Missed Part 1?
Baby hates doctors for reasons of her own I can hardly compete with, not even by throwing in the odd lawyers, cops, politicians etc. However, still isn't exactly that I like doctors either, wrong number, no way.
Just supposing I might get into physical violence against others some day, the first person I'd like to seriously hurt physically (like breaking his nose at least) still is this one particu-liar!-ly fine doctor, teaching me never going to a hospital alone again by carving it into my body: guinea pig readily strapped on table, doctor harvesting my lungs for samples, going on and on and on, knocking me out intravenously the very moment I started complaining ...
At which point in my life I hadn't even met the other nice fella from airport prison yet. Not to mention another old or new friend here or there. No, I don't like doctors.
But why I personally really hate them all as a caste stems probly from eventually learning how my grandfather had died. Read it and weep, cause no matter how dead I'm inside these other days, this one always makes me cry.
His body and stature had always been pretty similar to mine, though I'd grown a bit taller in the end, and I reckon he also shared this particular experience, that what worked perfectly fine on thousands and thousands of other patients, almost always would f**k up terribly wrong on this one particular body. All of his life, with regards to health related issues, he (like my father almost till today) strictly observed one rule and one rule only: Never ever go seeing no doctor at all never ever. Not as long as you can walk or crawl in the opposite direction. Never unless some one else rolls you in unconscious or else unable to resist. Never. Literally. Ever.
So, after my grandfather's second stroke, rolled him in once more. Eventually still makes it. But then, apparently there's something's wrong with his feet ... turning black ... cut up a toe, blood all curdled inside ...
Tough decision: If they'd not amputate both feet quickly, he'll die for sure. However, weak as he was after the stroke, if they cut off his feet now, he'd most definitely die on the spot.
So they let him die slowly with his feet on. Obviously as per usual without even hooking him up on morphines properly, them bloody f***ing b*stards.
Looking backwards, still can't get over how having been such a hopeless letdown that I didn't go to see him in the hospital just because I was told not to. It's such a lie, pretending preventing me from doing so'd prevent any harm to anyone, in contrary. Just the same old 'grown-up' fuss of shying away from death, making it just all the worse, and plenty of it, praise be.
My grandfather was probly the hardest man I ever knew. Thogh 'hard' mostly not in the sense of being so to others, but in terms of being able to go on relentlessly despite any pain. Would hardly notice it in the corners of his mouth, but then onwards, always onwards. Like the song in school, about the heart that always has to run like the river, day and night, but in death may rest, eventually. Things that would have others cringe and/or going up the walls, he wouldn't even mention, let alone complain about.
And there he was, lying in this hospital bed. Dying slowly, day after day, night after night. Praying to die faster, screaming out loud from this room to the lord, to hurry on, to take away his left leg, then the right one, then hands, arms, and all of the rest, please, please, now! Hours and hours, day and night, night and day.
Which is why I eventually still learned about it in the end , cause everybody in this part of the hospital couldn't help but to bear witness, including somebody I got to know much closer couple of years later down the road.
Still, how sad and hard it ever might've been to learn about this firsthand, it's better to know. And it's a bloody lie that he'd suffered more if I'd been allowed to see him or just had gone doing so anyway.
He always was fond of me like probly nobody else except a grandfather carefully making up for the mistakes when his own son was of the same age. Seeing me would've meant less pain, not more. For both of us.
Truth hurts, sometimes plenty, yes, but seldom as much as lies. While on the other hand, lies hurt always more.
Silently I wore my pain from not having seen him again for years to come, muffled inside this nameless dark grown-up cloud of don't mention it, not to the young ones, it's better they don't know at all, for their own sake. F**k you!
About his pain, reckon I only started actually realising what must've happened to him when the thing on my head went wrong and my skin started dying off on me. Which was one of the most painful experiences ever and a pretty nasty one for that too, cause it hurts so f***ing much and it takes so f***ing loooong til the dying parts finally turn dead and are done with. And that bit on my head was just skin and for that only the size of about one single toe, as compared to his two whole feet.
It's so unfair. Yes, my grandfather was a stubborn man, sometimes even irate, but whatever he demanded, he also backed it up on his part, and always more than just that, dying breed an all. No, it's so not fair.
