This post was written in July of 2016. A lot has changed since then, but you will need this information before I can continue with the rest of the story:
I have essentially been stuck in a time bubble since a tragic event on May 11, 2013. Waiting, waiting, ever so impatiently to get SOME kind of settlement. I am living on credit cards. Disability check covers the bare essentials, that's all...even my drugs go on a credit card. It's bad. I would file for bankruptcy, but anything I get settlement-wise would then just go away. At minimum I had hoped to at least be able to cover the expenses I had incurred but who knows when that will be?
In the meantime, everyone is getting testy. Doctors haven't been paid in 3 years and they're pissed. I am sick of 29 cent mac & cheese and peanut butter on saltines. I look like something that just crawled out of Auschwitz. I have lost enough weight to make up an entirely new person. I had to buy pants and shirts because everything, every bit of clothing I had no longer fits -- it just hangs on me like a scarecrow. I am dodging collection phone calls. I stopped opening mail about 2 years ago because all it does is depress me.
What about the arm that is now rendered useless? What about my goddamned leg? I've been to 4 different orthopedic surgeons and nobody will touch the leg. I fucking BATTLED to save that leg once...and now that battle means nothing. I have a broken leg that will be permanently broken and disfigured. It doesn't even look like a human leg anymore.
The car I had been driving was entirely paid for -- in the clear and still had more than half of its warranty left. Gone, all gone in an instant. And now I'm in the hole for 8k for a replacement car that actually cost less than the car I was driving. It is just so WRONG and unfair. I'm pissed, depressed, sick and in even more pain than I was to begin with.
Meanwhile my hole gets deeper.
Sunday, April 23, 2017
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
THE THINGS WE FEAR
St. Louis is a big city made up of little towns. Today we would call them communities. The little *towns* were bigger than neighborhoods, in that several neighborhoods would share a shopping district, consisting of a couple of blocks of stores. St. Louisans of my generation will know what "shopping on Meramec, Shopping on Cherokee," or even "Shopping at Hampton Village," and "Shopping in the West End" means. Those were places that were once their own towns, before being swallowed up by the city limits Something I miss from my youth--something I truly miss, is window shopping. Window shopping is now a lost art. We did it so often that we even invented a special *family* term for it. The special term was "Eye-Buying." We were fearless and ruthless window shoppers/Eye-Buyers! If that would happen today, we'd be run right out of the store--possibly even detained as suspected shoplifters.
Eye-Buying was something to do with an agenda that involved nothing more than looking into the windows of shops to see what they had. Sometimes if the window looked really REALLY good, we'd go inside and try things on with the full knowledge we'd never be able to pay for those things. It was more akin to playing dress-up in someone else's closet, only with brand new clothing. We were never afraid to try on something beautiful just for the sake of trying it on! We were allowed to do this, I'm sure, because if we liked something we'd be back with a parent to buy it. That would never happen in any upscale store today. It wouldn't happen because store owners are afraid of inventory loss. Ohhh noooo, we musn't tamper with the bottom line!!
Some days we might only have a dollar or two in our pockets. We may have gotten a soda at a soda fountain, or some days we would go so far as to have lunch at "Wag's" or "Katz Drugstore's" lunch counter. If it was an actual shopping trip, we may have even splurged and had luncheon at Styx, Baer & Fuller or at Famous-Barr Southtown (damn, I really miss that store). Styx and Famous both had actual restaurants with linen on the tables--far better than a paper placemat. Today's stores forget the customer's comfort: Just get them in and out so more people can come in and out and buy more things! Large department stores with every available amenity are a thing of the past because corporations fear loss of any kind to their bottom line.
If it was an all out event, we'd go downtown, where all the biggest and best and usually most expensive stores and items were. That normally required taking the bus and a lot of heavy-duty outerwear, since it was usually at Christmas Time. The window dressings were marvelous, especially the ones that featured toys, because we all knew that everything there was something a rich kid might see under the tree at Christmas. If we were lucky, we might get ONE of those things from that particular window. As I got older, I noticed what the manikins were wearing and how they were posed and decorated. I believe window dressing is a lost art as well. Store windows are usually covered or painted to average human head-height. They are painted to discourage any planned shoplifters or would-be robbers. Paint provides a screen against communication with the outside. Corporations fear theft, and that now matters more than "in sight it must be right."
As a really young girl...before I ever went to school, I remember going downtown with my grandma. She would *call a car,* her term for calling a cab, and we would go downtown with a mission. It always, always involved having a nice lunch somewhere. Interestingly enough, she didn't know how to drive a car, even though we had one -- and a nice one, at that. She told me it wasn't ladylike to drive in her time. Being ladylike was how women survived in a misogynistic world. Men were afraid of losing power.
.
Eye-Buying with my grandmother was an entirely different experience than when I went with other kids. While my grandpa was still alive, we would peer into the windows. If she saw something she liked, we'd go in and look around. At every store, people there would know her. "Hello, Mrs. *******, how nice to have you back in our store again! What may I help you with today?" Those were still the days when my family name meant something to damned near everyone in the city. Those were also the days when being a sales clerk meant you had to have manners and respect for your customers. Sales clerks respected their lady clientele because if they didn't, a lady's husband would be right down there to push their faces in for them, at best. At worst, the husbands would have a word with their boss. The clerk was afraid of losing his job even more than being worried about having his own face pushed in.
It was great fun to go on adventures with my grandma, she was powerful in her own right, and I was never afraid when I was with her. She was a five-foot-two, brick house dynamo! Men fell over themselves trying to serve her. She was fully AWARE of the power she wielded, and yet it was subtle. She never barked orders like a drill sergeant, all she had to do was lift an eyebrow. She was a powerful woman who never left the house without stockings and heels, or a hat and gloves! She was beautiful. A man at her funeral told me she was *movie star beautiful.* Men and women alike both coveted her beauty and feared it.
After my grandpa died, my grandmother just sort of shriveled up into herself. She outlived my grandfather by thirty years. The only time she left the house was if someone took her, or if I had to go to the doctor, we'd take a cab during the day. Eye-Buying for her was then only done from catalogs or newspaper ads. She might have walked all of 50 yards total to the dairy, or the neighborhood delicatessen, and only then if it was absolutely necessary. She became reclusive. Nearly everything she did was done over the phone. Unless, as I said, someone came to pry her out of the house. Her beautiful, naturally platinum hair began to gradually dull and was ash-blonde at the time of her death. Sadness and loss took away her beauty. Fear took away her power.
