Death, Grief, & Come What May

Come what may.

It's easy to say when things are easy. It's difficult to live out when every day is a struggle for composure, for normalcy in light of sudden tragedies.

In recent weeks, my husband has declared that it hurts tremendously to shed the skin of who you once were. Shedding this skin not only includes making peace with your childhood self or college self or even the self who occupied the entirety of last year; it also includes internalizing and moving past the deaths of loved ones.

Within the last year I have learned an excruciating amount about myself through such experiences.

As many of you know, I grew up with dogs - never cats. My dad was not terribly fond of them, so we stuck to canines. When I got married, however, I knowingly married a cat person, and without much effort he convinced me I’d enjoy the company of cats if we got them as kittens. So we did. A month after we married, we decided to enlarge our family with two furbabies, Sophie and Emmerich, both barely 8 weeks old as rescues.

They stole my heart from the very first moment these skittish balls of love came to rest on me of their own volition. I had no idea I had such a capacity to love cats so much, and I’m so happy Sophie and Emmerich were the ones who showed me. They made me a catmom for the first time in my life.

Then, a year later, we had to say goodbye to Sophie because her kidneys were failing. It turns out lily poisoning is fatal if not caught early enough. On August 28, 2018 I was reminded for the first time in ten years how much it hurts to lose someone you love.

About a year later, I was due for a painful reminder again.

Friday morning July 19, 2019 I cuddled with Emmerich on the couch while I drank my coffee, a ritual we’d established over recent months. I noticed he was breathing heavily but otherwise totally lovey and normal. Later that morning, Joseph took him in to get checked out. We thought it might be asthma or something similarly minor. Five hours later, we were taking him home in a box, taped closed.

Feline leukemia is a tricky little virus that manifests without much warning and with a smorgasbord of potential symptoms. Emmerich had been carrying the virus in his bone marrow and it chose to present itself and start shutting his body down. There was nothing we could have done and nothing we could do except hold him and tell him how much we loved being part of his life while the vet put him to sleep.

The suddenness and utter surprise of his death are what gutted me the worst; I realized with painful clarity over the following week that looking into the face of an old, well-lived pet is very, very different from having to unexpectedly put down an otherwise healthy two-year-old catbaby. You look at the latter and wistfully imagine a long life with them; you look at the former and experience a twinge of reality that says the possibility of them dying of old age increases each day. How could I look at Emmerich like that? His death due to any reason seemed so far off as to be intangible. I can and have looked at my 12-year-old dog, Maxx, like that though, ever since I moved out.

I try to visit my parents where Maxx lives once a month or so. I live two hours and twenty minutes away now - that’s not close but it’s also not far. But in the last year, the fruits of my maturity have come to light in how I’ve regarded Maxx every time I show up and he’s still there, howling his greeting and bounding up to give me kisses: I look at him very deliberately and think “this could be the last time I see him.” It is a bit painful and uncomfortable, staring the inevitability of death right in the eyes, but it provides a sturdy jumping off point for our subsequent interactions. They feel so much more meaningful to me and I practice a present mindfulness, appreciating the silkiness of his coat as I pet him, the sound of his baying as he launches out the front door after a crow. This could be the last time, I think, smiling a bit sadly while Maxx prances around the yard, sniffing for deer poop. So let me be here with him while I can.

The second chapter of my grief opened with the death of young Emmerich and continued in the last couple of weeks as a lesson on the many shapes and sizes grief comes in. It can come on suddenly and without fanfare much like a tsunami, and it can also arrive somewhat slow and steadily, but still end in a jolt.

Death, even when totally expected, still manages to strike deep and quick into the humanity of those left behind.

Chapter three of my grief opened suddenly barely two weeks after Emmerich’s death. My dog Maxx died on Sunday, August 4th of 2019.

Loss, of this rapid-fire nature, certainly makes it hard to breathe.

I remember taking Maxx out for an evening potty break when he was about a year old. My family were in the final stages of readying to uproot our lives and move to Peru, but we were uncertain whether Maxx could accompany us. On that walk, I kneeled in the leaves next to him and took him into my arms, crying into his silky coat. I wanted so badly for him to come with us; imagining this next chapter without him felt hollow and dull, so much so that the image alone brought me to tears next to this clueless, happily wagging animal in the trees behind our house in Virginia.

