Insomnia: 10, Goddess: 0
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!