Perhaps if she had only learned how to drive, that wouldn't have happened to her. Long after "being ladylike" didn't matter as much, and by the time that most women were driving, there was too much traffic and it scared her. The thought of driving a car scared her. Driving an 18 or 19 hands high carriage horse didn't scare her though, and it took more moxie and finesse to drive them. Riding one of them with a sidesaddle (A SIDESADDLE!) didn't scare her either--I'm not talking about Hackneys here -- any four-legged equine was putty in her hands. Odd isn't it, the things we fear?
Eye-Buying was something to do with an agenda that involved nothing more than looking into the windows of shops to see what they had. Sometimes if the window looked really REALLY good, we'd go inside and try things on with the full knowledge we'd never be able to pay for those things. It was more akin to playing dress-up in someone else's closet, only with brand new clothing. We were never afraid to try on something beautiful just for the sake of trying it on! We were allowed to do this, I'm sure, because if we liked something we'd be back with a parent to buy it. That would never happen in any upscale store today. It wouldn't happen because store owners are afraid of inventory loss. Ohhh noooo, we musn't tamper with the bottom line!!
Some days we might only have a dollar or two in our pockets. We may have gotten a soda at a soda fountain, or some days we would go so far as to have lunch at "Wag's" or "Katz Drugstore's" lunch counter. If it was an actual shopping trip, we may have even splurged and had luncheon at Styx, Baer & Fuller or at Famous-Barr Southtown (damn, I really miss that store). Styx and Famous both had actual restaurants with linen on the tables--far better than a paper placemat. Today's stores forget the customer's comfort: Just get them in and out so more people can come in and out and buy more things! Large department stores with every available amenity are a thing of the past because corporations fear loss of any kind to their bottom line.
If it was an all out event, we'd go downtown, where all the biggest and best and usually most expensive stores and items were. That normally required taking the bus and a lot of heavy-duty outerwear, since it was usually at Christmas Time. The window dressings were marvelous, especially the ones that featured toys, because we all knew that everything there was something a rich kid might see under the tree at Christmas. If we were lucky, we might get ONE of those things from that particular window. As I got older, I noticed what the manikins were wearing and how they were posed and decorated. I believe window dressing is a lost art as well. Store windows are usually covered or painted to average human head-height. They are painted to discourage any planned shoplifters or would-be robbers. Paint provides a screen against communication with the outside. Corporations fear theft, and that now matters more than "in sight it must be right."
As a really young girl...before I ever went to school, I remember going downtown with my grandma. She would *call a car,* her term for calling a cab, and we would go downtown with a mission. It always, always involved having a nice lunch somewhere. Interestingly enough, she didn't know how to drive a car, even though we had one -- and a nice one, at that. She told me it wasn't ladylike to drive in her time. Being ladylike was how women survived in a misogynistic world. Men were afraid of losing power.
.
Eye-Buying with my grandmother was an entirely different experience than when I went with other kids. While my grandpa was still alive, we would peer into the windows. If she saw something she liked, we'd go in and look around. At every store, people there would know her. "Hello, Mrs. *******, how nice to have you back in our store again! What may I help you with today?" Those were still the days when my family name meant something to damned near everyone in the city. Those were also the days when being a sales clerk meant you had to have manners and respect for your customers. Sales clerks respected their lady clientele because if they didn't, a lady's husband would be right down there to push their faces in for them, at best. At worst, the husbands would have a word with their boss. The clerk was afraid of losing his job even more than being worried about having his own face pushed in.
It was great fun to go on adventures with my grandma, she was powerful in her own right, and I was never afraid when I was with her. She was a five-foot-two, brick house dynamo! Men fell over themselves trying to serve her. She was fully AWARE of the power she wielded, and yet it was subtle. She never barked orders like a drill sergeant, all she had to do was lift an eyebrow. She was a powerful woman who never left the house without stockings and heels, or a hat and gloves! She was beautiful. A man at her funeral told me she was *movie star beautiful.* Men and women alike both coveted her beauty and feared it.
After my grandpa died, my grandmother just sort of shriveled up into herself. She outlived my grandfather by thirty years. The only time she left the house was if someone took her, or if I had to go to the doctor, we'd take a cab during the day. Eye-Buying for her was then only done from catalogs or newspaper ads. She might have walked all of 50 yards total to the dairy, or the neighborhood delicatessen, and only then if it was absolutely necessary. She became reclusive. Nearly everything she did was done over the phone. Unless, as I said, someone came to pry her out of the house. Her beautiful, naturally platinum hair began to gradually dull and was ash-blonde at the time of her death. Sadness and loss took away her beauty. Fear took away her power.
Perhaps if she had only learned how to drive, that wouldn't have happened to her. Long after "being ladylike" didn't matter as much, and by the time that most women were driving, there was too much traffic and it scared her. The thought of driving a car scared her. Driving an 18 or 19 hands high carriage horse didn't scare her though, and it took more moxie and finesse to drive them. Riding one of them with a sidesaddle (A SIDESADDLE!) didn't scare her either--I'm not talking about Hackneys here -- any four-legged equine was putty in her hands. Odd isn't it, the things we fear?
Friday, March 25, 2016
MY OTHER *FRIEND* IS A SADIST!
I have had a male friend for a few months shy of thirty years. When I first met him, he was heading a major, nationally traded company. I was pirated from my firm by a headhunter to come in for an interview. I told him on that interview day that he would hire me and all the reasons why. I went to the interview with my boot on his neck and I knew I already had the upper hand. I had liked my then-current job. The pay was good, I worked, I had benefits, the hours were flexible, I had my own office and a staff of 22. I decided I would toy with him and have a little fun while I was doing it. It totally worked!! I told him how much he would pay me, how much my commission would be, how many vacation days I would get, etc. We both stood up, shook hands like "men," and then I told him he wouldn't be seeing me until the first of next month because I intended to take a vacation before I started since I hadn't had one in over five years. I also told him I wanted time to buy some new suits with the hiring bonus check he was going to write for me before I left that day. I was a hot commodity and I knew it. He needed ME even more than he needed the staff and clients I would bring with me. I got everything I asked for and more.
