Chuck Miller's Blog, page 3
February 26, 2019
For a Little While
Others around me seem so carefree.I have to wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
Their naive happiness seems a shallow goal.Searching instead for a way to save my wretched soul.
My disillusionment easily justified.In these fools I find no allies.
Ignorant and unable to seeBasic truths so obvious to me.
But perhaps there’s another turn of this phrase.Surely they’re not all skipping along in a blissful haze.
Maybe it’s me who doesn’t really care.Their trivial problems and insecurities I can’t bear.
When the daughter I love is dead in the ground,Others whining and complaining just isn’t profound.
The thing they don’t getIs that this day-to-day crap doesn’t matter one little bit.
Posting those perfect photos of a fake life.Self-esteem hangs in the balance of those coveted likes.
It's so easy to be an Insta-slut.That ass shot isn't art; it's just smut.
Don’t forget to flash the bottom of those Louboutins.Seen it all before; this tired act makes me yawn.
What they’ll find at the end of their timeIs that they’re a dozen a dime.
Praise from strangers they don’t even know.As fickle as the direction a breeze may blow.
Gone at the first hint of trouble.I’ll be the one to burst that pathetic bubble.
They keep right on ignoring those who really matter.Consumed by social media’s incessant chatter.
Wasting precious time they can never replace.All in this vain effort to win the rat race.
I dropped out long ago.It wasn’t a hard decision to forgo.
I just had to be shown the light.The key to it all hidden in plain sight.
Oh but what a stiff price to payTo finally have something important to say.
This knowledge few will bother to heed.Fame and fortune they think they need.
It’s those small moments that really matter the most.Cherish them now rather than chasing a ghost.
That’s the big secret I’m trying to tell,Though it doesn’t seem to matter how hard I yell.
My warning so easy to ignore.They see me as a preachy bore.
Daughter gone yet my words ring hollow.One bitter pill after another to swallow.
If only my simple truth they would hear,Pain finds us all but guilt and regret might disappear.
My only choice now is to walk a few more miles.Keep my fake smile plastered for a little while.
Just an Ordinary Day at the Park. That Smile Wasn't Fake.
Their naive happiness seems a shallow goal.Searching instead for a way to save my wretched soul.
My disillusionment easily justified.In these fools I find no allies.
Ignorant and unable to seeBasic truths so obvious to me.
But perhaps there’s another turn of this phrase.Surely they’re not all skipping along in a blissful haze.
Maybe it’s me who doesn’t really care.Their trivial problems and insecurities I can’t bear.
When the daughter I love is dead in the ground,Others whining and complaining just isn’t profound.
The thing they don’t getIs that this day-to-day crap doesn’t matter one little bit.
Posting those perfect photos of a fake life.Self-esteem hangs in the balance of those coveted likes.
It's so easy to be an Insta-slut.That ass shot isn't art; it's just smut.
Don’t forget to flash the bottom of those Louboutins.Seen it all before; this tired act makes me yawn.
What they’ll find at the end of their timeIs that they’re a dozen a dime.
Praise from strangers they don’t even know.As fickle as the direction a breeze may blow.
Gone at the first hint of trouble.I’ll be the one to burst that pathetic bubble.
They keep right on ignoring those who really matter.Consumed by social media’s incessant chatter.
Wasting precious time they can never replace.All in this vain effort to win the rat race.
I dropped out long ago.It wasn’t a hard decision to forgo.
I just had to be shown the light.The key to it all hidden in plain sight.
Oh but what a stiff price to payTo finally have something important to say.
This knowledge few will bother to heed.Fame and fortune they think they need.
It’s those small moments that really matter the most.Cherish them now rather than chasing a ghost.
That’s the big secret I’m trying to tell,Though it doesn’t seem to matter how hard I yell.
My warning so easy to ignore.They see me as a preachy bore.
Daughter gone yet my words ring hollow.One bitter pill after another to swallow.
