Feb. 13th, 2019 12:44 pm
I'm shooting Cupid
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muckefuckSomething possessed me to read a LJ entry from four years ago and I saw that I mistakenly refer to Monshu as "Nuphy" in it, which gives one an idea just how stressed and exhausted I was back then. Given what an awful year 2016 was, it's easy to forget just how bad February 2015 was. Certain details, like the fact that they finally discharged him the day before Valentine's, had slipped my mind completely.
It's a contest between that day, which started with me going back to the hospital to replace the prescription which the nurse practitioner had fucked up with one we could actually get filled and ended with me apologising to a delivery guy for dragging him completely across town to check on a pump I thought was defective, and Valentine's of 1999, when Monshu dumped me for the second time and I had to go out for a romantic dinner with Nuphy and pretend that nothing had happened, for Worst Valentine's Day ever.
In many ways, they couldn't be more different. The earlier one was when I thought I'd lost the love of my life forever, and it was all the more wrenching given that I'd lost him once already and been given a second chance. His gift to me was a John Taverner CD that I've never felt up to listening to again and a box of chocolates that I kept in a closet for another nine years and only threw out after we'd moved in together. I gave him a mix tape that I didn't look at again until after he died and I wanted to find songs that would make me cry.
The latter one, the love of my life was there, having come through a major operation to debulk his cancerous tumours, and I'd just been fighting for a week to get him released from the hospital. Almost every aspect of the discharge had been mishandled; besides the invalid script, we'd been given the wrong equipment and I'd spent the better part of the day fighting with providers to get this fixed, finally exploding at an operator for referring to my husband with the wrong pronoun.
But as terrible as each of them were, I guess they're still both preferable to a Valentine's Day with no Monshu in it at all, which is the only kind I'll ever have from now on. We never cared much for the holiday anyway--Monshu wasn't into it and I wasn't much either after the absolute fiasco of '99. But I still remember romantic dinners at Massouleh and special surprises we'd prepared for each other. Now it leaves me completely indifferent. I avoid going out not so much to avoid seeing googoo-eyed couples as just to avoid the crowds. This year looks like a good night for a haircut.
It's a contest between that day, which started with me going back to the hospital to replace the prescription which the nurse practitioner had fucked up with one we could actually get filled and ended with me apologising to a delivery guy for dragging him completely across town to check on a pump I thought was defective, and Valentine's of 1999, when Monshu dumped me for the second time and I had to go out for a romantic dinner with Nuphy and pretend that nothing had happened, for Worst Valentine's Day ever.
In many ways, they couldn't be more different. The earlier one was when I thought I'd lost the love of my life forever, and it was all the more wrenching given that I'd lost him once already and been given a second chance. His gift to me was a John Taverner CD that I've never felt up to listening to again and a box of chocolates that I kept in a closet for another nine years and only threw out after we'd moved in together. I gave him a mix tape that I didn't look at again until after he died and I wanted to find songs that would make me cry.
The latter one, the love of my life was there, having come through a major operation to debulk his cancerous tumours, and I'd just been fighting for a week to get him released from the hospital. Almost every aspect of the discharge had been mishandled; besides the invalid script, we'd been given the wrong equipment and I'd spent the better part of the day fighting with providers to get this fixed, finally exploding at an operator for referring to my husband with the wrong pronoun.
But as terrible as each of them were, I guess they're still both preferable to a Valentine's Day with no Monshu in it at all, which is the only kind I'll ever have from now on. We never cared much for the holiday anyway--Monshu wasn't into it and I wasn't much either after the absolute fiasco of '99. But I still remember romantic dinners at Massouleh and special surprises we'd prepared for each other. Now it leaves me completely indifferent. I avoid going out not so much to avoid seeing googoo-eyed couples as just to avoid the crowds. This year looks like a good night for a haircut.
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