Two years into my employment there, I began to get sick. Really sick. I went to specialist after specialist. I was out sick more days than I was in the office and at my desk. I tried tele-commuting for several months, which ended with a lengthy stay at a hospital where I was put on a respirator. I had lost the ability to breathe on my own.
A few more months went by and I finally got the diagnosis of "Myasthenia Gravis." I was put on a massive dose of steroids and other drugs, weaned off the respirator, and sent home in a deep depression where I cocooned myself and applied for long-term disability. It had been my good fortune to opt for the maximum insurance policy when given the choice at the point of hiring. Incidentally, the long-term steroid dosing contributed to ruining my heart. Steroids for me were a wretched catch-22, since I needed them to live through the MG crises, but they were killing my heart in the process.
I could no longer sit up in an office chair for 8 or more hours a day. Some days I wasn't even strong enough to lift my head. Other days I found I could not speak...the vocal chords are muscles, of course, and MG is a neuro-muscular disease. It got to the point that I never knew which part of me wouldn't work each morning I woke.
During that time I found out just what a good friend he was. He would often pick me up and take me places where I wouldn't have been able to go by myself. He would bring me groceries. He would buy, and deliver prescriptions if I didn't have cash available. He brought me books and movies and even a new TV when mine rolled belly up, so my mind would stay active.
He took me to a number of book signings that, even though I was no longer technically working, he made sure I got paid for my time in cash. He bought me a wheelchair and personally pushed me 2 blocks uphill to get to a bookstore because that was the closest he could park since the author was a best seller, was there for a signing, so she drew a big crowd. He *NEEDED* me to be there--this author and I had history. Back then I could have recited by memory every single one of her books I had had, and he himself only knew one trilogy by this author under a different nom de plume she used when writing in a particular style.
If he had me with him, he got to go to the head of the class, right up front, directly to the table...no standing in line, no madding crowd, no toddlers alternating between eating boogers and screaming as their mothers dragged them along in strollers, or on child-sized harnesses and leashes .At some point, early into my disability, my former boss became my best friend and we have stayed friends all these years.
We had worked together as colleagues, and we have also been business partners, this man and I over the years, have started two companies together after I retired with my disability, and he quit the initial company that had brought us together. And, of course, we were for the longest time, best friends. He told me I was, in fact, his ONLY friend, not just his best friend, and the only completely trust worthy person he knew.
For almost thirty years we have talked several times a week on the phone, sometimes several times daily, and at any and all hours of the day and night. Just before last Christmas when I was having anxiety attacks, he told me, "You can call me any time, ANY TIME, day or night. I sleep with my phone right next to my head. I will always be there for you. He told me a few years back that he had often wished I was his wife and confessed that he had married the wrong person.
After 15 years, my myasthenia was finally under control with medication, and only became potentially "gravis," or deadly, if I had a concurrent active illness. I left the state due to another job, only to be brought down by a new illness.
When he found out I was going to have heart surgery he told me to make sure he was notified immediately if something happened to me, and if my health suddenly took a turn for the worse. We discussed wills and living wills. There was not one subject that was ever off limits. We could talk about anything.
The last time I talked to him he had told me his own health was getting worse. He said he had the alarming symptom of enormously swollen legs..that morning he had awakened and his legs were so swollen he couldn't even put his pants on and had to have his wife go out and buy some giant sweat pants just so he could get to the doctor later that day. I begged him to go to the Emergency Room at the local hospital, because the first thing that came to my mind when he told me of his alarming symptom, was the health of his heart. That was the day before New Year's Eve, 2015. At the end of the first week of January, I realized I hadn't heard from him. I had assumed I would hear from him later that day, or the next day at the latest, that he was probably dealing with whatever illness he had and wanted to be left alone.
Several days went by and still he had not phoned me. I tried to call him the next day, and the next, and on the third day...no answer to any of my calls. I became alarmed. I called every day that week. Each time, no answer. I sent emails to all the accounts I knew he had from all the accounts that I have myself...no answer. After that first week and the flurry of unanswered phone calls I began to think the worst. I called at least once, maybe twice a week thereafter.
When my Uncle/Brother Mikey died, on January 23rd, I thought at the time I would be in his city for the funeral. I again called him, leaving a message about the death and saying I would be in town for the funeral and I wanted to meet. No response. The following week I called a few more times until the last call I made went straight to his voice mail.
I sent another volley of emails, short and to the point, subject line: WHERE ARE YOU? The body of the emails said, "I can only assume that something bad has happened to you. The last time we spoke you were worried about your grossly swollen legs and I was actually worried about your heart. PLEASE contact me to let me know what has happened!" He had admitted to me late last year during one of our regular phone calls that he had gained over 150 pounds since we had last seen each other, so I was definitely worried about his heart.
Yesterday morning, March 13, 2016, I finally got a response from his main email account stating the following: "I just got back from Hong Kong. Stop trying to contact me." The most brief response I had ever gotten from him in the entire 30 years.
WHAT. THE. HELL? What friend sends an email like that? Does this make any kind of sense? Have I suddenly lost my mind and awakened in an alternate universe? It makes me want to get in my car and drive to his house just to punch him in the teeth. It might take me 3 days to drive 400 miles, but I'd do it for the sole reason of making myself feel better.
I recall having a conversation with him on the very day England pulled out of Hong Kong and how neither of us would want to go there ever now that the Chinese were back in control, so this response makes absolute zero sense to me.
After 30 years you do shit like this to me? No explanation at all? No "I'm sorry I was the cause of your worry?" No "I wanted to scare the shit out of you on purpose?" No "We've been friends for 30 years, but I decided you weren't worth notifying about my departure from the country?" I take it back. He doesn't deserve to be punched in the teeth. This calls for a throat punch. Jesus Wept.
Two years into my employment there, I began to get sick. Really sick. I went to specialist after specialist. I was out sick more days than I was in the office and at my desk. I tried tele-commuting for several months, which ended with a lengthy stay at a hospital where I was put on a respirator. I had lost the ability to breathe on my own.