Thankfully his goofy butt was able to fly over with us and my life during that period of isolation and soul searching was the slightest bit sweeter because of his presence.

It’s amazing how meaningful these animals are, even though they can’t talk to you and don’t see the world like you do and can’t even begin to comprehend their own mortality. Maxx was alive for exactly half my lifetime. That’s plenty long enough to leave a lasting, profound, stinky paw print on my heart. He was my buddy, great for cuddling and singing but not so great for fetching. I will miss him dearly, but I rest in knowing he lived a full, well-traveled life with a loving family, and now he’s enjoying a vast field full of crows to chase, popcorn to munch on, and all the butter wrappers to lick clean whenever he wants. No pain. No tears. No strangers. Just love.

It’s easy to feel sad for myself in the wake of these deaths. One terribly young, the other approaching old; one like a child, the other more of a little brother; both unexpected in their own ways but woven of different hurts. And I have every right to fall to pieces at seeing a photo or talking about them while the wounds are still freshly glistening. But you know what is also true at the exact same time? I can, and should, keep moving forward. If I’m truly living out the Come What May permanently inked on my body for all to see, I can certainly dig deep into this grief - but that doesn’t excuse me from my habits and goals. I still need to take care of and stay true to myself and my family. Both grief and unrelated meaningful pursuits can happen simultaneously. And they will.

Some days it hurts to keep going, but each day I’m able to manage the weight a little better. For the first week after Emmerich’s death, coming home from work sent me into hysterics because of how he used to greet me after a long day. Now I can pat the arm of the couch where he would perch and await scratches and smile fondly at the memory, thankful I even have the capacity to remember such things. And it will be the same with Maxx. If I don’t keep moving forward, the grief will turn into quicksand and consume me. I have to keep getting up at 6. I can cry while I drink my coffee because the weight of how much I miss them hits me - that’s acceptable. But when I dry my eyes, it’s time to hit the gym and throw around some weight. Then I hoist up that backpack of grief and go to work. So far I haven’t missed a single day. Gotta keep moving. Then I come home and work on my book or clean the house or make dinner. Do my nighttime routine, go to bed, and do it all again tomorrow. The backpack won’t be quite as heavy then.

Death sucks. Grief hurts. Understanding our own mortality and the mortality of others sets us apart from other creatures. It is a heavy burden to bear, and it will happen to all of us. Come What May, you gotta keep moving. It’s the only way to stay alive.

That doesn’t mean I won’t miss these precious babies of mine like hell.

In memory of:

Sophie (1yo) ~ August 28, 2018

Emmerich (2yo) ~ July 19, 2019

Maxx (12yo) ~ August 4, 2019

Fragments & Poppycock

A chapter taken from one of my novels. Felt the need to post something writing-related, so here it is. Woot.
-V

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It was bitingly cold outside, the wind howling its own misery and despair through the trees.

Jodi quietly stepped outside of the house and onto the front porch to clear her head and get some air. The police were already done “investigating” and questioning the three that had called them about Kaylis’s alleged “suicide”. Now all they had to do was write up their reports and decide whether James, Jodi, and Vincent were telling the truth.

“If this was a suicide, then why’s that boy out front’s name written on her arm?” one surly officer had asked Jodi, glaring at her with beady little owl eyes.

“He didn’t kill her. They were dating and he broke it off a few days ago. You can ask anyone at the party that we were at before we came here; they’ll testify that none of us were present at the time of death. We just found her like that,” Jodi explained with her arms crossed and eyes unwavering. The officer stepped down, although regrettably, and waved her away.

James had called Kaylis’s mother and what he thought was her older sister’s number in her cell phone to tell them of the news. He was currently leaning against the door of his Acura, arms crossed and expression sullen. He’d stepped away to allow Jodi a moment alone with Vincent, who was resting his back against the house on the other side of the door in a droopy fashion.

A cigarette was perched between his lips and every few seconds he would blow out a cloud of smoke, watching it dissipate listlessly in the passing wind. He had retracted back into his shell.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Jodi began quietly. Her breath came out looking as a cloud in the cold air.

“I don’t,” he murmured, continuing to stare into the shadows of the night. He pinched the end of the cigarette and slipped it gingerly from his lips. “But I do now.” He exhaled slowly, creating a steady stream of smoke and breath.