If only my simple truth they would hear,Pain finds us all but guilt and regret might disappear.
My only choice now is to walk a few more miles.Keep my fake smile plastered for a little while.
Just an Ordinary Day at the Park. That Smile Wasn't Fake.
May 6, 2018
Perspective, Five Years On
Dear Roo,
The five-year mark since you died is fast approaching. Hawaii didn't really exist for me before you died. I'd never been there, and I don't think I really even thought much about going.
But since you died, Hawaii has somehow played a big role in my life. By chance, I'll be there again this year on the actual date of your death, visiting the beautiful island of Kauai. Maybe that's as good a place for me as any on another tough day.
By this time next year, you'll have officially been gone longer than you were here. You moving further away from me like that is a scary proposition that's been repeated many times.
When they loaded you on the ambulance and shut the door, a small gap began to grow.
When they decided your condition was deteriorating and they needed to put you on the ventilator, it grew some more.
When they pulled your lifeless body from my arms, I felt you leaving.
When Mary and I sat by your casket, neither of us wanted them to shut it or to begin shoveling dirt on top. Both of those acts symbolized even more distance between us.
It's the same now with these damned milestones. Each passing birthday or holiday just seems to pull us further apart.
Even acknowledging your death date has that effect. What is it they call it to try and make parents feel better?... angelversary or something.
Fuck that. It's more insulting than comforting. You died. Why can't we just say that?
I don't know how I even made it this far without you. I still think about you every day - sometimes many times a day - and tell stories about you all the time.
I figure if I keep talking about you then maybe you're actually still here in some small way. I don't even remember these stories I'm telling all that well anymore, and I sometimes wonder which parts are true and which are made up.
I know you got up earlier than me one morning, quietly snuck into the kitchen, got the carton of eggs out of the refrigerator, and started rolling them around on the sofa cushion. I woke up to the sound of your giggling, and when I saw the egg carton I leapt from bed.
Holy shit!!! Did that baby get the eggs out of the fridge??? That's not going to be good at all!
Christ, I even made myself dizzy jumping up like that. There are reasons normal people have kids well before they're 38.
I was sure I was going to find a slimy mess of cracked eggs all over the floor. When I get to heaven, I'm going to want answers to a lot of big questions from somebody important. You know, all that stuff about why they needed you so soon.
But before I ask any of those, I just want to ask you, my little peanut, how the hell you managed to play with all those eggs without breaking any. That was weird!
You loved eggs like some kids love dolls. That story is true, and I can still picture you in your footie pajamas and that smoker's cough giggle of yours like it happened yesterday.
But I just don't know about some of these other stories. Did you really carry a gallon jug of cranberry juice by pinch gripping the lid with one hand or did I make that up? You were really strong, but I can barely do that myself after all these years of lifting weights.
If I made it up, I'm sorry. I don't need to invent stories to make you seem cooler or tougher than you already were.
You were tough with no embellishment needed. You really did shove that oxygen mask out of the way when your lungs were full of pneumonia so you could growl and make a muscle for me.
That happened, and I'll never forget it or you. But even if it didn't; even if every stupid story I tell is some product of my imagination; even if you were pretty much just an unremarkable child like every other who died before she had a chance to make any real mark on the world; you were still plenty good enough just the way you were. You were my child and that alone made you special to me.
I just love you and I miss you and I want to talk about you so maybe people will know you even when I can't remember anything to tell them. It's frustrating as hell that people I meet now never met you and will never know anything about you except through some dumb story I tell that might only be half right.
As anybody can see, I'm still struggling with lots of questions I'll never answer. I wallow and I'm angry and I think people who try to say something helpful usually haven't thought their comments through very well at all or they'd have realized how ignorant they really are on this subject and would have just kept their mouths shut. That stuff is probably never going to change.
But five years into this, I'm not quite so day to day with my struggle wondering if I'll be able to get out of bed. I've actually mustered the will to do just that something like 1,825 times and counting since you died.