How could I ever forgive God? Perhaps because he would want me to. My grandfather, that is.
Bloody f***ing b*stards, too. Could've turned off his pain no sweat. But no, obviously didn't care to. Just tight on the morphine, now that'd come as a surprise, wunnit? What worked for thousands and so on. Doctors. Yes, there's hardly a fouler word, and in case I didn't mention, no, don't like them b*stards either, no way.
However, at the end of the day, what really bugs me is something else.
Like, how to forgive myself?
I'm quite sure, he'd tried to pretend the pain wasn't there if he'd seen me, and I'd played along with it mostly, but I would've taken his hand and he would've known. That I wasn't there, I'll take it to my grave, and as long's there's a single tear left inside this body, just the thought of it will probly always make me cry.
Showing posts with label Tears are a Gift from Heaven. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tears are a Gift from Heaven. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Mit Dir bin ich auch allein
Funny, how entering a new relationship tends bringing back memories of old ones. And how songs and especially lyrics can trigger memories, too.
Recently been listening to a lot of Rammstein, actually just got all their studio albums 2nd hand only yesterday. And while being into them mostly for the 'kick-ass factor' and the assorted sheer kinkiness, thus deploring how almost every record gets a wee bit to way wimpier than the one before, have to admit there's this uberwimpy song called 'Ohne Dich' (Without You) that touched me more than any other during the last few months.
While all Rammstein songs have this certain ambiguity (which they so shamelessly lifted from the truly underrated Slowenian band Laibach, amongst plenty other things), applying this technique so intelligently to a seemingly simple heartbreak-lovesong still is something else.
Especially four lines of the chorus really hit it home for me:
Ohne Dich kann ich nicht sein
Mit Dir bin ich auch allein
Ohne Dich zähl ich die Stunden, ohne Dich
Mit Dir stehen die Sekunden, lohnen nicht
(Without you I cannot be
With you I am alone too
Without you I count the hours, without you
With you the seconds stand still, aren't worth it)
Damn, that's a good part of my last relationship summed up in just a few brilliant words. (Which reminds me, some other parts on the downside having been lies, lies, lies, plus cheap 'n' weak excuses, but that's another story.)
While I'm usually listening to whole albums looped (ok, skipping some songs), have to admit 'Ohne Dich' is the one exception lately of me listening to the same song allover again for a while.
But yesterday was a crazy day anyway. Had this presentation to do early at the uni, and yup, as usually leaving everything just for the very last second, enjoying the adrenaline rush to the max. Only that while I was just about getting started preparing everything the evening before, my mate and some other folks more or less gently reminded me we'd also have to do the overdue press kit for our upcoming book presentation in Murnau Sat next week. And while I kinda had hoped I would be more or less spared of that, absolutely no way, not with this deadline. Just had to drop the preparation and cough up some of the other stuff beforehand, so that my mate could get the mailings out.
Took me till 3 am that I finally could get started preparing the handout, which I eventually finished about 6. Still hadn't read all of the stuff I was supposed to, but what the f**k, just would have to cheat myself along the essential parts. At least would be able catching up almost 3 hours of sleep before rushing out, in order to not looking too wasted. If not the shitty air lately had roughed up my nose, that is, feeling even more uncomfy as soon as I laid down. But who needs sleep anyway.
Not to mention emotional stability. Was in the tram uphill to the uni when the mentioned above lines really hit home. Tears running down my cheeks, sunglasses fogging up, the whole shebang. 15 plus minutes to go till my presentation.
However, was the first time in a while I was able crying not just for others, but really for myself, which made me just happy. Though while washing my head in the toilet before hurrying upstairs to the classroom, was a bit worried still might be just a little too obvious. But you know what? Everything went down just really cool, and nobody noticed either.
And though I was really knackered, especially after the 2nd course in the afternoon, don't get me started on what I was up to later in the evening plus half of the night ...
(To be continued ...)
Recently been listening to a lot of Rammstein, actually just got all their studio albums 2nd hand only yesterday. And while being into them mostly for the 'kick-ass factor' and the assorted sheer kinkiness, thus deploring how almost every record gets a wee bit to way wimpier than the one before, have to admit there's this uberwimpy song called 'Ohne Dich' (Without You) that touched me more than any other during the last few months.
