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Friday, July 26, 2013

Old Age, Death, and Stories

I watched family members take away my great-grandfather's car keys so he couldn't drive across the country alone, watched the local senior center close and take with it his reason to go on a walk every day. I watched him spend more time in front of the TV because he didn't have anywhere to go anymore, and I was torn because I could see both sides.

He was in his eighties, and if he died on a three-day road trip, how long would it be before someone knew? How long before someone found him?

When he was in his nineties his independence was gone, and he was having problems. The family in general chalked it up to "old age" and decided to make him comfortable. My father told him that he should go to the hospital and find out what was wrong because "old age" isn't a condition, it's a life state. He chose the hospital.

He had surgery for a pinched nerve in his back, which had been causing the trouble talking, the clumsiness, the symptoms of "old age." Family across the country came out to visit him, and after a second surgery, he went into a coma he never woke up from.

The few who'd insisted on "old age" blamed my father for my great-grandfather's death, because of the surgeries. I believe that things worked out for the better. He could have died alone in a dark living room, but instead he died in a bright hospital, surrounded by children and grandchildren, some of whom he hadn't seen in years. He got to see people one last time between surgeries.

At his wife's funeral, some twenty years earlier, he left the front of the room to sit with his great-grandchildren in the back rows and told us that she wouldn't have wanted us to be sad, she'd have wanted us to remember her life. He told us stories about her, a petite woman who, in the 1930s, had painted her long nails red and played basketball.

At his graveside, we did the same for him. We talked about things he'd said that had surprised us, talked about the stories he'd told, talked about his life story, which had been read at the funeral, so much of which we'd known nothing about. My daughter, his great-great granddaughter, was there, and old enough to share stories with us.

We could spend our lives feeling guilty for taking away his keys, or for taking him to a hospital which gave him the anesthetic he ultimately died under. Or we could remind ourselves that the last he knew was how much he was loved, and how many generations he'd seen grow during his long life. He got to share stories, got to say goodbye.

Some people spend forever grieving, unable to cope with certain holidays because someone's missing, unable to go certain places because of memories. My memories make me want to go back. They make me want to tell stories and include people, whether they're corporeally there or not. When I drive past the graveyard, I wave to all three of the grandparents I have there. I'm sure every one of them would appreciate it.

This post was written as a reaction to this one, by rantravewrite.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Out of My Head

If you've read more than a couple blog posts, you might have noticed that there are huge variations in my mood and state of mind. I've written blog posts about self-hatred and about hope for the future, about hating life in general and about amusing things that have happened.

I want out of my head.

This has been a hard summer, and I don't even know why. For about three weeks it's been severe depression almost constantly. Severe Depression as in sitting somewhere crying until I start to hyperventilate, getting dizzy, then forcing myself to breathe just long enough for the dizziness to go away before it's near hyperventilation again.

I don't want to go to work because hell, it's work. No one wants to go. I've gone every day except two. The first day I was hyperventilating when I called in and the person who answered the phone couldn't understand me. The second day I spent attempting to calm myself so I could go back to work on the third day.

I don't want to go to sleep. I lie in bed for an hour trying not to think, or at least to think about something that doesn't terrify me. I fall asleep and wake up several times, often from nightmares. I lie awake again for a while, and eventually I get sick of trying and get up. Then I zone out because I'm not sleeping.

I don't want to eat. I don't want to do much of anything, really. I've written a couple stories, many of which were violence-themed or crime-themed because it gets the thoughts out without me doing anything.

Here are some things people diagnosed with depression can do at home to ease the symptoms:

  • Get adequate sleep
  • Eat healthy
  • Take a walk outside/exercise


Here is how people in the throes of actual severe clinical depression might feel about that:

  • HAHAHAHA *sob sob sob*
  • Who cares about food? I'll grab what's closest so I don't starve myself. That counts, right? (Or, alternately, What does it matter? I'm worthless anyway. Gimme the choco-ballos.)
  • What does it matter? I'm worthless anyway.