I have a solid track record of gutting it out, touch wood. And so, I'm starting to look backwards at my journey so far and forward to what lies ahead. I guess I'm searching for a little perspective.
That word "perspective" usually makes my blood boil. The source, you see, is often some holier-than-thou asshole telling me I'm lacking it and that I need to look at things differently. Problem is, this so-called perspective mister high and mighty wants me to adopt almost always means I need to see things exclusively through his lens.
It's never, Hey, you're a little bit right but so am I and maybe we can meet in the middle. It's more like, You're an idiot. I'm all knowing. You better get with the program and see this shit my way.
Here's my concise little response to that:
That kind of all or nothing way of thinking is never persuasive to me. So, when I say someone has shown me a new perspective, it's a rare occurrence indeed.
My last blog post, Fine Again, was a bit of a hit that apparently resonated with a fair number of people and ended up my third most viewed. That was pretty gratifying - not simply for the views but because maybe I'm reaching a few people and helping them cope with their own losses.
In that post, I wrote about how someone can appear to be doing quite well and moving in a positive direction outwardly in the months and years after a traumatic loss even if they're struggling mightily internally. The world sees them as fine when they're anything but.
That message, and perhaps the caustic way I tend to put things, struck a chord with quite a few people. One of them was a friend I've known since childhood. Here's what he had to say about it:
Hey Chuck,
I've been reading your blogs and I've been wanting to say something to you for a while now. First, I can't even imagine the pain you went through and I'm not going to tell you I understand. However, I will tell you this, which is coming from my heart and being your lifelong friend. I want you to think about this from time to time. You had one thing I will never have in my lifetime and that was the opportunity to have a precious child and to experience what unconditional true love was all about. We're 48 now and I look back and wish that for one moment in my life, that I was you and I had a child - someone, who would love me no matter what; someone who would need me every day; someone who would want me around to laugh and play with. For one time, I just wanted to be able to hear that word when my child looked at me and said, "Daddy."
I know this doesn't compare to what you're feeling, but trust me, I envy the fact that you had the chance to experience that bond that only a parent can have with their child. I'll never get that chance, and knowing that kills me every day. I know you're upset and I don't blame you one bit, but when that pain comes over you just step back for me and take a moment to say, "I have memories that my buddy will never get a chance to experience in his life, no matter how brief it was, and one day I will get to see my little girl again and I will truly understand why God let this all happen."
I hope and pray you’re not offended by what I said, because that's not why I said it. I said it because I've never had the chance to even get to see the smile on my child's face at Christmas. I've spent them all alone. So, I hope and pray that you think about this when you’re feeling down and like shit. Just know that you had something I'll never get a chance to have - a child and all the glorious memories that come along with that.
God Bless!
Your Lifelong Buddy,
Incredibly Insightful Friend Whose Name I Removed Here
Whoa! I think I better just pump the breaks for a second, take all this in, and try to digest it.
That's about where I am five years into this thing. I still miss her like hell, but my eyes also don't turn red with rage anymore when someone coming from a genuine place of empathy gently points out to me how lucky I was to even know her at all. I'm closer to being ready to hear those words.
Even now though, maybe that sort of message couldn't come from just anyone. You have to earn the right to say something like that to somebody who's hurting.
In order for me to accept those hard to hear but oh so true words, I really have to know the person saying them. I almost have to have shared the unique bond of growing up with them in West Virginia to be open to their viewpoint.
This post started as a letter to my precious little one, and I want to finish that.
Dear Roo,
Perspective is elusive when the one thing you couldn't bear losing is lost, but I'm trying.
I've had a really interesting life these past five years. Things haven't always gone my way, but I've taken some chances and done some cool things I never even dreamt of doing.
You'd be proud of the way I leapt with both feet just like you so often did. For maybe one of the rare periods in my life, I don't have many regrets over missed opportunities.
