Tuesday, December 22, 2009

In it together

I started a post earlier about the holidays and my family and blah blah blah. I start a lot of posts for this blog and obviously I never post them. Because I feel like this is my deepdown spot. The place I can air my darkness. The place I can't expose in real life colors but can in black and white blog letters.

There's this guy, Paul, my friends befriended a bit. Not really. More just took pity in and were nice to. He had huge alcohol problems. He was supposedly sober these days. But the drinking had clearly lost him some years and some function and some friends and some family. And by some, I mean most, if not, all. So he's this strange drunk guy with no friends and no family and no social skills but my friends are really nice people. And its a small town too.

They'd invite him if there was a BBQ or some other event with lots of people. He was so starved for love and social interaction. He always came and offered every bit of himself. At a birthday party that was thrown out in the woods, he drove a van all night to get people safely to and from the party (since he doesn't drink anymore.) It was heartbreakingly sweet and awkward all at once if you really want to know.

These friends are like that though. They're just incredibly charismatic and bring people together. They can make even the most bizarre person enjoyable to be around.

So anyway, they moved away yesterday. Packed up the kids and the car and moved to California to get new jobs and new friends and new places and things. I should be happy for them. But I'm too busy being sad about me. Me and Paul.

I'm not normally sad when people move away. It sounds shitty but I'm sociable and make friends easily. I've moved a lot and am used to people coming and going in my life. But these folks are different. I didn't realize it until now. Now I've actually dreamt about them moving. And I'm wondering how much of my happiness is tied to them being the center of a group of friends. A group that will likely spin out and members will drop off and drift and I might be left with only Paul.

Except today I got this call at work. It was about a chronic alcoholic who had been missing from his regular medical appointments for about a month. There was no phone number to call and check up on and this was a sick man. A man sick enough that he had regularly scheduled appointments. Turns out he's dying. He's dying and refusing intervention. Not for the alcohol. For the medical stuff.

I was busy dealing wtih another crisis and couldn't go visit him. But I was worried. I mean, the caller said this man was having trouble making it to the bathroom in time. No friends. No family.

So I sent the police to do a welfare check.

Paul was found dead. I don't even know how long he was there. I don't know his family or a single solitary soul to call and even notify them.

Maybe its better this way. Maybe he died before realizing the only people who invited him anywhere had left. He got what he wanted. He didn't want medical intervention. He was dying. His senses failing him. He didn't care that his house stank or that his sink was filthy. He didn't want to go to the ER and prolong the inevitable. He wanted to finish out his life at home.

And while he was finishing out his life. My husband and I are trying desperately to start a new one.

We finally talked this evening. See, we had a screaming (me) fight. His ennui finally got to me. He made one too many committment to me that got broken. And some other stuff. None of which is all that interesting. Point being, we fought.

Then we had company. So there was no resolving a thing. He played pretend and I didn't. I glared and didn't care. I stayed mad as long as I wanted.

And then tonight we talked. He said he thinks I've been different ever since the miscarriage. Which is probably true. He said I'm more apt to react strongly, be it crying or screaming or laughing. He said I'm not as nice. He's probably right.

He also said he avoids me and our relationship. Avoids the stress of trying. Trying to be happy. Trying to make a baby. Trying not to think about the one we'd have right now. Trying to do anything outside of work. Avoids it all.

And only works.

And I'll admit it. I'm angry about the miscarriage. Not really the miscarriage so much as how I don't know how to fix up my life. I couldn't theme it for you or give it curtains to decorate it. My life right now is a blank wall that just had the wallpaper ripped off. I haven't even cleaned the glue off yet. And I'm not sure what to plan for putting up there.

Usually I just flow with it. Get an idea, toss it out there, live that idea until I'm ready to pick something different and then go with it.

But this is a BIG plan. And I can't wrap my mind around it. I can't be happy about having a baby we might never conceive and then if we do conceive it we migth lose again. And I can't be happy about not having kids because I want to have kids.

And I can't just casually try. I write down a small P on the day I start my period every month. So I know when I ovulate and when I should start a period again or not. I don't drink after about the 10th or 12th day of each month or take ibuprofen or valium or eat lunch meat. I work on the same floor as an OB clinic where preggos come and go every day. I'm covering the maternity leave of a coworker right now. The other half of our duplex is occupied by a couple that had a baby I can hear crying who was born FIVE DAYS BEFORE MY DUE DATE!

I can't get away from it.

But he can. Or could.

Now its out there. We've talked about it. It circles the air around us and brings our mouths in toward one another again. We're in it together again.

And maybe that's all it takes. Being in it together.

Maybe if Paul had had friends invite him to a picnic or dinner sooner he would've felt like he was in it with other people. The alone would have felt more crowded. Maybe he'd have started the fight sooner. Maybe he'd have saved himself. Maybe if he'd have had someone to be in it with together, he wouldn't have been found dead in an apartment, alone, with feces in the sink. Maybe he'd have had his own BBQs and invited his own friends and family. Maybe he'd have been happy and healthy. Maybe he'd have been the one moving away, with a family and a future for someone else to be sad and happy for at the same time.

1 comment:

  1. small town indeed. I'm so sorry, but I like what you said about him getting what he wanted.

    And the rest of the stuff... yeah, you won't ever be the same again. if you could push it out of your mind and forget all about it you would be a terrible mother.

    you are, by the way, now and forever a mother. i believe that. no matter how old your baby is when it (he? she?) passes, she will always be yours and you will always be hers.