After a beat, Jodi took a few steps toward him with a sympathetic expression on her face.

“Hey, it’ll be all right--”

“Wrong. It won’t ever be fucking all right,” he said, cleanly cutting her off midsentence. He hadn’t expressed any emotion in his words, although in Jodi’s head it seemed strange not to put any emphasis on one word or another. He spoke like he was talking about dreams, about lovely, plushy, happy dreams. “It can’t be. Jodi…something’s changed in me. Something’s happened and I can’t explain it but it feels like a fucking black hole in my chest. I don’t understand it but it hurts, okay? I can’t…I can’t…” He grabbed at words, his tone suddenly different, and in the porch light, Jodi could see his lip wobbling and eyes glimmering. He cursed and shoved his palms into his eyes, grinding his teeth. “I can’t feel anything. I…it feels like I died back there. It’s like I’m a ghost now, or some shit.”

Jodi knew whenever he had talked to her before he put a filter on his words to be courteous, but now it was anything goes and he didn’t care. She could easily see it in his dull, inexpressive blue irises. He was losing himself and there were no rungs on the ladder to bring him back. He would just keep falling away, piece by piece, into madness.

Jodi wanted to hug him. She wanted to hug him badly, but she wasn’t sure how he would respond, if at all. He needed something she couldn’t give him. He needed something she wasn’t sure anyone could give him anymore. He seemed to read her thoughts and shook his head in agreement before pulling something out of his pocket.

“I gave this ribbon to her and told her to think of me and how much I cared when she wanted to self-harm…I guess it backfired. And I don’t want it. So you should take it and remember her whenever you see it. Please,” he asked, placing it in Jodi’s hand without her permission, but she took it anyway. “I’ve got enough memories to last me a lifetime. I don’t need any reminders.”

The spinning, silent police lights on top of the cars illuminated his face in blue and red, flashing through his eyes as he stood there, gazing at nothing and wondering everything.

“Well, I guess it’s time to go home. What are you going to do, Vince? The party is probably going to continue well into the morning.”

“There’s no way I’m going back there tonight. Fuck all those happy people; they don’t deserve it,” he lashed, although his tone was still cool and calm. She had no idea how he managed it.

Jodi closed the distance between them and placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t mean go back to the party. I meant where are you going to sleep? What are you going to do for the rest of the night?”

“I don’t know, float around, and terrorize some people. I’m a ghost, remember?”

Jodi gave him a sympathetic, concerned look, but his eyes didn’t match hers. “Vincent, you know as much about psychology as I do and I know you know how much thinking those kinds of thoughts are going to screw you over.”

At this, his blue eyes stared straight into hers, but there was no emotion. There was absolutely nothing.

“I’m already screwed over, Jo. Go home and sleep. Goodnight.”

Mirror

She sits alone, teasing the hem of her long, elegant sleeve when a man steps close to her and reaches out a hand to take hers. Her eyes dart up into his and a smile meets her gaze, soft and comforting. Reassuring.

A small grin lights up her lips as she stands and folds herself into his arms. One around her waist, the other clasping her hand tightly.

A song begins to play in the background and the room gets completely quiet except for the shuffling of some children through the crowd.

Tears fill her eyes as the melodies weave through her head. He kisses her cheek before she rests it on his shoulder.

“How did this all happen? Us?” she murmurs as they sway together.

“I don’t know. But I’m glad it did.”

A small, choked laugh slips out and she sniffles quietly.

“Look at the stars,” he whispers, tickling her ear.

A few tears roll and she can't help the grin that blooms across her face.

“Look how they shine for you.”

“Do they?” she asks gently.

“Yes,” he replies, resting his lips at her forehead. “And they will shine for you forever.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“Believe me, you are.”

She grins even wider.

“Why did you choose me?”

“I didn’t,” he responds certainly.

At this, she brings her head off his shoulder and gazes into his eyes with a furrowed brow.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t say I knew it from the very beginning, but after we met and started talking, you came to me, as if in a dream. In my mind it would be more right if I said you were the one who chose.”

“I feel this is just how it was meant to happen,” she says.

He chuckles and it warms her through.

“I agree to that.”

A contented sigh leaves her then and the close of the song becomes apparent. Her hands begin to shake as a chill sears through her. She clutches on to him harder in defiance. Fear soaks her thoughts through.