While all Rammstein songs have this certain ambiguity (which they so shamelessly lifted from the truly underrated Slowenian band Laibach, amongst plenty other things), applying this technique so intelligently to a seemingly simple heartbreak-lovesong still is something else.
Especially four lines of the chorus really hit it home for me:
Ohne Dich kann ich nicht sein
Mit Dir bin ich auch allein
Ohne Dich zähl ich die Stunden, ohne Dich
Mit Dir stehen die Sekunden, lohnen nicht
(Without you I cannot be
With you I am alone too
Without you I count the hours, without you
With you the seconds stand still, aren't worth it)
Damn, that's a good part of my last relationship summed up in just a few brilliant words. (Which reminds me, some other parts on the downside having been lies, lies, lies, plus cheap 'n' weak excuses, but that's another story.)
While I'm usually listening to whole albums looped (ok, skipping some songs), have to admit 'Ohne Dich' is the one exception lately of me listening to the same song allover again for a while.
But yesterday was a crazy day anyway. Had this presentation to do early at the uni, and yup, as usually leaving everything just for the very last second, enjoying the adrenaline rush to the max. Only that while I was just about getting started preparing everything the evening before, my mate and some other folks more or less gently reminded me we'd also have to do the overdue press kit for our upcoming book presentation in Murnau Sat next week. And while I kinda had hoped I would be more or less spared of that, absolutely no way, not with this deadline. Just had to drop the preparation and cough up some of the other stuff beforehand, so that my mate could get the mailings out.
Took me till 3 am that I finally could get started preparing the handout, which I eventually finished about 6. Still hadn't read all of the stuff I was supposed to, but what the f**k, just would have to cheat myself along the essential parts. At least would be able catching up almost 3 hours of sleep before rushing out, in order to not looking too wasted. If not the shitty air lately had roughed up my nose, that is, feeling even more uncomfy as soon as I laid down. But who needs sleep anyway.
Not to mention emotional stability. Was in the tram uphill to the uni when the mentioned above lines really hit home. Tears running down my cheeks, sunglasses fogging up, the whole shebang. 15 plus minutes to go till my presentation.
However, was the first time in a while I was able crying not just for others, but really for myself, which made me just happy. Though while washing my head in the toilet before hurrying upstairs to the classroom, was a bit worried still might be just a little too obvious. But you know what? Everything went down just really cool, and nobody noticed either.
And though I was really knackered, especially after the 2nd course in the afternoon, don't get me started on what I was up to later in the evening plus half of the night ...
(To be continued ...)
Thursday, April 12, 2007
How could I ever forgive God? Pt. 1 (Tears are a gift from heaven Pt. 6)
The really hard death in my family was my grandfather's. Actually I wasn't supposed to even know about how hard exactly. Parents had told me not to visit him in hospital. Should've known better, but the truth is I'd been stupid, stupid, stupid and f**ked up enough to oblige. Same old, same old, same effin old. Though perhaps this is the one I regret the most.
It was early summer when he eventually died. And though that's another story, just a few more months to go till I lost my faith and unlearned crying for plenty summers to come.
Despite my parents still being very reluctant, at least went to see him in the local cemetery before he got cremated. The mortuary was such a nightmare by itself. Not like other places keeping the dead in coffins in a room so you could sit beside them or so, oh no.
The whole thing being more like a kind of a corridor in the cellar of the building, equipped with a row of little oval green porthole type of windows in one of the walls, directed downwards if I remember correctly. And there they were, behind behind those peek holes, obviously into a cold room. All you could was having a last distant look through the green window. Cold, fading light on cold faces.
What a place to bid farewell. So ugly and heartless, shut off and deader than dead already. Just like especially designed to pale my childhood fears of such places. Kinda even worse than the visiting room at airport prison, where you're only allowed seeing people through an armoured glass, at least there it's a huge transparent window (smeared with heartbreaking marks of lips and tiny little hands and fingers on the outside).
All I could see was his face kinda upside down, looking strange through this thick green glass. But even so it was plain to see it must've been really hard and very painful. Like he didn't smile at all. Still clenching his teeth, lips thin and tense.
