Joining the ranks of the bloggers

Now that I think of it, it's very strange that I'm arriving so late to join the Bloggers. How obvious a choice of "creative outlet" for me?

I have something to say about everything, and I certainly know better than most people and can do most things better than most people, so why not share my immense knowledge and wisdom with the masses?

The whole thing has always struck me as incredibly pretentious - the thought that what you have to say is so important that it needs to be published, instantly, and available to the world.

What inspired me today was to see some hack ass blogs this morning AND a discussion with two friends/coworkers yesterday.

A woman we work with, C, lost her daughter Saturday to lupus. N was my age - 2 months older than me. She would have turned 33 next week, in fact. I met N a handful of times - nice girl, pretty, LOTS of energy and spunk, a huge, bright smile. Someone you could have a lot of fun with on a night out, someone who might also cause some trouble. Anyway, N was diagnosed with lupus a couple of years ago. She had her gallbladder out 2 or 3 years ago - a routine surgery that I just had not 2 months ago - and they almost lost her then from complications. Well, she got sick again around Easter, has been in a coma for a few weeks. They identified a mytral valve problem and waited for her body to get stronger so they could do heart surgery. Something happened last week, and she didn't get stronger.

Last Saturday morning, C and her husband had the life support machines turned off and said goodbye to N. Last night, the rest of us said goodbye to N at a simple, brief service at a funeral home on the Northeast side of town.

I've only been to a few of these things (4 or 5 ever), and the only one that directly affected me was when my husband's grandfather died five years ago.

Although N had been sick for months, and in a coma for weeks, and dead for 5 days, C was not doing well last night. She was a wreck. Not the stoic, cordial, polite, numb mother who greets visitors with a closed lipped smile and a gentle nod as others tell her how wonderful her daughter was. Not the put-together mother wearing a conservative, new suit and light makeup, hair pinned back in a simple-but-neat style by a friend or sister trying to help her make it out the door. This was not the mother who thinks, "I'll just get through tonight and they'll leave me alone."

C had no makeup on. Her hair was not done. She wore black pants and a cardigan, looking frumpy, like she was making a run to the store to pick up some milk. She didn't stop crying from the moment I saw her to over an hour later when we left the building. Her husband was standing near her, but we didn't know it was him. He was in his own state of shock, going on auto-pilot just to stand up and whisper a few words to friends. He did not stand next to his wife, holding her as he thanked visitors for coming. He did not greet us, introduce himself, and gesture to the door. He stood alone, sometimes approached by a friend or family member. The two of them were so solitary in their grief, and I wondered why they were not leaning on one another to share the loss of their daughter.

During the service, C sobbed loudly and shook her head in disbelief as the priest read passages from the Bible. I know she was thinking, "This can't be my daughter's funeral. That isn't her right there in the casket. This just isn't real."

Going to a memorial service like that is a very surreal experience. You feel loss, even if you didn't know the deceased person. You are reminded of other people in your life that you lost. You think about what will happen when you are gone. What kind of ceremony will be put on to remember you? Who will be there? What would I do if my daughter died first. Could I make it through the service? Could I have told the doctors to turn off the machines? Would I buy a new dress and have my hair and makeup done, trying to put on the act that I am strong and I will get through this? Would I take a valium to get through the service and burial, then unravel into a total wreck in the days and weeks to follow?

Then the service is over, we all file out of the room, awkwardly say goodbye to a few coworkers on the way out. Maybe there is a light touch on the arm and a knowing look of understanding shared between some of us as we say goodnight to one another and get back in our cars. And that is the part that I have the most trouble with. Now I get in my car, and drive home as if nothing happened. I get to walk into my house, play with my kids, tuck them in for bed, wipe down the kitchen counters while I tell my husband about my day, and go to bed after reading a magazine. My life just continues as normal. I did what I had to do - the right thing to do, the expected. I showed up, gave my condolences, hugged the mother, saw the dead girl, sat while others talked about her death, and promptly left. I feel guilty - why do I get to go home and put my daughter to bed like I do every night, but C can't?

While I type this difficult post about the torturous decision of a mother to end her daughter's life, my three coworkers have spent 10 minutes killing and disposing of a large bumble bee that became stuck in a cobweb next to Beth's desk. No idea how the bee got in here, but its constant buzzing drove Beth nuts.