And if I could do you over, I wouldn't change that either. My friend is 100% right.
Even if I could get rid of all the pain by not knowing you at all, I'd never choose that path. I'd choose you, just the way it went, with every bit of heartache.
Maybe the memories are starting to fade and get jumbled in my mind or whatever, but that doesn't really matter at all. I knew a kind of love many people will never experience.
I remember that feeling as if you never left. And when you occupy this much space inside my heart, maybe you never did.
Love Always,
Dad
The five-year mark since you died is fast approaching. Hawaii didn't really exist for me before you died. I'd never been there, and I don't think I really even thought much about going.
But since you died, Hawaii has somehow played a big role in my life. By chance, I'll be there again this year on the actual date of your death, visiting the beautiful island of Kauai. Maybe that's as good a place for me as any on another tough day.
By this time next year, you'll have officially been gone longer than you were here. You moving further away from me like that is a scary proposition that's been repeated many times.
When they loaded you on the ambulance and shut the door, a small gap began to grow.
When they decided your condition was deteriorating and they needed to put you on the ventilator, it grew some more.
When they pulled your lifeless body from my arms, I felt you leaving.
When Mary and I sat by your casket, neither of us wanted them to shut it or to begin shoveling dirt on top. Both of those acts symbolized even more distance between us.
It's the same now with these damned milestones. Each passing birthday or holiday just seems to pull us further apart.
Even acknowledging your death date has that effect. What is it they call it to try and make parents feel better?... angelversary or something.
Fuck that. It's more insulting than comforting. You died. Why can't we just say that?
I don't know how I even made it this far without you. I still think about you every day - sometimes many times a day - and tell stories about you all the time.
I figure if I keep talking about you then maybe you're actually still here in some small way. I don't even remember these stories I'm telling all that well anymore, and I sometimes wonder which parts are true and which are made up.
I know you got up earlier than me one morning, quietly snuck into the kitchen, got the carton of eggs out of the refrigerator, and started rolling them around on the sofa cushion. I woke up to the sound of your giggling, and when I saw the egg carton I leapt from bed.
Holy shit!!! Did that baby get the eggs out of the fridge??? That's not going to be good at all!
Christ, I even made myself dizzy jumping up like that. There are reasons normal people have kids well before they're 38.
I was sure I was going to find a slimy mess of cracked eggs all over the floor. When I get to heaven, I'm going to want answers to a lot of big questions from somebody important. You know, all that stuff about why they needed you so soon.
But before I ask any of those, I just want to ask you, my little peanut, how the hell you managed to play with all those eggs without breaking any. That was weird!
You loved eggs like some kids love dolls. That story is true, and I can still picture you in your footie pajamas and that smoker's cough giggle of yours like it happened yesterday.
But I just don't know about some of these other stories. Did you really carry a gallon jug of cranberry juice by pinch gripping the lid with one hand or did I make that up? You were really strong, but I can barely do that myself after all these years of lifting weights.
If I made it up, I'm sorry. I don't need to invent stories to make you seem cooler or tougher than you already were.
You were tough with no embellishment needed. You really did shove that oxygen mask out of the way when your lungs were full of pneumonia so you could growl and make a muscle for me.
That happened, and I'll never forget it or you. But even if it didn't; even if every stupid story I tell is some product of my imagination; even if you were pretty much just an unremarkable child like every other who died before she had a chance to make any real mark on the world; you were still plenty good enough just the way you were. You were my child and that alone made you special to me.
I just love you and I miss you and I want to talk about you so maybe people will know you even when I can't remember anything to tell them. It's frustrating as hell that people I meet now never met you and will never know anything about you except through some dumb story I tell that might only be half right.
As anybody can see, I'm still struggling with lots of questions I'll never answer. I wallow and I'm angry and I think people who try to say something helpful usually haven't thought their comments through very well at all or they'd have realized how ignorant they really are on this subject and would have just kept their mouths shut. That stuff is probably never going to change.