A few more months went by and I finally got the diagnosis of "Myasthenia Gravis." I was put on a massive dose of steroids and other drugs, weaned off the respirator, and sent home in a deep depression where I cocooned myself and applied for long-term disability. It had been my good fortune to opt for the maximum insurance policy when given the choice at the point of hiring. Incidentally, the long-term steroid dosing contributed to ruining my heart. Steroids for me were a wretched catch-22, since I needed them to live through the MG crises, but they were killing my heart in the process.
I could no longer sit up in an office chair for 8 or more hours a day. Some days I wasn't even strong enough to lift my head. Other days I found I could not speak...the vocal chords are muscles, of course, and MG is a neuro-muscular disease. It got to the point that I never knew which part of me wouldn't work each morning I woke.
During that time I found out just what a good friend he was. He would often pick me up and take me places where I wouldn't have been able to go by myself. He would bring me groceries. He would buy, and deliver prescriptions if I didn't have cash available. He brought me books and movies and even a new TV when mine rolled belly up, so my mind would stay active.
He took me to a number of book signings that, even though I was no longer technically working, he made sure I got paid for my time in cash. He bought me a wheelchair and personally pushed me 2 blocks uphill to get to a bookstore because that was the closest he could park since the author was a best seller, was there for a signing, so she drew a big crowd. He *NEEDED* me to be there--this author and I had history. Back then I could have recited by memory every single one of her books I had had, and he himself only knew one trilogy by this author under a different nom de plume she used when writing in a particular style.
If he had me with him, he got to go to the head of the class, right up front, directly to the table...no standing in line, no madding crowd, no toddlers alternating between eating boogers and screaming as their mothers dragged them along in strollers, or on child-sized harnesses and leashes .At some point, early into my disability, my former boss became my best friend and we have stayed friends all these years.
We had worked together as colleagues, and we have also been business partners, this man and I over the years, have started two companies together after I retired with my disability, and he quit the initial company that had brought us together. And, of course, we were for the longest time, best friends. He told me I was, in fact, his ONLY friend, not just his best friend, and the only completely trust worthy person he knew.
For almost thirty years we have talked several times a week on the phone, sometimes several times daily, and at any and all hours of the day and night. Just before last Christmas when I was having anxiety attacks, he told me, "You can call me any time, ANY TIME, day or night. I sleep with my phone right next to my head. I will always be there for you. He told me a few years back that he had often wished I was his wife and confessed that he had married the wrong person.
After 15 years, my myasthenia was finally under control with medication, and only became potentially "gravis," or deadly, if I had a concurrent active illness. I left the state due to another job, only to be brought down by a new illness.
When he found out I was going to have heart surgery he told me to make sure he was notified immediately if something happened to me, and if my health suddenly took a turn for the worse. We discussed wills and living wills. There was not one subject that was ever off limits. We could talk about anything.
The last time I talked to him he had told me his own health was getting worse. He said he had the alarming symptom of enormously swollen legs..that morning he had awakened and his legs were so swollen he couldn't even put his pants on and had to have his wife go out and buy some giant sweat pants just so he could get to the doctor later that day. I begged him to go to the Emergency Room at the local hospital, because the first thing that came to my mind when he told me of his alarming symptom, was the health of his heart. That was the day before New Year's Eve, 2015. At the end of the first week of January, I realized I hadn't heard from him. I had assumed I would hear from him later that day, or the next day at the latest, that he was probably dealing with whatever illness he had and wanted to be left alone.
Several days went by and still he had not phoned me. I tried to call him the next day, and the next, and on the third day...no answer to any of my calls. I became alarmed. I called every day that week. Each time, no answer. I sent emails to all the accounts I knew he had from all the accounts that I have myself...no answer. After that first week and the flurry of unanswered phone calls I began to think the worst. I called at least once, maybe twice a week thereafter.
When my Uncle/Brother Mikey died, on January 23rd, I thought at the time I would be in his city for the funeral. I again called him, leaving a message about the death and saying I would be in town for the funeral and I wanted to meet. No response. The following week I called a few more times until the last call I made went straight to his voice mail.
I sent another volley of emails, short and to the point, subject line: WHERE ARE YOU? The body of the emails said, "I can only assume that something bad has happened to you. The last time we spoke you were worried about your grossly swollen legs and I was actually worried about your heart. PLEASE contact me to let me know what has happened!" He had admitted to me late last year during one of our regular phone calls that he had gained over 150 pounds since we had last seen each other, so I was definitely worried about his heart.
Yesterday morning, March 13, 2016, I finally got a response from his main email account stating the following: "I just got back from Hong Kong. Stop trying to contact me." The most brief response I had ever gotten from him in the entire 30 years.
WHAT. THE. HELL? What friend sends an email like that? Does this make any kind of sense? Have I suddenly lost my mind and awakened in an alternate universe? It makes me want to get in my car and drive to his house just to punch him in the teeth. It might take me 3 days to drive 400 miles, but I'd do it for the sole reason of making myself feel better.
I recall having a conversation with him on the very day England pulled out of Hong Kong and how neither of us would want to go there ever now that the Chinese were back in control, so this response makes absolute zero sense to me.
After 30 years you do shit like this to me? No explanation at all? No "I'm sorry I was the cause of your worry?" No "I wanted to scare the shit out of you on purpose?" No "We've been friends for 30 years, but I decided you weren't worth notifying about my departure from the country?" I take it back. He doesn't deserve to be punched in the teeth. This calls for a throat punch. Jesus Wept.
Friday, January 29, 2016
BAD HAIKU OF JANUARY, 2016, DEATH STALKS US
Winter tolls death knell
No weeping at a grave site
Bansidhe screams silent
*********************************************************************************
I mourn the passing of my dearest uncle Michael. My grandparents and 3 teenagers raised me. When I came home from the hospital as a new baby, Mike was 14, Bob was 13, and Annie was 10. I was raised by my grandparents and by a tribe of teenagers. They were all very good to me, but I was especially close to Mike. His loss has left a huge, gaping wound in my damaged, grinch heart.
Oddly enough, we both had our first heart attacks at the same, young age, and had subsequent heart surgeries and grafts in the exact same places on the exact same vessels. Along with the bad heart, he and I also shared other strange medical conditions and ailments. There is a definite genetic link in our bad hearts, and doubtless the other health issues, too. I am beginning to think these are not all different diseases or conditions, but are actually symptoms of one disease.