Only found out about the details almost 10 years later, cause my then girlfriend by chance happened to be in the same hospital getting surgery when he'd died. Only after she told me what she witnessed there, I went back to my grandmother and parents, nagging them for the real story.
Some people have said I'm one in a million, but usually myself I'm not so sure about that. Cause he no doubt was, farmer's boy to CEO and all, and though I have some ideas where not only my bad temper and trademark stubborness but also my sense of integrity stem from, actually m'afraid I'm no match at all.
And while everybody admired and envied him for the more glorious and glamourous aspects of his life, personally I know pretty no one who'd been able standing in his shoes only for a year or two, let alone some decades.
Cause, though he could look so gentle and peaceful, especially with us grandchildren around, it's still from his face that I learned recognising this typical look of people who already were and / or still are going trough a terrible lot of also physical pain only by sheer willpower, and he went really far in about every sense of the word no doubt. And that was only the good times yet.
Cause God had saved His worst for the end ...
Part 2
Tears continued ...
It was early summer when he eventually died. And though that's another story, just a few more months to go till I lost my faith and unlearned crying for plenty summers to come.
Despite my parents still being very reluctant, at least went to see him in the local cemetery before he got cremated. The mortuary was such a nightmare by itself. Not like other places keeping the dead in coffins in a room so you could sit beside them or so, oh no.
The whole thing being more like a kind of a corridor in the cellar of the building, equipped with a row of little oval green porthole type of windows in one of the walls, directed downwards if I remember correctly. And there they were, behind behind those peek holes, obviously into a cold room. All you could was having a last distant look through the green window. Cold, fading light on cold faces.
What a place to bid farewell. So ugly and heartless, shut off and deader than dead already. Just like especially designed to pale my childhood fears of such places. Kinda even worse than the visiting room at airport prison, where you're only allowed seeing people through an armoured glass, at least there it's a huge transparent window (smeared with heartbreaking marks of lips and tiny little hands and fingers on the outside).
All I could see was his face kinda upside down, looking strange through this thick green glass. But even so it was plain to see it must've been really hard and very painful. Like he didn't smile at all. Still clenching his teeth, lips thin and tense.
Only found out about the details almost 10 years later, cause my then girlfriend by chance happened to be in the same hospital getting surgery when he'd died. Only after she told me what she witnessed there, I went back to my grandmother and parents, nagging them for the real story.
Some people have said I'm one in a million, but usually myself I'm not so sure about that. Cause he no doubt was, farmer's boy to CEO and all, and though I have some ideas where not only my bad temper and trademark stubborness but also my sense of integrity stem from, actually m'afraid I'm no match at all.
And while everybody admired and envied him for the more glorious and glamourous aspects of his life, personally I know pretty no one who'd been able standing in his shoes only for a year or two, let alone some decades.
Cause, though he could look so gentle and peaceful, especially with us grandchildren around, it's still from his face that I learned recognising this typical look of people who already were and / or still are going trough a terrible lot of also physical pain only by sheer willpower, and he went really far in about every sense of the word no doubt. And that was only the good times yet.
Cause God had saved His worst for the end ...
Part 2
Tears continued ...
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Sorry I didn't make it (Tears are a gift from heaven Pt. 5)
The only good death I remember was my grandmother's about 5 years ago.
She'd reached the grand old age of 95 when she died, so there's not too much complaining about eventually giving in, at least not in my book. However, still feel she could've gone past 100 no sweat if she only had wanted to. On the other hand, I can understand why not.
She'd always been very reluctant about having to move into this home for the elderly. Her own parents had died in her and grandfathers house, where they had a little appt, both also over 90. Frankly think it wouldn't have harmed if my parents could've waited some more before selling their house and taking over grandma's appt, but that's the way it just happened anyway.
I mean the home where she was living after wasn't actually a bad one, no way, but still could feel for her. Especially after my time in airport prison, I remember stepping out of the elevator, going down the corridor with all the doors and suddenly looking at it quite differently than ever before.