But five years into this, I'm not quite so day to day with my struggle wondering if I'll be able to get out of bed. I've actually mustered the will to do just that something like 1,825 times and counting since you died.
I have a solid track record of gutting it out, touch wood. And so, I'm starting to look backwards at my journey so far and forward to what lies ahead. I guess I'm searching for a little perspective.
That word "perspective" usually makes my blood boil. The source, you see, is often some holier-than-thou asshole telling me I'm lacking it and that I need to look at things differently. Problem is, this so-called perspective mister high and mighty wants me to adopt almost always means I need to see things exclusively through his lens.
It's never, Hey, you're a little bit right but so am I and maybe we can meet in the middle. It's more like, You're an idiot. I'm all knowing. You better get with the program and see this shit my way.
Here's my concise little response to that:
That kind of all or nothing way of thinking is never persuasive to me. So, when I say someone has shown me a new perspective, it's a rare occurrence indeed.
My last blog post, Fine Again, was a bit of a hit that apparently resonated with a fair number of people and ended up my third most viewed. That was pretty gratifying - not simply for the views but because maybe I'm reaching a few people and helping them cope with their own losses.
In that post, I wrote about how someone can appear to be doing quite well and moving in a positive direction outwardly in the months and years after a traumatic loss even if they're struggling mightily internally. The world sees them as fine when they're anything but.
That message, and perhaps the caustic way I tend to put things, struck a chord with quite a few people. One of them was a friend I've known since childhood. Here's what he had to say about it:
Hey Chuck,
I've been reading your blogs and I've been wanting to say something to you for a while now. First, I can't even imagine the pain you went through and I'm not going to tell you I understand. However, I will tell you this, which is coming from my heart and being your lifelong friend. I want you to think about this from time to time. You had one thing I will never have in my lifetime and that was the opportunity to have a precious child and to experience what unconditional true love was all about. We're 48 now and I look back and wish that for one moment in my life, that I was you and I had a child - someone, who would love me no matter what; someone who would need me every day; someone who would want me around to laugh and play with. For one time, I just wanted to be able to hear that word when my child looked at me and said, "Daddy."
I know this doesn't compare to what you're feeling, but trust me, I envy the fact that you had the chance to experience that bond that only a parent can have with their child. I'll never get that chance, and knowing that kills me every day. I know you're upset and I don't blame you one bit, but when that pain comes over you just step back for me and take a moment to say, "I have memories that my buddy will never get a chance to experience in his life, no matter how brief it was, and one day I will get to see my little girl again and I will truly understand why God let this all happen."
I hope and pray you’re not offended by what I said, because that's not why I said it. I said it because I've never had the chance to even get to see the smile on my child's face at Christmas. I've spent them all alone. So, I hope and pray that you think about this when you’re feeling down and like shit. Just know that you had something I'll never get a chance to have - a child and all the glorious memories that come along with that.
God Bless!
Your Lifelong Buddy,
Incredibly Insightful Friend Whose Name I Removed Here
Whoa! I think I better just pump the breaks for a second, take all this in, and try to digest it.
That's about where I am five years into this thing. I still miss her like hell, but my eyes also don't turn red with rage anymore when someone coming from a genuine place of empathy gently points out to me how lucky I was to even know her at all. I'm closer to being ready to hear those words.
Even now though, maybe that sort of message couldn't come from just anyone. You have to earn the right to say something like that to somebody who's hurting.
In order for me to accept those hard to hear but oh so true words, I really have to know the person saying them. I almost have to have shared the unique bond of growing up with them in West Virginia to be open to their viewpoint.
This post started as a letter to my precious little one, and I want to finish that.
Dear Roo,
Perspective is elusive when the one thing you couldn't bear losing is lost, but I'm trying.
I've had a really interesting life these past five years. Things haven't always gone my way, but I've taken some chances and done some cool things I never even dreamt of doing.