There is something really odd and strange about his heart attack, and please bear with me while I relate it. Mike and his brother, Bob, were on a winter fishing trip at Kentucky Lake. It was cold, and they were out on the lake in a boat. Somehow, they managed to tip the boat over and both of them went into the water. Naturally, neither of them were wearing life vests. Bob was able to cling onto the side of the boat, but Mike surfaced underneath it...he told me he had tried to float and to stay calm, but I suppose the cold and the shock got to him; he slipped underwater and didn't re-surface. Fortunately, someone had witnessed this happen and was able to call 911 and get a rescue team there as soon as possible.
By the time rescue arrived he had been underwater for 20 minutes. In his case, the near freezing water actually helped him. They were able to revive him. He went directly to intensive care via helicopter. The next day, a doctor came to see him to tell him he had fluid in his lungs and needed a heart operation. His reply was, "No shit, asshole, I just drowned. Of course my lungs are gonna be full of fluid!" That's my Mike--never pulled any punches.
The doctor countered, "Nooooo...your lungs are not full of lake water, they are full because your heart is not pumping correctly. You have extensive blockages in all your major coronary vessels. Mike was able to get out one word, which was "Bullshit," and then the first heart attack struck. He was whisked away into heart surgery where they did a quadruple bypass that very day. Afterward they would not release him to go home alone to his own home--he had to be discharged where someone would be there to care for him, so he went to my mother's house to stay. At that time she was probably more sick than he was, as she was in the process of dying of COPD and emphysema. At the time I was living in Clayton and would check on them both nearly every day.
He had to stop working as an electrician, which is often quite physically demanding, and put in a claim for disability. He was also able to draw a disability check from the union, so he was not that bad off. He was still making good money, as far as disability goes. Of course it was nowhere near what he made as an electrician, but now he had no travel or other work-related expenses. He had worked like a dog his whole life and had amassed quite a tidy sum in annuities for his retirement, which had yet to be touched at the time of his death. His wife, whom he had not seen in 40 years will reap that benefit. She is a greedy bitch. (I never pull any punches either.) She never HAD to work a day in her life, but unbeknownst to him had had a full time job for the last 20 years and had been hiding that knowledge from him. He continued to send her half of his check the entire time he was alive. I believe the IRS will be informed, and I will stand by and wait as the axe falls across the correct neck.
Now here's what really gets me. There will be no funeral. He wanted to cremated and have his ashes poured into Kentucky Lake, where he "died" the first time. He believed, as I do, that you die when you're supposed to die. If you're brought back, you are essentially in a living hell on Earth for the remaining time spent alive. My uncle Martin felt the same way. We all arrived at this conclusion at different times, but realized we were on the same page when I happened to mention one day that my life has been nothing but turmoil and a roiling morass of pain and anguish of one sort or another since the day I was brought back from death. As was Michael's life, As was Martin's life. So, by Mike's thinking, he is going back to his watery grave, where he should have stayed when he was *dead* the first time.
Another twist to the knife in my ribs: There will be no memorial service for him for our remaining family which consists of me (technically his niece, but I have the pride of place as sister because we grew up together in the same household, in the same generation), his brother Bob, and a skillion first cousins and then the children of the cousins. There are hundreds upon hundreds of union people who knew him and respected him, and many who just respect the family name. We are considered "big wigs" as far as the union is considered.
In summation, I think it is total horseshit that no one cares enough to organize some kind of a memorial service. We NEED a memorial because it helps the grieving process. I can't do it because I am extremely ill. I could make it there, more than likely, but would need at least a day to recover from the drive there, then again for the drive back.
The year 2015 was not a good one for me, health-wise. I'm dying and I know it. Every day I get just a little bit weaker, a little more dependent. I am quite literally wasting away. I have lost enough weight to make up another entire person. My muscles are totally gone -- I have little to no musculature at all on my body. I am merely a skeleton covered by a lot of loose skin. I have reached "dying weight." So, I'm too damned sick to drive up to St. Louis and throw together a memorial, and it's something I just can't do over the phone. Even if it is just a get together, or a potluck meal at someone's house (and there are plenty of big houses among the cousins), it would be better than nothing.
I am disappointed in the rest of my asshole family. Ashamed, even. I see their true colors. I see how they are. How dare they care so little for something so important? Do they have so little regard for their elders, so little pride in their own family? These same people would not have hesitated to call on me, Mike & Bob if they needed something, or if we had something they wanted, or think nothing of just taking that something without even asking. That shit ends today. New will in progress.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
BLESSED ARE THE POOR IN SPIRIT
On January 8, 1976, I was struck by a car and killed. I was revived once, on the street where I laid. I died again in the ambulance but they brought me back a second time. I died again from blood loss after reaching the hospital, and died a fourth time due to seizing and brain swelling--I had massive head trauma. They brought me back, to be placed on life support. I was comatose.
They did not expect me to live at all. In fact, my left leg, nearly completely severed and held together by one tendon, an artery and some veins and the skin over the knee, was mended with only 7 stitches. That confirms to me they thought they were sewing up a cadaver. Who mends a severed limb with only seven stitches? It was reported to me I did nothing but scream continually for nearly four days before they gave me enough Valium to stop the screaming. It was disturbing the other patients.
Last Rites were administered to me by Father Norman Christian, a priest I had known from my parish Church and school since moving there in 1974. I laid in a coma for 28 days, and then suddenly for no apparent reason, I woke up. Father Norman Christian was sitting next to my bed.
I won't go into what it's like to come out of a coma. It can't be explained, and it certainly could not be understood by anyone other than another person who had come out of a coma. We survivors are few and far between.
I remember being asked where does it hurt? What hurts the most? My answer was in German, "Sehr schlecht, jeder Ort. Schmerz. Qual." I remember these words because it was all I could say over and over and over. Later some nonsensical German leaked in, like parts of poems, or things I had read-- but always "Qual," which means "agony." I could understand the English speech, but could not answer in it. I remember being very frustrated and crying or laughing at the frustration. They brought in a German priest to translate: "She says "everywhere...it hurts everywhere. She is in agony." Well, DOH...did they need a translator to tell them that? Seriously?