During her last years one could clearly see how the joy of life left her, and she also used to regularly mention she'd pray and hope she wouldn't have to reach 100. She was never bitter, but every time I'd visit her and hug her some, she'd cry a bit. Since my grandfather'd died 20 years earlier and all of her old friends going one by one as well, guess she felt pretty lonely.
The day she died, my parents called early in the evening, but I was just bloody stupid as not to hit the train immediately, cause I had to go to work at 11pm, and when I rushed as soon as I could the next day, she was already gone.
She looked a bit strange, cause they had fixed her a bandage vertically around her head to prevent her jaw from dropping down, but she still didn't look like she'd suffered or put up a fight. Her skin was already cold and a bit pale, and at the root of her fingernails you could see blood starting to coagulate below.
I remember holding her hand before leaving, people already waiting outside the door to wheel her away to the morgue, thinking 'Sorry I didn't make it in time', and I felt like I would have to cry, but I couldn't. Same old, same old.
Almost every time I'm on a plane n above the clouds, seeing the horizon far, far away and the big, big blue arching over it, becoming darker and darker, I see her and grandfather rising miles high through the clouds and into the sky, thinking 'Sorry I didn't make it', and then I cry rivers and don't give a flying f**k what any of the other passengers might think.
(continued ...)
She'd reached the grand old age of 95 when she died, so there's not too much complaining about eventually giving in, at least not in my book. However, still feel she could've gone past 100 no sweat if she only had wanted to. On the other hand, I can understand why not.
She'd always been very reluctant about having to move into this home for the elderly. Her own parents had died in her and grandfathers house, where they had a little appt, both also over 90. Frankly think it wouldn't have harmed if my parents could've waited some more before selling their house and taking over grandma's appt, but that's the way it just happened anyway.
I mean the home where she was living after wasn't actually a bad one, no way, but still could feel for her. Especially after my time in airport prison, I remember stepping out of the elevator, going down the corridor with all the doors and suddenly looking at it quite differently than ever before.
During her last years one could clearly see how the joy of life left her, and she also used to regularly mention she'd pray and hope she wouldn't have to reach 100. She was never bitter, but every time I'd visit her and hug her some, she'd cry a bit. Since my grandfather'd died 20 years earlier and all of her old friends going one by one as well, guess she felt pretty lonely.
The day she died, my parents called early in the evening, but I was just bloody stupid as not to hit the train immediately, cause I had to go to work at 11pm, and when I rushed as soon as I could the next day, she was already gone.
She looked a bit strange, cause they had fixed her a bandage vertically around her head to prevent her jaw from dropping down, but she still didn't look like she'd suffered or put up a fight. Her skin was already cold and a bit pale, and at the root of her fingernails you could see blood starting to coagulate below.
I remember holding her hand before leaving, people already waiting outside the door to wheel her away to the morgue, thinking 'Sorry I didn't make it in time', and I felt like I would have to cry, but I couldn't. Same old, same old.
Almost every time I'm on a plane n above the clouds, seeing the horizon far, far away and the big, big blue arching over it, becoming darker and darker, I see her and grandfather rising miles high through the clouds and into the sky, thinking 'Sorry I didn't make it', and then I cry rivers and don't give a flying f**k what any of the other passengers might think.
(continued ...)
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Numb as can be (Tears Pt. 4)
Last May, one Thursday morning, before catching the bus for the show in Brighton, was at this UFFC press conference in St. Peter's church near Piccadilly regarding their ongoing fight to get justice for their loved ones killed by the cops.
As usual shame on how little people showed up. Which was why I went in the first place. Besides picking up loads of the leaflets they were launching, that is.
Been a while since I'd been in a church. Mostly funerals actually. Grandfather, Grandmother, my sister's stillborn, relatives of family friends. (Plus one baptism, for a change).
Only at my godmother's funeral I wasn't there, but en route to Bath screening our infamous film at a festival, actually on the train in from Luton whith a local friend when my mother called on my mate's mobile saying she'd died. (First time I'd set a foot on an airplane after more than 20 years. That much it had made me feel guilty ...)
Though in St. Peter's was the bereaved telling about missing their loved ones suddenly making my sight blur.