You'd be proud of the way I leapt with both feet just like you so often did. For maybe one of the rare periods in my life, I don't have many regrets over missed opportunities.
And if I could do you over, I wouldn't change that either. My friend is 100% right.
Even if I could get rid of all the pain by not knowing you at all, I'd never choose that path. I'd choose you, just the way it went, with every bit of heartache.
Maybe the memories are starting to fade and get jumbled in my mind or whatever, but that doesn't really matter at all. I knew a kind of love many people will never experience.
I remember that feeling as if you never left. And when you occupy this much space inside my heart, maybe you never did.
Love Always,
Dad
December 19, 2017
Fine Again
I suppose I have no one to blame. I took a few important steps the past six months that outwardly have me on a much better path.
I bought a gym. I started a contract job as a part-time Strength & Conditioning Coach for a university here in Philadelphia. Shit, I actually showed up for Thanksgiving dinner and ate half a turkey by myself.
I even got a few essays published on topics unrelated to grief. One of these pieces had the word "Happy" in the title.
Ergo, I must be happy. I guess I'm doing fine now. I started acting a little normal, at least to the extent I haven't booked my third relocation ticket to Hawaii yet, so I can't really blame folks for treating me like I'm normal.
Except that I do. I mean really, what the actual fuck is wrong with you dumb shits??? You think because I finally grew some balls and quit that shitty desk job that somehow makes it all better???
Yeah sure, I teach people how to lift weights for a living, and that's certainly an improvement over whatever paper pushing charade I was faking my way through before, but my kid is still dead. And I still think about that not just every once in a while but basically between every goddamned set.
So pardon my dismay when all of a sudden I'm being invited to holiday gatherings and asked what I'm bringing to the present exchange. A bag of feces; that's what I'm bringing. I'll show up to your white elephant with a pile of my own shit and I'll hurl it around the room in protest of collective stupidity like a chimp throwing a tantrum.
Jesus H. Christ, did you forget I'm the guy who wrote a diatribe about ruining Christmas? What? You thought that wasn't real? You thought I was just hurt and didn't mean it and that it would all pass one day when the tears stopped flowing? Nope, I fucking meant it, and you can still shove that candy cane straight up your ass - crooked end first.
You know what goes on at many of those gatherings you're so eager to get me to attend? Your kids giggle, open presents, and run around showing off. My kid rots in the ground silently. See the difference?
So no, I'm not interested in coming to the holiday party, and I'm definitely not exchanging presents. You can buy presents for your own damned kids.
Here I am at the only holiday gathering I'm likely to attend
this year - the annual candle lighting ceremony for dead babies.As for you yourself... well, you're a goddamned adult, with a job, living in a developed country. Go out and buy your own stupid ass present. Go buy 50 of them for all I care.
I don't really see how that'd be much different from any other time. We're a nation of "treats" and "deserves," and from my point of view we treat ourselves liberally, not just on holidays but regular old days too, to all this stuff we supposedly deserve because we work so hard.
To each his own. I don't care what you think life owes you or what you buy. I used to think maybe life owed me a little more time with the daughter I loved, but it doesn't.
So do whatever the hell you want on Christmas, but just save me the trouble of handing me a gift card to some overpriced department store so I'm compelled to hand you one of exactly equal value to a different overpriced department store. And if, heaven forbid, my lame gift card doesn't quite measure up to yours, you get the added holiday joy of gossiping to anyone within earshot about what a cheapskate I am.
I'm not really a cheapskate, though. I'm just a bitter dick, and a sensible one at that. I'd rather give my money to a homeless guy on the street than to you. At least he needs help.
When did we start measuring our love by how much money we spend anyway? Money isn't where you find love. It's about that precious time I naively thought I was owed and would get.
I love cold weather and snow because if you're lucky you get stuck in the house once in a while with your family while a big storm rages. They have few choices other than to snuggle up under a blanket and watch a movie with you. Time sort of stops for a bit and you just enjoy being together.