After I "woke up" they then decided after a few more days I would probably survive operations, so they began to fix the parts of me that had been left broken the entire time I was in SICU, providing more "Qual." I spent nearly two years out of school, in and out of the hospital being "fixed." A large part of that time was spent in a body cast. The whole time they were worried about my head and brain, but my back will never be right, and the leg proved to be the worst of all. Bone grafts, skin grafts, plates, screws, pins, etc, all to provide me with what is essentially a living "peg leg." It supports my weight and serves as a prop, but can do nothing else. I have walked with some sort of device since that time (walkers, crutches, canes of various types).
Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a body cast for a continual 9 months? Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a hospital for any length of time at all? At first there are lots and lots of visitors Hundreds of people came to see me. I'm not kidding. My entire 8th grade class came to see me--that's about 60 kids. Everyone from high school came at least once, out of a class of 400 plus. All my teachers, past and the then-present came. My High School German teacher came to see me several times. She gave me "A" grades for the entire time I was out of school, and for the entire 4 years, I should add. (This is something entirely without explanation. I had had exactly 4 months of German at school, and awakened from a coma speaking near fluent German? One for the X-Files, gang.) Cards and letters poured in. Then the visitors dwindle, the cards stop coming, and back then, hospital rooms didn't even have TVs. They had a TV "rental" program that I didn't get, since we couldn't afford it. Can you imagine the boredom? Eventually my visiting classmates stopped coming altogether. My only regular visitor was good ol' Father Norman Christian. Every Thursday afternoon. Like clockwork.
Apparently new parts of my brain began to function for the places that had been lost to trauma. For instance, I could brush my teeth without sticking the toothbrush into my ear. Every physical thing I once knew how to do I had to relearn. And the English came back. Fr. Christian, for the entire two years was there to visit me every Thursday afternoon without fail. Sometimes he would bring little somethings with him...a milkshake, or a little puzzle, or we would play chess. Once he brought a T-Rex head on a stick...a trigger mechanism operated the jaw to make it "bite." We both laughed uproariously over it, a silly thing. He had hidden it out of sight and its head ever so slowly appeared over the side of my bed...looming over my face and eventually giving me a tiny "bite" on the tip of my nose. It actually proved to be a wonderful gift because it lengthened my reach and I could pick up small things with it, such as a pen that was out of reach, or scoot a book closer.
Then one Thursday afternoon Father Christian came to see me. He had with him a guitar and that beat up old guitar changed my life completely. I had played guitar at masses for my class and he had remembered! Suddenly I had an activity to do...something to strive for and accomplish. I would play until my fingers couldn't stand it. I would rest awhile, then play some more. When he came to see me after that, we would sing together while I played. I became quite an accomplished player with absolutely nothing to do all day but futz around with that guitar. At 16 I began to get gigs. By the time I graduated from high school (I had kept pace with my class) I was a solo act in the blues bars of downtown St. Louis. He came to see me play one night when I was at Cafe Louis. I owe everything I did musically to my friend, Father Norman Christian.
He was moved to another parish and we lost touch. I would think of him from time to time, meaning to call him, but I never did. The other night, I had the bright idea to try to find him online, hoping he was still alive. To my utter horror and disbelief, I found his name among the pedophile priests of St. Louis. I found the name of his sister and called her last Sunday, seeking...I don't know what...seeking conformation, I guess. She told me it was all true, that "Norman" had admitted everything before he died in 2004, and had even abused her own daughter by telling her about the things he did to and with other kids. He had abused both vulnerable boys and girls and had no preference. The man she described to me was not the man I knew. Could NOT have been the man I knew.
My brain has been nothing but a shit storm since the moment I heard those words come out of her mouth. I have been going through every memory I have of Father Norman Christian and every memory is a good one. He did not abuse me, he was nothing but good to me. He was happy and kind and wonderful to me. He encouraged me at every turn. He was the only person who didn't abandon me in the hospital, even after my own mother stopped coming to see me regularly. And truly, is there anyone MORE vulnerable than a 14 year old girl in a goddamned body cast?
It was like his sister and I were talking about two different people. Total polar opposites. I still cannot fully wrap my head around it. I am wondering if maybe he had some kind of illness like a brain tumor or something that left a pedophile monster in its wake? I am not ashamed to say that I loved Father Norman Christian, and I'm pretty damned sure he loved me. He loved me, not in the warped sense that a pedophile loves one of his victims, but not unlike the love a father has for a daughter. I can't even be sure of this either, since I never met my father....see...I am made even more vulnerable by that fact. I have vulnerable written all over me, and yet, I was absolutely NOT ABUSED.
To be poor in spirit is to recognize your utter spiritual bankruptcy before God. It is understanding that you have absolutely nothing of worth to offer God. Being poor in spirit is admitting that, because of your sin, you are completely destitute spiritually and can do nothing to deliver yourself from your dire situation. Jesus is saying that, no matter your status in life, you must recognize your spiritual poverty before you can come to God in faith to receive the salvation He offers. If there is a more dire situation than that of Father Norman Christian, I don't know what it is. So blessed is Norman Christian, his is the kingdom of Heaven.
They did not expect me to live at all. In fact, my left leg, nearly completely severed and held together by one tendon, an artery and some veins and the skin over the knee, was mended with only 7 stitches. That confirms to me they thought they were sewing up a cadaver. Who mends a severed limb with only seven stitches? It was reported to me I did nothing but scream continually for nearly four days before they gave me enough Valium to stop the screaming. It was disturbing the other patients.
Last Rites were administered to me by Father Norman Christian, a priest I had known from my parish Church and school since moving there in 1974. I laid in a coma for 28 days, and then suddenly for no apparent reason, I woke up. Father Norman Christian was sitting next to my bed.
I won't go into what it's like to come out of a coma. It can't be explained, and it certainly could not be understood by anyone other than another person who had come out of a coma. We survivors are few and far between.
