Saturday night bachache reverie

I'm thinking of my friend tonight who has buried his father, his mother and now his aunt in rapid succession, and who after returning from his aunt's funeral related that he was "beat from a long week (actually years) of mourning," and has disappeared from radar.

I know where he is. He's hunkered down wrestling with that dark inertia that descends on us as we face entropy and know with certainty that it's a matter of time, really. He's chasing everyday life and not looking over his shoulder for the next wave of sadness.

He is, as we will all be unless we pass away before our parents, an orphan. My Aunt Peg said to me after her older sister died "she was the only one left who knew me from the start." A lot of us are these days, orphans, that is. Mom still recognizes me and that is some recompense, but its not really her. We're writing our own histories now, the keepers of the past.

Yesterday I labored over files and to day I helped move a couple chairs and tonight I ache. A wise woman who had a similar trauma to mine said that her pain was her reminder that it's good to be alive. It's my reminder that I'm free again from the confines of invalidism, driving, working, playing a little, and at the end of the day nursing my aches and pains, and glad to have them.

When I had surgery for my fractured face, the surgeon was concerned that I might aspirate into my wired mouth after surgery and either die or aspirate or gross everybody out. My friend organized time off for Robyn and a host of friends to sit by me and then went home, got sick and fell asleep. Didn't come back for his second shift. Left me a text message. Didn't call the our other grumpy friend who felt particularly awkward sitting there with me in a gown, my ass hanging out, taking a dump in the bathroom and him having to listen. I was wishing everyone would just leave at that point and didn't get it. Grumpy friend was disgusted and suggested it was the same old shit, not following through.

That's not the point, though. The point is that I might have died and my friends were afraid for me. That someone would panic over my passing and try to organize me to safety is a beautiful thing. To realize that the crisis is over and fuck up a few details is a small thing.

Love is love. Brush it off and get on with it.