I'd give anything for time to do something simple like that with Ruby. I'd scooch up as close to her as I could get and squeeze her tightly. That'd be worth more than any stupid present.
I did get my mom a card and a small gift. She raised me. She loves me. She puts up with me. She deserves to be remembered even if I don't feel like doing anything.
I got my girlfriend a small gift and made us a dinner reservation. She didn't cause any of this. She just has to endure it every year.
I wrote a card for my nephews. I told them I love them very much but that their parents can shop for them. I might have messed up there. They're little and they probably won't understand that I can't walk in the toy store.
Roo only said a few words. One of them was "toy." All children love toys.
Remember the island of misfit toys from the Christmas special? Roo had like six or seven talking Elmo dolls. Why so many? Because we're rich idiots? No. I wish.
She thought they could swim because of this one DVD where Elmo goes swimming, so she kept throwing them in the pool or in the bath tub. She was quick and we couldn't save them. So we just kept buying her new ones at sixty sickening bucks a pop every time she shorted one out.
All Roo's toys were misfit toys. I think that's why she loved me. I'm a misfit and she knew it.
And now I'm really a misfit. Before I was just kind of a weird guy who thought lifting heavy stuff was more fun than drinking, though drinking isn't too bad either. Now I'm the social pariah who hates Christmas.
Yeah, well, I only hate it because I'd have loved it so much with her. When I let myself, I picture what it might be like, but it just messes me up worse to linger there for too long.
It's better for me to just hate Christmas and get through it than to dwell too much on what might have been. It's probably that way for most parents who've lost a child.
So try to let us do that. If we decline the party invitation or pass on the present exchange, give us a fucking pass even if we're twenty years removed and you don't get it. You're not going to get it because you haven't lived it, but you can still have compassion. You can realize it's not always about you and your happiness. Sometimes it's about another's survival.
When you treat me like I'm fine and that your normal should be my normal, I don't know if that's what you naively believe or if you just can't deal with the ugliness of my pain. Either way, I feel even more alone.
The reality is that I'm not fine, even as I take steps to build a new life. Most days, I'm still just barely hanging on and stumbling through as best I can while missing my daughter and wondering if I'll ever see her again. I doubt anyone who has lost a child is ever really fine again.
I bought a gym. I started a contract job as a part-time Strength & Conditioning Coach for a university here in Philadelphia. Shit, I actually showed up for Thanksgiving dinner and ate half a turkey by myself.
I even got a few essays published on topics unrelated to grief. One of these pieces had the word "Happy" in the title.
Ergo, I must be happy. I guess I'm doing fine now. I started acting a little normal, at least to the extent I haven't booked my third relocation ticket to Hawaii yet, so I can't really blame folks for treating me like I'm normal.
Except that I do. I mean really, what the actual fuck is wrong with you dumb shits??? You think because I finally grew some balls and quit that shitty desk job that somehow makes it all better???
Yeah sure, I teach people how to lift weights for a living, and that's certainly an improvement over whatever paper pushing charade I was faking my way through before, but my kid is still dead. And I still think about that not just every once in a while but basically between every goddamned set.
So pardon my dismay when all of a sudden I'm being invited to holiday gatherings and asked what I'm bringing to the present exchange. A bag of feces; that's what I'm bringing. I'll show up to your white elephant with a pile of my own shit and I'll hurl it around the room in protest of collective stupidity like a chimp throwing a tantrum.
Jesus H. Christ, did you forget I'm the guy who wrote a diatribe about ruining Christmas? What? You thought that wasn't real? You thought I was just hurt and didn't mean it and that it would all pass one day when the tears stopped flowing? Nope, I fucking meant it, and you can still shove that candy cane straight up your ass - crooked end first.
You know what goes on at many of those gatherings you're so eager to get me to attend? Your kids giggle, open presents, and run around showing off. My kid rots in the ground silently. See the difference?