I remember being asked where does it hurt? What hurts the most? My answer was in German, "Sehr schlecht, jeder Ort. Schmerz. Qual." I remember these words because it was all I could say over and over and over. Later some nonsensical German leaked in, like parts of poems, or things I had read-- but always "Qual," which means "agony." I could understand the English speech, but could not answer in it. I remember being very frustrated and crying or laughing at the frustration. They brought in a German priest to translate: "She says "everywhere...it hurts everywhere. She is in agony." Well, DOH...did they need a translator to tell them that? Seriously?
After I "woke up" they then decided after a few more days I would probably survive operations, so they began to fix the parts of me that had been left broken the entire time I was in SICU, providing more "Qual." I spent nearly two years out of school, in and out of the hospital being "fixed." A large part of that time was spent in a body cast. The whole time they were worried about my head and brain, but my back will never be right, and the leg proved to be the worst of all. Bone grafts, skin grafts, plates, screws, pins, etc, all to provide me with what is essentially a living "peg leg." It supports my weight and serves as a prop, but can do nothing else. I have walked with some sort of device since that time (walkers, crutches, canes of various types).
Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a body cast for a continual 9 months? Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a hospital for any length of time at all? At first there are lots and lots of visitors Hundreds of people came to see me. I'm not kidding. My entire 8th grade class came to see me--that's about 60 kids. Everyone from high school came at least once, out of a class of 400 plus. All my teachers, past and the then-present came. My High School German teacher came to see me several times. She gave me "A" grades for the entire time I was out of school, and for the entire 4 years, I should add. (This is something entirely without explanation. I had had exactly 4 months of German at school, and awakened from a coma speaking near fluent German? One for the X-Files, gang.) Cards and letters poured in. Then the visitors dwindle, the cards stop coming, and back then, hospital rooms didn't even have TVs. They had a TV "rental" program that I didn't get, since we couldn't afford it. Can you imagine the boredom? Eventually my visiting classmates stopped coming altogether. My only regular visitor was good ol' Father Norman Christian. Every Thursday afternoon. Like clockwork.
Apparently new parts of my brain began to function for the places that had been lost to trauma. For instance, I could brush my teeth without sticking the toothbrush into my ear. Every physical thing I once knew how to do I had to relearn. And the English came back. Fr. Christian, for the entire two years was there to visit me every Thursday afternoon without fail. Sometimes he would bring little somethings with him...a milkshake, or a little puzzle, or we would play chess. Once he brought a T-Rex head on a stick...a trigger mechanism operated the jaw to make it "bite." We both laughed uproariously over it, a silly thing. He had hidden it out of sight and its head ever so slowly appeared over the side of my bed...looming over my face and eventually giving me a tiny "bite" on the tip of my nose. It actually proved to be a wonderful gift because it lengthened my reach and I could pick up small things with it, such as a pen that was out of reach, or scoot a book closer.
Then one Thursday afternoon Father Christian came to see me. He had with him a guitar and that beat up old guitar changed my life completely. I had played guitar at masses for my class and he had remembered! Suddenly I had an activity to do...something to strive for and accomplish. I would play until my fingers couldn't stand it. I would rest awhile, then play some more. When he came to see me after that, we would sing together while I played. I became quite an accomplished player with absolutely nothing to do all day but futz around with that guitar. At 16 I began to get gigs. By the time I graduated from high school (I had kept pace with my class) I was a solo act in the blues bars of downtown St. Louis. He came to see me play one night when I was at Cafe Louis. I owe everything I did musically to my friend, Father Norman Christian.
He was moved to another parish and we lost touch. I would think of him from time to time, meaning to call him, but I never did. The other night, I had the bright idea to try to find him online, hoping he was still alive. To my utter horror and disbelief, I found his name among the pedophile priests of St. Louis. I found the name of his sister and called her last Sunday, seeking...I don't know what...seeking conformation, I guess. She told me it was all true, that "Norman" had admitted everything before he died in 2004, and had even abused her own daughter by telling her about the things he did to and with other kids. He had abused both vulnerable boys and girls and had no preference. The man she described to me was not the man I knew. Could NOT have been the man I knew.
My brain has been nothing but a shit storm since the moment I heard those words come out of her mouth. I have been going through every memory I have of Father Norman Christian and every memory is a good one. He did not abuse me, he was nothing but good to me. He was happy and kind and wonderful to me. He encouraged me at every turn. He was the only person who didn't abandon me in the hospital, even after my own mother stopped coming to see me regularly. And truly, is there anyone MORE vulnerable than a 14 year old girl in a goddamned body cast?
It was like his sister and I were talking about two different people. Total polar opposites. I still cannot fully wrap my head around it. I am wondering if maybe he had some kind of illness like a brain tumor or something that left a pedophile monster in its wake? I am not ashamed to say that I loved Father Norman Christian, and I'm pretty damned sure he loved me. He loved me, not in the warped sense that a pedophile loves one of his victims, but not unlike the love a father has for a daughter. I can't even be sure of this either, since I never met my father....see...I am made even more vulnerable by that fact. I have vulnerable written all over me, and yet, I was absolutely NOT ABUSED.
To be poor in spirit is to recognize your utter spiritual bankruptcy before God. It is understanding that you have absolutely nothing of worth to offer God. Being poor in spirit is admitting that, because of your sin, you are completely destitute spiritually and can do nothing to deliver yourself from your dire situation. Jesus is saying that, no matter your status in life, you must recognize your spiritual poverty before you can come to God in faith to receive the salvation He offers. If there is a more dire situation than that of Father Norman Christian, I don't know what it is. So blessed is Norman Christian, his is the kingdom of Heaven.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
DEATH IS NOTHING AT ALL
Anyone who knows me well, knows I generally have no love for poetry. This is one poem I do happen to love. It is comforting, in its strange way. I agree with everything it says, and I do find it to be a comfort. I recommend that it be used liberally, or at will. I've been reading it a lot lately.
DEATH IS NOTHING AT ALL
by Henry Scott Holland
Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away to the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That, we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you.
For an interval.
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.
All is well.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That, we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you.
For an interval.
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.
All is well.
Monday, November 17, 2014
GOOD GRIEF!
It occurred to me today that I am grieving. I read a quote that someone had posted and here it is: "The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not 'get over' the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but, you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to." -- Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler
I realized today that I was in a state of grief, and have been for some time. I was in shock when they first told me me I would need immediate heart surgery or a grave digger. Well, not in those words exactly, but you get the point. Upon being awakened after surgery and once I had my wits about me, I realized I was in horrific pain. I was told by the end of six weeks I would feel like a new person, that my pain would largely be gone, that I'd be able to breathe again without gasping for every breath. I looked forward to the surgery and was terrified at the same time.
