Dec. 11th, 2017 11:35 am
Patton Oswalt warned me
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muckefuckSo, in what may be becoming a pattern, the more I anticipate unpleasant reactions, the less I seem to experience. Monshu's actual death was less traumatic than I'd always imagined it. I felt like I used up so much dealing with each shitty step on the way there that when he finally went out there wasn't really anything to do but watch him go. (I did call out to him but more out of a sense of...obligation? than real conviction.)
And so it was with the anniversary. November was bad emotionally, and got worse as it went alone, so I had reason to expect last weekend would be a real low point. Not so much. In a manner I felt was oddly appropriate, I got an awful cold on Wednesday. It may even have been a mild flu--by Friday morning I had aches and chills. (Too late I realised that I should have taken my temperature, just in case.) By Saturday morning, I was already recovering. In part due to the contrast, I ended up feeling much better than I expected to that day.
I was happy I was able to keep my lunch date with Diego. I didn't tell him when I made it that it was important for me to be with him since he was the last of my friends in Chicago to see the Old Man alive. In fact they had a nice chat that morning. (I'll never forget it, since I was so caught up dealing with details that I didn't even notice Diego crying as he came out of the library. He had to explain to me what saying goodbye to my husband had done to him.) He seemed to intuit as much, and we had a nice chat ourselves for nearly two hours in a phở restaurant on Argyle.
He told me to have a good cry at the GWO's "gravesite" on the lakeshore afterwards. I didn't. I don't ever cry when I'm out there. The expanse of water just has a way of dampening human grief to the point where expressing it seems unnecessary. We had high winds; the waves were as high as I've ever seen them there. After reciting the Heart Sutra, I took out my phone to take a snap and the distraction led to having my boots and trouser cuffs soaked.
After that I took refuge in a bakery on Bryn Mawr. It occurred to me that I hadn't thought to get flowers so I hopped on the Peterson bus and stopped off at Gethsemane. A sign advertising jasmine in Q-Ideas had put a certain idea in my head so I went right for the stephanotis and examined each plant until I felt I had the optimal mix of buds and blossoms. I called a Lyft to keep from subjecting it to subfreezing temps for too long.
Nuphy had checked in that morning (I was actually a bit miffed with him for spoiling my attempt to sleep in) so I called him back and rambled for a bit before heating up some leftovers. Shortly before the fateful time, I went to the library (which I keep closed up to keep the cat out) and lit the incense. I couldn't find the Chenrezig prayer I'd said over his corpse on the day of cremation so instead I just put on some chanting and waiting for the joss sticks to burn themselves out.
Sunday I thought I might return for a little more prayer and meditation but I got caught up in chores and nonsense. Plus I didn't really feel I needed it. And since I'm the kind of materialist who believes all prayers for the dead are really only of possible benefit to the living anyway, that settled it. I suppose I wasn't completely at peace or I would have been able to face the prospect of sending the e-mails I'd planned to various folk, such as his sister and a couple friends.
I guess the grief will come out some other way I can't foresee at this moment. I'm thinking of trying to tap it by playing a piece I haven't had the strength to put on again yet, like Pärt's O-Antiphons or Taverner's Protecting Veil, in the hopes of not being ambushed as I do something trivial. But maybe I should just live and deal with it organically when it comes.
And so it was with the anniversary. November was bad emotionally, and got worse as it went alone, so I had reason to expect last weekend would be a real low point. Not so much. In a manner I felt was oddly appropriate, I got an awful cold on Wednesday. It may even have been a mild flu--by Friday morning I had aches and chills. (Too late I realised that I should have taken my temperature, just in case.) By Saturday morning, I was already recovering. In part due to the contrast, I ended up feeling much better than I expected to that day.
I was happy I was able to keep my lunch date with Diego. I didn't tell him when I made it that it was important for me to be with him since he was the last of my friends in Chicago to see the Old Man alive. In fact they had a nice chat that morning. (I'll never forget it, since I was so caught up dealing with details that I didn't even notice Diego crying as he came out of the library. He had to explain to me what saying goodbye to my husband had done to him.) He seemed to intuit as much, and we had a nice chat ourselves for nearly two hours in a phở restaurant on Argyle.
He told me to have a good cry at the GWO's "gravesite" on the lakeshore afterwards. I didn't. I don't ever cry when I'm out there. The expanse of water just has a way of dampening human grief to the point where expressing it seems unnecessary. We had high winds; the waves were as high as I've ever seen them there. After reciting the Heart Sutra, I took out my phone to take a snap and the distraction led to having my boots and trouser cuffs soaked.
After that I took refuge in a bakery on Bryn Mawr. It occurred to me that I hadn't thought to get flowers so I hopped on the Peterson bus and stopped off at Gethsemane. A sign advertising jasmine in Q-Ideas had put a certain idea in my head so I went right for the stephanotis and examined each plant until I felt I had the optimal mix of buds and blossoms. I called a Lyft to keep from subjecting it to subfreezing temps for too long.
Nuphy had checked in that morning (I was actually a bit miffed with him for spoiling my attempt to sleep in) so I called him back and rambled for a bit before heating up some leftovers. Shortly before the fateful time, I went to the library (which I keep closed up to keep the cat out) and lit the incense. I couldn't find the Chenrezig prayer I'd said over his corpse on the day of cremation so instead I just put on some chanting and waiting for the joss sticks to burn themselves out.
Sunday I thought I might return for a little more prayer and meditation but I got caught up in chores and nonsense. Plus I didn't really feel I needed it. And since I'm the kind of materialist who believes all prayers for the dead are really only of possible benefit to the living anyway, that settled it. I suppose I wasn't completely at peace or I would have been able to face the prospect of sending the e-mails I'd planned to various folk, such as his sister and a couple friends.
I guess the grief will come out some other way I can't foresee at this moment. I'm thinking of trying to tap it by playing a piece I haven't had the strength to put on again yet, like Pärt's O-Antiphons or Taverner's Protecting Veil, in the hopes of not being ambushed as I do something trivial. But maybe I should just live and deal with it organically when it comes.
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