So no, I'm not interested in coming to the holiday party, and I'm definitely not exchanging presents. You can buy presents for your own damned kids.
Here I am at the only holiday gathering I'm likely to attendthis year - the annual candle lighting ceremony for dead babies.As for you yourself... well, you're a goddamned adult, with a job, living in a developed country. Go out and buy your own stupid ass present. Go buy 50 of them for all I care.
I don't really see how that'd be much different from any other time. We're a nation of "treats" and "deserves," and from my point of view we treat ourselves liberally, not just on holidays but regular old days too, to all this stuff we supposedly deserve because we work so hard.
To each his own. I don't care what you think life owes you or what you buy. I used to think maybe life owed me a little more time with the daughter I loved, but it doesn't.
So do whatever the hell you want on Christmas, but just save me the trouble of handing me a gift card to some overpriced department store so I'm compelled to hand you one of exactly equal value to a different overpriced department store. And if, heaven forbid, my lame gift card doesn't quite measure up to yours, you get the added holiday joy of gossiping to anyone within earshot about what a cheapskate I am.
I'm not really a cheapskate, though. I'm just a bitter dick, and a sensible one at that. I'd rather give my money to a homeless guy on the street than to you. At least he needs help.
When did we start measuring our love by how much money we spend anyway? Money isn't where you find love. It's about that precious time I naively thought I was owed and would get.
I love cold weather and snow because if you're lucky you get stuck in the house once in a while with your family while a big storm rages. They have few choices other than to snuggle up under a blanket and watch a movie with you. Time sort of stops for a bit and you just enjoy being together.
I'd give anything for time to do something simple like that with Ruby. I'd scooch up as close to her as I could get and squeeze her tightly. That'd be worth more than any stupid present.
I did get my mom a card and a small gift. She raised me. She loves me. She puts up with me. She deserves to be remembered even if I don't feel like doing anything.
I got my girlfriend a small gift and made us a dinner reservation. She didn't cause any of this. She just has to endure it every year.
I wrote a card for my nephews. I told them I love them very much but that their parents can shop for them. I might have messed up there. They're little and they probably won't understand that I can't walk in the toy store.
Roo only said a few words. One of them was "toy." All children love toys.
Remember the island of misfit toys from the Christmas special? Roo had like six or seven talking Elmo dolls. Why so many? Because we're rich idiots? No. I wish.
She thought they could swim because of this one DVD where Elmo goes swimming, so she kept throwing them in the pool or in the bath tub. She was quick and we couldn't save them. So we just kept buying her new ones at sixty sickening bucks a pop every time she shorted one out.
All Roo's toys were misfit toys. I think that's why she loved me. I'm a misfit and she knew it.
And now I'm really a misfit. Before I was just kind of a weird guy who thought lifting heavy stuff was more fun than drinking, though drinking isn't too bad either. Now I'm the social pariah who hates Christmas.
Yeah, well, I only hate it because I'd have loved it so much with her. When I let myself, I picture what it might be like, but it just messes me up worse to linger there for too long.
It's better for me to just hate Christmas and get through it than to dwell too much on what might have been. It's probably that way for most parents who've lost a child.
So try to let us do that. If we decline the party invitation or pass on the present exchange, give us a fucking pass even if we're twenty years removed and you don't get it. You're not going to get it because you haven't lived it, but you can still have compassion. You can realize it's not always about you and your happiness. Sometimes it's about another's survival.
When you treat me like I'm fine and that your normal should be my normal, I don't know if that's what you naively believe or if you just can't deal with the ugliness of my pain. Either way, I feel even more alone.
The reality is that I'm not fine, even as I take steps to build a new life. Most days, I'm still just barely hanging on and stumbling through as best I can while missing my daughter and wondering if I'll ever see her again. I doubt anyone who has lost a child is ever really fine again.