Actually at some point had to tell myself like, bottle it now, you can cry as much as you want on the bus, but don't make no racket here, ok? Which was about what I did. Plus starting to write this:
When my godmother died 3 years ago, took me more than 1 1/2 years to realise I'd never really mourned for her. Even worse, that I hadn't cried at all for much, much longer. Numb inside. Numb as can be.
I remember, I'd been visiting her and her husband just before leaving for the UK. Her already being in a real bad shape. Cancer in the liver, just returned home after what was supposed to be the first round of chemotherapy.
And as usual the suckers at the hospital obviously too f**king tight on the morphine. So she was in terrible pain, unable to digest anything any more. Just puked it all out again shortly after swallowing it. Screaming the pain away.
Of course, her husband didn't want me go to her. So I only saw her through the open bedroom door when I left. Sitting on her bed, holding a plastic bucket in her lap, probably trying hard not to puke wile I could see her.
So I just waved her good bye on my way to the appartment door. Last time I ever saw her.
As long as I'll live I'll curse myself for not going over to her. That I didn't shook her hand or put my hand on her shoulder.
Same old story again again ...
(continued ...)
As usual shame on how little people showed up. Which was why I went in the first place. Besides picking up loads of the leaflets they were launching, that is.
Been a while since I'd been in a church. Mostly funerals actually. Grandfather, Grandmother, my sister's stillborn, relatives of family friends. (Plus one baptism, for a change).
Only at my godmother's funeral I wasn't there, but en route to Bath screening our infamous film at a festival, actually on the train in from Luton whith a local friend when my mother called on my mate's mobile saying she'd died. (First time I'd set a foot on an airplane after more than 20 years. That much it had made me feel guilty ...)
Though in St. Peter's was the bereaved telling about missing their loved ones suddenly making my sight blur.
Actually at some point had to tell myself like, bottle it now, you can cry as much as you want on the bus, but don't make no racket here, ok? Which was about what I did. Plus starting to write this:
When my godmother died 3 years ago, took me more than 1 1/2 years to realise I'd never really mourned for her. Even worse, that I hadn't cried at all for much, much longer. Numb inside. Numb as can be.
I remember, I'd been visiting her and her husband just before leaving for the UK. Her already being in a real bad shape. Cancer in the liver, just returned home after what was supposed to be the first round of chemotherapy.
And as usual the suckers at the hospital obviously too f**king tight on the morphine. So she was in terrible pain, unable to digest anything any more. Just puked it all out again shortly after swallowing it. Screaming the pain away.
Of course, her husband didn't want me go to her. So I only saw her through the open bedroom door when I left. Sitting on her bed, holding a plastic bucket in her lap, probably trying hard not to puke wile I could see her.
So I just waved her good bye on my way to the appartment door. Last time I ever saw her.
As long as I'll live I'll curse myself for not going over to her. That I didn't shook her hand or put my hand on her shoulder.
Same old story again again ...
(continued ...)
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Cold B*stard a.k.a. Not even for others (Tears Pt. 3)
First time I encountered death was when my youngest sister died. At least at home in bed in sleep and without pain. I was about 6, and for the life of me today have no idea where from I might've gotten that then, but already was well aware in this world none of the above could be taken for granted at all.
She'd been one year old. Most of her life out of one hospital into the next one. Though before it happened ironically had looked better and nobody'd thought her finally returning home just to die.
Right, wasn't exactly fair not getting older than one, but as I felt still beat going on and on like she'd had to all the time. At least now she could rest in peace. No more hospitals. No more trouble. No more pain.
I remember cradling her lifeless little body in my arms at the treshold of the little ones' room, feeling vaguely guilty for not feeling like crying at all.
But realising, with all the fuss the grown-ups usually kicking up about dying (despite sooner or later everybody would anyway), this very moment probly been the last time in my life I'd be allowed embracing a dead person to say my farewells.
Thinking about it now, find this combination of no tears but thoughts kinda appalling. Still am not too sure whether I wasn't just a bloody cold b*stard then. Probably somehow still am. At least still feel kinda proud for having realised all this crystal clear so d*mn quickly. (However, little did I suspect how very much my suspicion about me not being allowed to say farewell properly would be proved right some 12 years later. Neither there'd even be such things as mortuaries worse than visiting rooms in high security prisons ...)
