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.

THE PRICE OF THE LIFE OF A FRIEND

My family has always been in the horse business, even before they came to America. In fact, that's how they were able to have enough money to come here in the first place, and all at the same time. Three generations came at once, and all because of their horses.  

Catherine's husband had died, leaving her with seven children, six boys and one girl and the livery stable they had owned together. She hung on as long as she could, squirreling away every penny, then sold the horses and the business, I was told, at a very good price for the day. It was enough to buy a first class ticket for everyone: the five boys, her mother, her younger sister, and still have enough to live a nice life until they got themselves established here. Three strong, intelligent women with good business sense, and five young boys came alone, with no other family to help them, and no one waiting for them here.To the new world they came, from Ireland, somewhere around the late 1890s, just before the turn of the century. Georgie Boy, the littlest, had been born exactly one month after his father had died. Little Georgie was also the seventh son of a seventh son.

Of course they started the business they knew, Horses. They bought/built/occupied a stable in what is now part of downtown St. Louis. In fact, that very building was still standing the last time I visited there. They specialized in livery. They had coaches and carriages and teams for hire, and also wagons with matched teams of draft horses. They had riding horses for hire, too. They regularly bought and sold horses, and trained their own teams. The boys were known for "gentling" horses instead of breaking them. They could take a green horse and make him into a bombproof gentleman's horse in two week's time. This was still during the day that horses ruled and before engines overtook the streets of the world. 

I'm not sure how they came by "Yella," a giant, draft colt, since they almost strictly had matched teams of draft horses, not singletons. A single riding horse or carriage horse yes, but never a single draft horse. Perhaps they bought a mare and he was the foal at her side. At any rate, Yella was a singleton, and could never be matched. He was an odd color, and huge, even by draft horse standards. He loved little Georgie boy, and would follow him around like a puppy. Georgie slept in the stable in Yella's stall on warm nights every chance he got, which was as often as he could sneak out of the house without anyone noticing. The two were always together, until Yella got old enough and big enough to be hired out on jobs.

Georgie, while still a boy, became Yella's driver. A team was two matched horses and their driver. But together, Georgie and Yella made a team, because Yella by himself was as strong as two horses together.Yella would do anything Georgie asked of him. Georgie and Yella became known all over town for pulling loads no other two-horse teams would take, or for navigating difficult terrain, and for generally doing jobs other double teams had refused. Georgie Boy and Yella were always sent out on the most difficult jobs and were famous for getting the job done.

By the time Georgie was a young man he and Yella were a legend around town. One day there was drink involved. In those days, anyone who could reach the bar and had the coin, was served whatever they ordered. It didn't take much to get a kid drunk--Georgie was a young teenager and had a small, wiry build, so in his case it didn't take much at all. On that particular day, Georgie boy had already drunk his fill.  He boasted, "I have one hundred dollars that says my horse, Yella, can out-pull any team in the city." Days went by and Georgie finally had a taker. The object to be pulled was a loaded barge, sitting some ways out in the Mississippi River. The double team went first, pulling the barge closer, but gave out way before it was even near to the levy. The barge was still in the channel! The heavily loaded barge was and hauled back to the starting point by two 4-mule teams on the Illinois side of the river bank. The double team of horses that had given out were unhooked from the traces and Yella stepped in, to be chained to the barge. 

Georgie stood in front of Yella, put his hand on his nose and quietly said, "Come on, Yella....Come on, Yella." And Yella came. He pulled like he had never pulled before and didn't stop. "Come on, Yella." Georgie stood in front of him coaxing him farther, standing in front of him and walking backwards constantly saying, "Come on, Yella." Yella came...All by himself, he landed the barge and pulled it half way up the cobblestones of the levy. Yella then gave out a big sigh and fell over dead. His huge heart had burst from the tremendous effort. Georgie's heart broke at the same time. He cradled Yella's giant head in his lap, begging him to get up, tears streaming down his face. 

The double team's driver came over and threw down $100 in bills saying, "That's some horse ya got there, kid." Georgie won the hundred dollars, but he realized too late it was not worth the price of poor Yella's life, and that the cost of his drunken boasting was paid with life of his dear friend. As long as he lived, Georgie never had another drink. Some lessons are harder to learn than others.

Georgie boy was my grandfather. As an old man he still carried the map of Ireland on his face, and still spoke with a brogue, even though he'd spent the majority of his life in America. He taught me a lot about horses, and started me riding at age 3. He told me this story when I was a little girl. I remember the tears just pouring down his face as he told it, his voice shaking as the great shame he carried fell from his lips. My grandfather grieved the loss of Yella's life until his dying day. Yella is the reason I don't drink.