Saturday, February 16, 2013

Dead People, Living People



When Doug lay dieing in the hospital, his bed sheets were shit-stained.  Someone had parked his lunch outside the door of his isolation room on the floor.  I was the one who screamed at the nurses to "fix this."  The youngest nurse was sent in to change the sheets.  I helped her do this.

When David lay dieing in a different hospital, some nun had come into his isolation room and pinned a cross on his night clothes.  The sheets were clean and the food was served directly to him.  But no one had thought to ask David about his religion.  He was a "none."

When Paul lay dieing in yet another different hospital, he was surrounded by compassionate people who had chosen to work on the unit.  He died surrounded by his people-- friends and professionals.

When Tea died, her death was counted as having been caused by a heterosexual relationship.  Nothing could have been further from the truth.  She was a proud lesbian who had been raped by a repeat sexual offended.  The C.D.C. was counting deaths of lesbians who had ever had sexual relations with been frucked by a man as het.  Because of this policy, woman to woman transmission got to be ignored.  It still is.  How disgusting.



My mother was my first example of a social engineer.  As my step-grandfather lay dieing in the hospital, she taught me what to say.  "Tell them you just drove in from college," she instructed me.  I was in high school at the time.  Visiting hours were more strictly adhered to back then.  I got in to see him with no problem.

Had my mother been born later, she would have been a hacker.

My mother is vindictive.  She denied me an invitation to publicly grieve my step-father and my half-sister's husband.  She told me after they'd both been buried for days.  She told my aunt the day that my step-father died that she had talked to me.

My mother is a liar.  My mother is vindictive.  When she dies, I think I will mourn long and hard for what might have been.



My dad saved me from my mother.  Now he is doing a slow zig zag tap dance with death.  When he dies, I will have already been mourning for several years.



When gramma died, I cried.  During her last weeks on earth, I was the one who made the end-of-life decisions.  My aunt was unable to.  I was angry for a long time at the stupid Christian doctor who wanted to do a biopsy of a lump that she had always had on her chest.  She was ninety two years old.  What treatment did he reasonably expect to give her?



When Miss Davis died, my former classmates decided not to tell me.  They mistook me for someone who was frail and must be shielded from life's harsh realities.  They didn't really know me.  Even back then, I had already gone through far more than they had to think about in their sheltered existences.

Virginia must be dead by now.  I think I will miss her for awhile longer yet.



When Janet died, I was pissed that she had gone to quacks instead of the medical establishment for treatment.

When Cindy died, I was pissed at what the medical establishment had done to her in the name of treatment.  I was also grateful that in her despair she had finally found the voice to tell them, "Enough."



When I die, I will have some regrets.  I hope that I will know that I did the very best that I could with what I had.  Until I die, I willfully endeavor to live.

sapphoq n friends

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