must want to shoot themselves when I’m around. She’s waiting for ME to be institutionalized!

8. My grandfather reminds me of the dad in “Hope Floats,” when “Birdee” goes to visit him in the home and he finally, finally recognizes her. Because when he does, he holds out his arms to her.

My grandfather did that for his sister — she was convinced he didn’t know she was there or who she was, but I understand his mumbling enough to know that he’d said her name 20 times. I told her to go closer to him because he suddenly can’t see or hear very well either (a side effect of the hospital, no doubt) and she said that she was there.

And in his thrashing pain, he stopped trembling, had the biggest smile and held out his arms to her. I don’t think I stopped crying for three hours after that.

9. From “Hope Floats” to “Steel Magnolias,” I get the end of the latter, when all the men step out of the room because they can’t take watching “Shelby” slip away. It’s hard. It’s terrible. I think the hospital system is fucked up and I think they’ve fucked him up irreparably, but I’m not ready for end-of-life discussions. I’m not — he deserves more than that. He deserves to be rescued from that dark, small place they’ve beaten him into.

He deserves to live be 100 and die of old age, not from others’ incompetence. (I’m looking square at the doctor — he’s got phenomenal nurses.)

Today I couldn’t go to the hospital. I’ve seen enough. I’ve seen too much. I couldn’t do that drive with all this so fresh in my mind. I don’t know how to save him. I just don’t. I feel like I can — that this is my chance to fix it. But how?

And will there be anything left of him by the time I figure it out?

I’ve been neglecting the House of Caterwauling for a long time. Now, I know I post almost daily and oftentimes twice-daily, but there are a million posts that sit unfinished and others that I killed off halfway into them. I start to talk about dates and outings with friends and rethink it and decide to keep those to myself because, well, a girl’s gotta have something to cherish. And besides, the dreams of cosmic Greyhound buses are better left offline. 😉

But before we get into just a sliver of the latest in my world, I present tunage. I’m so over Nelly Furtado — never liked her music and don’t find her sexy enough to pull off “Promiscuous,” but if I don’t have to look at her wooden facial expressions, I rather like the emotional well from which she draws. This is “I Am”:

[audio:NellyFurtado_IAm.mp3]

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Because we need a little bit of lightening up around here, who didn’t love the episode of “The Office” when Dwight went to Toby the H.R. guy — this after Toby encouraged the employees of Dunder Mifflin to come to him with any concerns — and asked where to find the clitoris?

I was having this discussion with someone and noted that I only wish more men would ask. I tell ya, some of these guys need a TripTik and a miner’s hat (with the spotlight) to even find the neighborhood, half the time. I guess it didn’t occur to Dwight that Toby probably needed a roadmap and a searchlight of his own in that territory. 😉

I had a weird day today. It was OK — pretty good, in fact. I had a ridiculously fun meeting this morning, although I get the impression it wasn’t supposed to be but it couldn’t be helped. I just wish I could share some of the more entertaining details of my job, but some days I don’t think y’all would believe me, anyway. 😉

I did two major things today that I wasn’t sure I had the balls left to do. Knowing I might drive folks crazy and test their patience and frustrate the shit out of them is one thing, but I will never lie to them. So I told a very big truth today to someone whose opinion and respect very much matter to me. And then I made a phone call that might or might not change my life.

Something is going to change for me, and I don’t know what but it’s in the air. I have a lot of thinking to do and decisions to make because it’s not like I ever take the easy road to anything. I also have a lot of research to do as well, not to mention soul-searching. I’m doing it, though, with a clear conscience, and I know that while the answers to questions I don’t even yet know to ask won’t come easily, they will come with clarity because of it.

I’ve had a lot of change happening in my life lately. And there’s this part of me that just wants things to calm down for a few minutes for me to catch my breath. But there’s this other part of me that is still in fighting form and doesn’t want to lose the momentum because it’s so freaking hard to get off my ass when I’ve been knocked on it or if I’ve just planted it somewhere for an undetermined amount of time.

I’m scared a lot these days, too. I know I’m not invincible. I’ve felt rock-bottom lows and don’t ever want to leave my heart lying in that ravine again. But I once heard a saying, something about making the uncomfortable, comfortable and the comfortable, uncomfortable.

There’s a lot of truth to that paradigm in everyday life. I think I am very afraid to be comfortable because something ALWAYS happens to rip that brief, shining moment of non-suckitude away when it graces my presence. So, if I’m constantly in flux or struggle, then things can’t possibly get worse — and that makes me feel OK.

It’s just on days like today that I actually feel some sense of victory that I wonder what the universe is going to do to smite me THIS time around. Great apartment, check. Family’s OK, check. Social life not completely abysmal, check. Job’s good, check. Blood pressure better than ever, check. So where’s that meteor with my name on it? Did it not get my change of address form? 😉 Does that mean it’ll be delayed two weeks instead of pummeling me tomorrow?

Good grief, how long has it been since I’ve posted? Days? The only times I’ve gotten so behind in chronicling my personal iniquities have been when I dropped the webhost from hell in favor of DreamHost and/or when I’ve gone on trips and was without Internet access.

Behold the rotted fruits of nearly a week without blogging. …

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Remember when I found a note on my car from a boy in my office building? Four months later, I finally heard back:

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I am glad the Olympics are over, as “Medium” is on tonight again. Yay!

However, I am bummed that it’s not an “American Idol” night. Because EVERY night should be an “Idol” one. I am just jonesing to see Chris Daughtry (who sang “Wanted Dead or Alive” last week. *drool*). Sure, maybe I was just hot for him because I am stuck in the ’80s hot for Jon Bon Jovi, but the boy’s a cutie. I mean, last week, I was throwing my underwear at the TV when he was on. Problem was, I was still in them! 😉

I haven’t gone more than a week without blogging since, well, 2001. So, please excuse the twitching as I try to overcome my withdrawal — I’ve blogged in my head all week and now that the site is functional again, I find myself with a lot to say and no idea where to begin.