Or perhaps just numb inside already. Also about that time had started wanting to die myself desperately. And this same threshold pretty soon thereafter being the very place where I'd lost my breath for the first time. Kinda breaking down, only able to breathe very shallowly but really fast. Bit like a dog panting. Taking some eternities till I was able to draw breath more or less properly again.
So much about being a cold b*stard ...
(continued ...)
She'd been one year old. Most of her life out of one hospital into the next one. Though before it happened ironically had looked better and nobody'd thought her finally returning home just to die.
Right, wasn't exactly fair not getting older than one, but as I felt still beat going on and on like she'd had to all the time. At least now she could rest in peace. No more hospitals. No more trouble. No more pain.
I remember cradling her lifeless little body in my arms at the treshold of the little ones' room, feeling vaguely guilty for not feeling like crying at all.
But realising, with all the fuss the grown-ups usually kicking up about dying (despite sooner or later everybody would anyway), this very moment probly been the last time in my life I'd be allowed embracing a dead person to say my farewells.
Thinking about it now, find this combination of no tears but thoughts kinda appalling. Still am not too sure whether I wasn't just a bloody cold b*stard then. Probably somehow still am. At least still feel kinda proud for having realised all this crystal clear so d*mn quickly. (However, little did I suspect how very much my suspicion about me not being allowed to say farewell properly would be proved right some 12 years later. Neither there'd even be such things as mortuaries worse than visiting rooms in high security prisons ...)
Or perhaps just numb inside already. Also about that time had started wanting to die myself desperately. And this same threshold pretty soon thereafter being the very place where I'd lost my breath for the first time. Kinda breaking down, only able to breathe very shallowly but really fast. Bit like a dog panting. Taking some eternities till I was able to draw breath more or less properly again.
So much about being a cold b*stard ...
(continued ...)
Friday, September 22, 2006
Why can I cry for others and for myself not? (Tears are a gift from heaven, Pt. 2)
Pain fading. Numbness taking over. Can't remember. No more feelings. No more tears.
Watching my soul die. Again.
Funny, sometimes knew exactly when'n'where it was. Hitch-hiking down this road into the setting sun. Losing my faith, too. Never finding it again. Seven Kings, waiting for the train. Drizzle setting in. Eyes burning. Tears wouldn't come.
But most of the time only noticing much, much later. Not really able putting the finger on when they had failed me. Not even for how many years now.
Though this time, guess got lucky for a change.
Gone, beyond pain, coughing blood n all, sure. But kinda coming back right after. Almost in one piece as well.
Actually doubted even that for quite a while. Cause, like some times before, ok, wasn't really that I couldn't cry at all. Still, couldn't cry for real either. After a few tears, they'd just dry up. No way of making them flow again.
Stuck in my chest, uncried. Again.
But after a while, found still could let them out. As long as I can cry for somebody else, that is. Though for myself, just doesn't work.
Always used to laugh about the self-help group impostor routine in 'Fight Club'. In the meantime learned a bit better. Also about why.
One wee exception, though.
Coming from the surgeon that sh*tty morning, after he'd eventually stopped the 'impossible, can't be, can't bleed/hurt no more now' etc. stuff. But suddenly insisted on getting the implants out the very same day instead.
Not that I'd refused. Not after having had a glimpse of how it'd be when the pain would be gone. (Little did I know ...)
Still, sitting in the bus, eventually realising, for the rest of my life, instead of the lumps will just be sporting scars. No matter how much I wanted to look just like everybody else.
Just unfair.
So, for some stops, till having to get out, just let them flow. Almost like they'd never stopped.
Then for a sec had to concentrate on crossing the street without getting hit by a car.
Of course didn't come back again after. Not even almost. Not again.
However, still closest since don't-actually-remember-when-I'd-forgotten.
(continued ...)
Watching my soul die. Again.
Funny, sometimes knew exactly when'n'where it was. Hitch-hiking down this road into the setting sun. Losing my faith, too. Never finding it again. Seven Kings, waiting for the train. Drizzle setting in. Eyes burning. Tears wouldn't come.
But most of the time only noticing much, much later. Not really able putting the finger on when they had failed me. Not even for how many years now.