“It’s almost time to go,” he murmurs, his tone tinted with sorrow.

“I know,” she chokes out.

“I’m glad I got to see you one last time. I’ve missed you.”

The tighter she grasps, the weaker her fingers grow.

“I don’t want to go,” she sobs.

A sad sound tore from his throat, mingling sickly with a knowing chuckle.

“Oh, my love…you already have.”

The shock barrages her limbs and the foreign breath in her lungs leaves her completely as the image of him disappears from her vision.

Her eyes close softly and she falls, unmoving.

“I’m sorry,” he cries, clawed with pain, while gripping the edge of the casket. The way he looks upon her pale face brings others to tears, but he doesn’t care about them. “I should have been there.”

His knees give out and his mother rushes to his side, leading him away from his deceased beloved with consoling words. He doesn’t hear them.

Oh my love…

I have failed you.

------

Wedding/Funeral. A play on words.

Happy V day, folks.

     ~Vicki

Death by Butterscotch

I walked into psychology class past only a handful of other students, plenty early, and sat dead center in the front row at my usual perch. Withdrawing my laptop and a notecard from my bag, I realized I still had some butterscotch hard candies leftover and decided to grab one so as to occupy my mouth. Unwrapping it and popping it between my teeth, I went about my business and unknowingly inhaled strongly.
The candy launched back and lodged itself in my throat. I sputtered and gasped, acutely aware of what had happened and panicking thoroughly. My heart hammered, stuttering in my chest and my body grew warm as adrenaline flooded my bloodstream. So fast.
I swallowed, alarmed, and found it was very difficult to do so. The candy remained in place.
I sat there, clutching the edge of the desk harder than meaning to, wondering if this was the end. If today was the day my clock ran out. What would my classmates think if I suddenly quit breathing and slumped over on top of my computer? How long would it take for anyone to realize what was going on?
Forcibly I had to calm my pinging nerves and tell myself to breathe, that my windpipe was clear and I could still breathe. I snatched my canteen from the ground and attempted to gulp down some water to move the candy along, but the clog was too great. All the liquid came back up through my nose, having no other exit.
I coughed and gagged numerous times while trying to control myself, my breathing, and my swirling thoughts. Did anyone in the room know the heimleich maneuver? Would they even try to help if I made it known I was in desperate need of it?
Desperately, I swallowed hard several times in rapid succession, resolute on getting the stupid piece of sugar down. It seemed to help, if only a minuscule amount.
Dissolve faster, I thought. Dissolve, dissolve, dissolve.
Gradually it lowered and lowered until I could feel it beside my spine like a swallowed wad of gum. It felt as though, if I dug hard enough, I could pull it out right from under my skin. Pain radiated in soft waves from it, but I was just relieved it had left my throat and proceeded to my esophagus.
The panic slowly left me and the alarm bells going off in my head died away. I heaved a sigh and prepared myself for today's lecture just as my professor walked in. She greeted everyone and asked how we were. I replied, "Good" and it was only after I'd said it that I agreed it was true.
I was glad that dumb piece of butterscotch hadn't been the death of me.

-----

True story. This was the highlight (and by that I mean something I wish to never experience again) of my afternoon. I literally thought today was the day I was meant to die.
Didn't happen, though, so I guess its not quite my time yet.
Moral of the story? Don't swallow an entire piece of butterscotch hard candy unless you desire to be scared out of your wits.

Until next time,

V

Dormancy

Heya,
So I haven't been writing a whole lot lately and I'm thinking it's mostly because I've got a large idea stewing around in my head and I don't want to write anything on it/write anything else to pollute it. Well anyway, this is something I wrote the other night at least concerning a couple of the main characters. It's not really apart of the story in any way.

Till next time,
Vicki

---

The smoke filled her lungs. The gunfire unloaded into her mind. Her chest grew cold and hot simultaneously. Blood oozed.

Her vision blurred and came sharply back into focus – she closed her eyes against the suddenness of it all.

When she opened her eyes again she realized she was lying in the mud. When did I fall?

Rapid, frantic feet raced toward her and warm arms cradled her.

“Riley? God, Riley, can you hear me?” a quivering voice whispered. Hopeful.

She’d been parched of hope for a long time. He’d find none with her.

She nodded and realized how difficult it was, how much strength it took.  A surge of lethargy washed over her and she slumped into him more.