I did, however, write in my paper journal and I have been adding to my NaNoWriMo novel. (I hit my 50,000 words on Nov. 30, and I am just a sentence or two shy of 60,000 as of today.) I can’t go TOO long without writing!

FOR ALL TWO OF YOU WHO NOTICED MY ABSENCE

I stopped blogging three times in my life. Once was in 2001, three months after I set up my first Diaryland blog (*sniffle* — memories!). I was trying to cope with something I really couldn’t talk much about, and I set up a private page. Then I sort of left it unupdated for awhile (I worked a stressful, all-consuming job. And my boss? At first we thought she was Satan’s Handmaiden. But then we realized that nope, this was in fact Satan — the daily hot pitchfork in the ass should’ve been a dead giveaway.)

What I didn’t know then is that blogs go dead if you don’t update them after awhile. Whoops. Diaryland was NOT helpful in my request to restore my heartbreaking entries. Which, while that was some of my best writing, it was the healing that it spurred that I needed to take with me.

Then there was that pesky incident in 2004 when I ripped the blog down after I realized it had been found by unfriendly eyes. After going into hiding, the “other parties present” trailed me again, so I gave up on that and started the MyName.com blog, which morphed into this one.

But seriously, THANK YOU for the e-mails. But no, the very vocal webhosting group did not give me the boot (although I did migrate elsewhere to a host that, while the tech support isn’t as superb, my new package doesn’t come with offensive name-calling in the comment box, unwanted e-mails or “interestingly worded” cease & desist letters).

Nor was the blog found at work (they already know about it and we spend so freaking much time together that they have no need to read it — it’s not like I have enough time to come up with new material that they haven’t heard already!).

Christ, it occurs to me that I move apartments as much as I move websites! (And yes, that’s happening in May, too. Gah.) But I can’t think that far ahead — I have enough disasters in progress.

ONE DISASTER AT A TIME, PLEASE

So I was driving to work at 6 a.m. the other day (I had this Big Project that I could seemingly only accomplish during off-hours — early/late at the office and latER at home) when my phone died.

Cingular and I haven’t been getting along. Moreover, it was the former AT&T Wireless that’s been getting my goat. I renewed my contract (AGAIN) in December (I’ve been with them for five years), at which time I bought phones and got a paltry rebate. I’d asked at the time of purchase if they could just apply the rebate as a credit to the account, but that was a production (as was everything else) and ultimately a no.

Two months went by — no bills, no nothing. My old account was suspended immediately and I couldn’t create a new account for weeks. When I finally could set up a new account online, I saw that my bill was $11. Whatever. I paid it.

Suddenly, I owe them a shitload of money. And they’ve called every fucking day and sent a letter every two days, wondering where I am. And where was my stupid rebate? It got here yesterday. So what did I do? Went online and paid the fucking bill WITH THE REBATE. LIKE I’D ASKED TO DO IN THE FIRST PLACE.

I still have to settle the former AT&T account, but at least my phone won’t be turned off now.

So, I was driving to work during that 6 a.m. morning when the phone died. I was listening to my MP3s on it, and the thing, although fully charged, petered out.

And as I drove along the Potomac River, I looked up at the sky and pretty much did a, “Look God, I get it. I understand all the trials. I will overcome them. But I am NOT as strong as you think I am. You’ve got to throw me a bone because I am CRUMBLING.”

It wasn’t just because of the phone. It was also because my best friend from Oregon had called me the night before to say her husband has a job interview and D.C. and that she would be accompanying him. But the kicker? That they were arriving the DAY I am going to New York and leaving TWO DAYS before I come back.

I seriously was going to call in dead. There was no way I could go to New York and miss seeing her. I’m already having a wee bit of a tough time (not a bad time, just a tough time) in every single life domain, and this? Was going to be the death of me.

IN WHICH THE HIGHER BEING DOES THROW A BONE

She left a VM for me that night, saying they will be in town two days earlier than expected. Whee! OMG, holy shit THANK YOU, UNIVERSE! And my always-cool boss allowed me to take some seriously short-notice personal days so that I can see her and not be a raving bitch for the New York trip. (I’ll only be my usual level of bitch, which is too exhausted to rave. LOL)

We’ve already got plans to do our “old usual” of manicures and much beer-drinking at Bennigan’s. She’s bringing the kids, too, so well, I hope they like beer. 😉

Seriously, how cute are these two?

Alex looks just like her dad, and Jordan is the spitting image of his mom. I haven’t seen Alex since October 2004, but we talk on the phone once a week. I’ve disowned other friends for making me talk to their kids on the phone, but Alex always asks for me and she loves to chatter. She blows kisses and, lately, has taken to putting the phone up to Jordan’s ear and telling him, “Talk Aunt Dawn!”

Alex called me at work yesterday (via her mom, of course). She wanted to say, “See you soon!” Which was promptly followed by an “I’m pooing, Aunt Dawn!” At which time I told my friend I might need to go to New York early after all. 😉

Anyway, life has SUCKED and continues to kick my ass, but that we only seem to have two six inches of snow and not the 14 we were warned to expect — and that my lifeline is coming back to town and maybe someday eventually for GOOD (which she will because her husband is a charmer and he will undoubtedly win over the interviewees when they meet him!) — life is definitely looking up.

That and I do love New York.

Well, maybe I will THIS trip. At this point, there’s no reason not to. 😉