I started grieving the day I realized that six months had passed and the horrific pain had never gotten better and would NEVER get better. I am grieving the loss of life as I knew it, which hadn't been particularly good for a long, long time. I've been ill forever it seems. But there were some things I could still do. Although physically disabled, I generally enjoyed life. I could get around, I could walk with my dogs, I could go places, do things--see actual people and interact with them. I could do things and occupy my time. I could clean my own goddamned house. I could cook myself a meal. I could get dressed all by myself. I could take a bath all by myself. I could walk out into the back yard and not have to take a phone with me in case I fell. I could make it to the bathroom before I peed in my pants. I grieve for my own lost life. Dammit, I had plans. Places to go, people to see, things to do. Gone. It's all gone. I am not grieving over the death of someone close, but it is grief nonetheless.
You know that stupid card the nurses hand you? The Pain Card? It shows a completely neutral face for zero pain. The faces get progressively worse indicating more pain, until you get to number 10, the worst pain. The scale only goes to 10. You are not supposed to be any more painful than level 10. I have never been on that 1-10 scale. I rate my physical pain at 12. In fact, this is the best pain chart example I could come up with:
Now, on top of the physical pain I have, I also have the pain of grief, which is a much different type of pain. The pain of my particular grief is more like a giant, open, raw, weeping, festering sore. It is not only excruciatingly painful, but it is ugly to look at. Slowly, over a period of many, many months, it began to get minutely better at the sides of the open wound. Microns of new flesh began to form at the edges, slowly, ever so slowly beginning to close. It continues that way unless someone happens to rake it open with a careless mistake, or a heartless comment. Maybe, just maybe, years from now, if I last that long, my wound will form a scab over the top. The wound will still be there, still excruciating, but not weeping, not festering. Maybe, just maybe in a few more years I'll grow some scar tissue over the wound.
Scar tissue has a pain all its own. It hurts like hell if someone presses on it, or it gets bumped on a sharp table edge, but it won't bleed. The wound of grief never completely heals, no matter how much time passes. I may grow scar tissue, that's the absolute best that could happen. I am left with a giant, unsightly scar that will never, ever go away. It's a reminder that something, once beautiful, is now gone forever, reduced to scar tissue and gallons upon gallons of shed tears.
I have not 'learned to live with it," I am forced to live with it. I have not "rebuilt around it" because I will never be whole again, there is nothing left upon which to build. There is just a smidgen of truth to the above quote--just enough to catch your eye. The truth is I WILL grieve forever and I will NEVER be the same. The rest is bullshit, plain and simple. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler, I am here to tell you, you are both WRONG! How dare you feed false hope to those who grieve? Everyone grieves in their own way, that is the only certainty. You won't know until it happens to you. You can both take your precious quote and stuff it in your asses. Sideways.
I realized today that I was in a state of grief, and have been for some time. I was in shock when they first told me me I would need immediate heart surgery or a grave digger. Well, not in those words exactly, but you get the point. Upon being awakened after surgery and once I had my wits about me, I realized I was in horrific pain. I was told by the end of six weeks I would feel like a new person, that my pain would largely be gone, that I'd be able to breathe again without gasping for every breath. I looked forward to the surgery and was terrified at the same time.
I started grieving the day I realized that six months had passed and the horrific pain had never gotten better and would NEVER get better. I am grieving the loss of life as I knew it, which hadn't been particularly good for a long, long time. I've been ill forever it seems. But there were some things I could still do. Although physically disabled, I generally enjoyed life. I could get around, I could walk with my dogs, I could go places, do things--see actual people and interact with them. I could do things and occupy my time. I could clean my own goddamned house. I could cook myself a meal. I could get dressed all by myself. I could take a bath all by myself. I could walk out into the back yard and not have to take a phone with me in case I fell. I could make it to the bathroom before I peed in my pants. I grieve for my own lost life. Dammit, I had plans. Places to go, people to see, things to do. Gone. It's all gone. I am not grieving over the death of someone close, but it is grief nonetheless.
You know that stupid card the nurses hand you? The Pain Card? It shows a completely neutral face for zero pain. The faces get progressively worse indicating more pain, until you get to number 10, the worst pain. The scale only goes to 10. You are not supposed to be any more painful than level 10. I have never been on that 1-10 scale. I rate my physical pain at 12. In fact, this is the best pain chart example I could come up with:
Now, on top of the physical pain I have, I also have the pain of grief, which is a much different type of pain. The pain of my particular grief is more like a giant, open, raw, weeping, festering sore. It is not only excruciatingly painful, but it is ugly to look at. Slowly, over a period of many, many months, it began to get minutely better at the sides of the open wound. Microns of new flesh began to form at the edges, slowly, ever so slowly beginning to close. It continues that way unless someone happens to rake it open with a careless mistake, or a heartless comment. Maybe, just maybe, years from now, if I last that long, my wound will form a scab over the top. The wound will still be there, still excruciating, but not weeping, not festering. Maybe, just maybe in a few more years I'll grow some scar tissue over the wound.
Scar tissue has a pain all its own. It hurts like hell if someone presses on it, or it gets bumped on a sharp table edge, but it won't bleed. The wound of grief never completely heals, no matter how much time passes. I may grow scar tissue, that's the absolute best that could happen. I am left with a giant, unsightly scar that will never, ever go away. It's a reminder that something, once beautiful, is now gone forever, reduced to scar tissue and gallons upon gallons of shed tears.
I have not 'learned to live with it," I am forced to live with it. I have not "rebuilt around it" because I will never be whole again, there is nothing left upon which to build. There is just a smidgen of truth to the above quote--just enough to catch your eye. The truth is I WILL grieve forever and I will NEVER be the same. The rest is bullshit, plain and simple. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler, I am here to tell you, you are both WRONG! How dare you feed false hope to those who grieve? Everyone grieves in their own way, that is the only certainty. You won't know until it happens to you. You can both take your precious quote and stuff it in your asses. Sideways.
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