I don't know how I'll make it through the next few days, let alone another thirty years of life. There's not enough good to make up for all this crap.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Adventures at Smile Central

As you may recall, I have a job at a store I shall hereby refer to as Smile Central. That is not the store's real name, in case you were wondering, and in fact has nothing to do with the store. It is a pseudonym, because I dislike the idea of being fired and sued. Because I'm maybe going to complain about the place a little, and corporate entities don't have much of a sense of humor about these things.

But back to my job. I'm working a temporary security gig, sitting at a back door making sure construction and remodel guys don't steal anything. When the construction and remodel is done, I no longer have a job. Maybe. I have strongly hinted and pledged and vowed and sworn on my name badge that I would appreciate continued employment. At least two people have consulted the store manager on my behalf, and other employees miss me when I'm not here, so I'm doing a decent job.

So I got to work tonight and no one acknowledged my request to open the door (not unusual, actually), and eventually someone wandered back and asked what I was doing here. He told me that the remodel guys aren't using this door anymore, and hauled away their mobile office. As we debated the merits of sitting by a closed door making minimum wage and playing smartphone for four easy hours versus being sent home, someone else showed up and blew my cover.

Send Lyric to stationery.

Does Lyric know how to do this?

How about housewares?

Pharmacy?

Go see the manager.

I'm going to say I don't have to worry about being dropped and jobless in a week. Nervescitement? Lots of it. I've been waking up my daughter with somewhat noisy nightmares about work for weeks because I knew the remodel was wrapping up. I could about puke right now from the nervescitement.

I ended up talking to the store manager personally. Not a department manager. Not a shift manager. The Big Boss of this particular Smile Central. I was asked what position I wanted, to which I replied that I was open. I mentioned the departments which had expressed interest in me before. I was asked what my Goals are.

That's right. My Goals. In the blink of an eye, about a million thoughts rushed through my head. My goal for the past however many hears now has been stay alive, with a side of get a job so there's one more reason to stay alive. Before that, my goal was to move to a specific urban area where there would be job opportunities appropriate to my bachelor's degree, which so happens to be in a field I love.

So I blinked. I said that I was interested in management, that I've applied for management positions more than once, and that I have a degree in a field without many opportunities in this area. I said that when I'd graduated I hadn't intended to stay in this area, but now I do.

This is true in a way. I cannot legally leave the state and take my daughter because her other parent objects. I will not leave without her, and if I must stay, and I don't have the resources to move to a city (I don't), I may as well stay here.

Big Boss asked what my degree was in (Graphic Design), and I told her. I can't say what the smile she shared with the shift manager was about, but I said that I was thrilled that they knew what Graphic Design was to begin with. Many people don't, or they have a very limited view of what it is. Graphic Design isn't really something you do for glory.

This hasn't turned into me mocking the place. Sorry about that. Too excited and all.

Big Boss asked if I minded working in produce.

Now, that sounds bad, but what I've learned is that they shuffle people from position to position, based on what's needed, and they desperately needed someone in produce. I said that was fine. I was asked if I liked cleaning. Pfft, who likes cleaning? I said I like feeling useful, which is the truth. Approving looks all around. I was given a new schedule and sent out... to straighten shelves in housewares.

By this time I'd run back and forth answering summons to this place or that (as mentioned in paragraphs 4-8), and straightening shelves sounded pretty decent. I've got no clue how long I did that before someone walkie-talkied someone else to call me back to the remodel door. Then they paged me over the store speaker, by which time I was halfway there.

Apparently they'll need me at my door until at least Friday.

Okay, complaining time now. This place is a mess, and I don't know how they manage to keep things on the shelves. The right hand not only doesn't know what the left is doing, but is totally unaware that it should be watching its own fingers, and that there are also arms, feet, eyes, and other such things.

Earlier tonight I got paid a total of approximately fifteen dollars to sit by a closed door, listen to people bicker about what to do with me, and straighten a few aisles' worth of merchandise. I was given a new schedule, then put back onto my old one in the space of a couple hours.

For now, I'm still door security. I have no desk to rest my head heavily on, so facepalm, I say. Facepalm.