Though this time, guess got lucky for a change.
Gone, beyond pain, coughing blood n all, sure. But kinda coming back right after. Almost in one piece as well.
Actually doubted even that for quite a while. Cause, like some times before, ok, wasn't really that I couldn't cry at all. Still, couldn't cry for real either. After a few tears, they'd just dry up. No way of making them flow again.
Stuck in my chest, uncried. Again.
But after a while, found still could let them out. As long as I can cry for somebody else, that is. Though for myself, just doesn't work.
Always used to laugh about the self-help group impostor routine in 'Fight Club'. In the meantime learned a bit better. Also about why.
One wee exception, though.
Coming from the surgeon that sh*tty morning, after he'd eventually stopped the 'impossible, can't be, can't bleed/hurt no more now' etc. stuff. But suddenly insisted on getting the implants out the very same day instead.
Not that I'd refused. Not after having had a glimpse of how it'd be when the pain would be gone. (Little did I know ...)
Still, sitting in the bus, eventually realising, for the rest of my life, instead of the lumps will just be sporting scars. No matter how much I wanted to look just like everybody else.
Just unfair.
So, for some stops, till having to get out, just let them flow. Almost like they'd never stopped.
Then for a sec had to concentrate on crossing the street without getting hit by a car.
Of course didn't come back again after. Not even almost. Not again.
However, still closest since don't-actually-remember-when-I'd-forgotten.
(continued ...)
Monday, June 19, 2006
Tears are a gift from heaven
If this planet is the 'valley of tears', must've been living in hell.
Most of my life, couldn't cry when I should have, no matter how much I wanted to and tried.
Didn't actually notice when they stopped, so I guess went just down the same road like love and feelings. Lost faith, broken heart and dying soul. Sometimes returning a little, but only to vanish again soon.
Took a long time to just realise. Even more to change it. Plus somebody who cared.
Though didn't take long, and started losing it again. Going numb inside. Seven Kings, sitting on the bench, waiting for the train. Starts setting in. Feel like crying but can't. Wish so much I could but just can't. Same again.
Still don't know really why this time I remembered. And more important, why I still was able nourishing it back to life. Of course got some clues, but doesn't feel like I got them all.
But something I know for sure. Never be ashamed or afraid of your tears, ever. Never hold them back, either. (Ok, unless e.g. they'd be the reason for a painful misunderstanding or something, maybe.)
So today, though of course (besides some catching-up I still got to do) the reasons for doing so are still sad ones, nevertheless I'm just happy everyday I shed some.
When your soul is in pain or even dying, tears is the best medicine there is. That's what they're here for. (Well, at least saved mine from dying all over again this time.)
I was so far out
until you brought me back
I can even cry again
tears are a gift from heaven
missed them so much for so long
I'm so happy to see you again
it's the thing I want most in the whole world
(continued ...)
Most of my life, couldn't cry when I should have, no matter how much I wanted to and tried.
Didn't actually notice when they stopped, so I guess went just down the same road like love and feelings. Lost faith, broken heart and dying soul. Sometimes returning a little, but only to vanish again soon.
Took a long time to just realise. Even more to change it. Plus somebody who cared.
Though didn't take long, and started losing it again. Going numb inside. Seven Kings, sitting on the bench, waiting for the train. Starts setting in. Feel like crying but can't. Wish so much I could but just can't. Same again.
Still don't know really why this time I remembered. And more important, why I still was able nourishing it back to life. Of course got some clues, but doesn't feel like I got them all.
But something I know for sure. Never be ashamed or afraid of your tears, ever. Never hold them back, either. (Ok, unless e.g. they'd be the reason for a painful misunderstanding or something, maybe.)
So today, though of course (besides some catching-up I still got to do) the reasons for doing so are still sad ones, nevertheless I'm just happy everyday I shed some.
When your soul is in pain or even dying, tears is the best medicine there is. That's what they're here for. (Well, at least saved mine from dying all over again this time.)
I was so far out
until you brought me back
I can even cry again
tears are a gift from heaven
missed them so much for so long
I'm so happy to see you again
it's the thing I want most in the whole world
(continued ...)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)