She felt as if she was watching it all unfold from above, as if she didn’t really exist and was a passing spirit, pausing for a moment to see. To see the unbecoming of a powerful boy.

“Why does it have to end like this?” she heard him murmur brokenly. “I can’t ever make it in time to save you, I can never beat the clock.  No matter how hard I try, it’s like running into a brick wall.“

“Fixed point,” she slurred slowly. He clutched her harder, closer, as if that would banish her words. She could smell his effort – all the grime and dirt and sweat he endured to get to her. Pity it was all wasted.

“I just want you to come home with me, to come back home and laugh with me, tell me I’m doing it wrong, tell me you can’t understand me sometimes,” he said. She could hear his throat closing up. Liquid warmth seeped into her shoulder and she realized he was actually crying.

“I feel no pain, Malachi,” she said feebly. Her mind was beginning to go fuzzy the more she felt blood ooze. It painted his shirt red, but he didn’t care. Who really cares about stains when your love is dying in your arms?

“Good,” he choked out, partially in relief and partially to humor her. He began to tremble against her body and she wanted to comfort him, but there was no strength and no ground to stand on. What could she say to make him feel better, anyway?

“I love you.”

He sobbed.

I guess that wasn’t the right angle, she thought as her mind began to drop off completely. She was being whisked away with the wind.

“I love you, too. I’ll miss you,” he replied as steadily as he could manage. His body gave him away.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Me too.”

He felt her heart stutter and stop against his soaked chest. It rattled finality throughout his entire being and he started to realize she was dead and he could never bring her back. From the place she was going he couldn’t retrieve her.

"Murderer" is spelled C-R-A-Z-Y

She was bleeding beneath him.

He licked the blood off the knife like a red Popsicle and it dribbled down his chin.

“Does it hurt yet, love?” he whispered, biting her earlobe with his canine until it was punctured. Her lip was seized between her teeth and he could see crimson lining it.

“No,” she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut.

He smiled wide. “Good.”

He plunged the knife into her stomach for the third time. The wounds made a small triangle just below her rib cage. He watched in sick satisfaction as her muscles clenched and her back arched, her fingernails digging into the dirt below her while it caked her clothes and hair into a matted mess.

“Scream for me,” he cooed into her ear, running the blade softly down her neck.

And she did.

She gulped down the chilly night air in an attempt to soothe her sore throat, raw from torment, but it did nothing more than hurt worse.

“Honey,” he murmured while grabbing her wrist. “You’re bleeding quite a lot.” He held the warm flesh tightly in his grasp, flipping it so that her palm was facing him. He could see the color fading from her face, her lips turning paler as the seconds ticked past.

Her eyes rolled around in her head while she panted hard, trying to restore the depleted oxygen in her lungs. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt heavy as lead. She cringed and groaned at the knife cleanly slicing away the tender skin of her wrist. Blood poured over his hands and onto her shirt.

“Are you going…to kill…me…?” she gasped when he slid the knife down her leg just hard enough to break the jean material and skin that lay beneath.

“No,” he whispered plainly. He took her trembling hands into his bloody ones, wrapping her fingers around the handle of the blade. “You are going to kill you.”

Fear flashed in her eyes, but before she could summon up enough strength to stop him, he shoved the knife down.

Right through her left breast.

She cried out, wriggling feebly under the knife that pinned her to the ground before lying very still. Darkness poured in on her and she couldn’t escape it.

He chuckled and twisted the knife, laughing louder at the blood that squirted out at him. “‘It’s all your fault’; I can hear you say it. ‘Jay, it’s all your fault. You did this to me. It’s always been your fault.’” 

He tugged the blade from her body and wiped the crimson on her tattered jeans. “Well darling, I’m sorry to say that it’s not my fault. It doesn’t matter now anyway, because, guess what?”

He burst from laughter, clutching his stomach as tears filled his eyes. “You’re dead!”

-----------------------

Yeah, the title kind of sucks, but oh well. 

 I can't remember what state of mind I was when I wrote this, but I do know it wasn't recent. Almost a year at this point I would imagine. Maybe I was having some crazy dreams. And maybe I was just channeling the inner-psycho that was brought out while watching The Uninvited. Who knows. Those darn scary movies don't scare me; they make me scary. Interesting how that works.

See? Looney bin.

Ta~

-Vicki