Thanksgiving Eve

 

Dear Grandma,

The day before Thanksgiving is finally here. I did the best I could with the preparation.

My list was ambitious, but I am glad of what I accomplished. I did take the new mop out of the box but have not used it yet. Organizing and filing took a day longer than planned, so by the time I got to mopping the floors, I decided to wait until closer to Christmas to do a thorough mopping.

I still used the Swiffer mop ... well, I didn't want to not mop.

Jazz's daughter (the youngest one) arrived on Sunday. Jazz was all cool ... well, up until we pulled up to the airport. Then, it was all squeals, hugs, and waterworks. I am glad that Evie was able to come after all; Jazz did not want to get too excited in case things fell through.

It's Jazz's default: waiting for the other shoe to drop.

However, something told me that Evie was going to pull it off. 

I am happy for Jazz. She needed this win. There has been so much turbulence in the past few years.

I'm not saying this as a slight or even as judgment. It's just what I've observed. It's a distant cry from the person I officially met for the first time over ten years ago.

I'm not talking about the physical changes; heck, I did not even factor in the perimenopause, sheesh!

It's more what happened to her gusto — her overall light.

See, I always considered Jazz the optimist in our duo. There were moments when my thoughts would get so dark, leaning into pessimism and accelerated worry, but she would reel me in.

She would tell me that it'd get figured out, and many times, it did.

Jazz has not had the best luck with employment. It has nothing to do with being capable and not having the skills.

There are many factors.

For the jobs that required physical labor, their tenures were cut short by the chronic medical issues limiting her mobility and stamina. She also experienced jobs where staff was cut and she was let go. She did get to the point where she applied for disability but kept getting rejected (even during the appeal process). They recognized that she had these ailments but she was not "sick enough" under their guidelines to qualify.

I could say more, but I won't dwell on this. Except to say that it's infuriating.

Jazz is the type of person who wants harmony in all areas she is passionate about. This includes where she works.

Sure, many conclude (myself included) that this level of cohesion is almost impossible. Even at my workplace, I see more people coming to work for reasons other than enjoyment. 

Jazz's ability to go the extra mile is linked to how much she enjoys her environment. The moment things occur that consistently cause her sorrow, disappointment, and anger, she switches to indifference and figuring out an exit strategy. 

Grandma, I admit. I have mastered compartmentalization. Perhaps I have been burned too much by going above and beyond. Almost losing your life and being let go a few weeks after the trauma can do that to you.

Not that I am a slacker. I just focus on the task at hand.

When it's time to go home, I leave whatever challenges and worries related to my job at my desk. I sign off from work and reboot myself.

This is the best way for me. I know it isn't for everyone.

This isn't to say that I lack good interactions with people at work. I have found such a great treasure in Miss Pat. If you would have met her, you would have adored her. It goes beyond the Virgo connection. I believe she was meant to be part of my village. I'm more open to conversing with people and chiming in when there are commonalities.

Jazz has a soft spot for the special needs and elderly demographic, so she has preferred working in those segments. She has discovered that those segments (which should receive the most and the best care) do not get the care and attention they need.

This causes a tug-of-war in Jazz's heart.

Every place she goes, the clients love her, but the staff (yes, even the higher-ups) create the challenges. Therefore, Jazz winds up having to choose between being a mainstay for the clients and choosing herself due to the working conditions taking a toll on her well-being.

Jazz cannot compartmentalize. She has no poker face. The worse the conditions, the more her bitterness sets in. Her outlook dims. All I hear from her is what has gone wrong instead of the wonderful stories she'd share about her clients. Darkness and doom arrive daily.

Now, I am saying the words that she said to me those years ago.

I do want to be there, but I cannot engage with her heaviness while tackling my own. I expressed that I wanted no more talk of that place's doom, especially for the next few days. I am open to conversations about the clients or the staff she has a good rapport with.

I can't tackle the rest right now.

Jazz cannot be the calm when she is storming. It's okay. I do not expect her to be.

There have been moments when I've been internally spiraling and like clockwork, I'm putting out others' fires. Your loss amplifies the taxing of this practice: putting myself on pause while getting everyone else functional.

Telling people I'm not okay still makes me feel -icky. I'm unsure if that discomfort will ever go away. Yet, I've been able to do this more often, and that's an achievement.

I'm planning on returning to therapy. More so to have an objective ear and to keep me mindful than anything. I have not attended much since you've passed. Not since the therapist encouraged me to do a journal. I will contact her after Thanksgiving has concluded. Maybe she can squeeze me in before Christmas rolls around.

I took the cast iron skillet from the cabinet this morning. It's seasoned and ready for the cornbread. Gino doesn't eat the cornbread dressing. Maybe it's a texture thing. It's the only wet bread Jazz will eat, which is an achievement. It's my first time making it in this oven, so I hope it cooks the way I want it to.

Grandma, you would have loved this kitchen. Gas stove. Refrigerator with an ice maker. Plenty of cabinet space. Room to prep food.

The only downside is the sink (one compartment), but we have a dishwasher. I also bought a dish rack.

Jazz already shed a tear or two this morning. I told her I would do some writing; weirdly (or not), she knew I would be posting here (I didn't tell her which blog). I may drop a "Dear Grandpa" on the other blog, although I usually wait until his birthday or Father's Day. We will see what happens.

I have other things to do ... finish up laundry, have breakfast, get my nails done, shop for the rest of the food items ... not necessarily in that order, so I'll end this here.

Love you.

Pouring Until Empty

 

Dear Grandma,

Last night, I had a dream about your ritual on my birthday. By ritual, I mean, you calling to sing "Happy Birthday" and then passing the phone on to Grandpa to send his brief but heartfelt sentiments. Then, in his fashion, he would pass the phone over to you and we would chat. The length of the conversation varied, but you would always call.

If you did not call, then you would send a birthday card. When Grandpa was living, he'd always tuck something in the card.

I woke up with your voice lingering, and I couldn't sit with Jazz and be one hundred percent present. I longed to be on the other side of the line. Not to where it would generate worry, but I wanted to re-experience the joy and happiness I felt to be cherished, appreciated, and poured into.

The realization that I would (more than likely) not experience such a high level of appreciation gave me heaviness in my heart. I was reminded of the punctures in my heart.

No matter how many memories kept it beating, the reality of your and Grandpa's absences would disrupt the rhythm and/or just make it stop.

I hesitated in expressing this. It is autopilot for me to carry the heavier emotions. I've learned it's unhealthy for me to continuously carry emotional weight, but it's become more complicated than being vulnerable and transparent. Many questions fire off in my brain in milliseconds:

• Who should I express this to?
• Is this person in a space to be receptive?
• Will this person discount what I'm saying?
• Will this person take offense?
• Will this person try to go tit for tat on who has the greatest amount of trauma happening?
• Will I receive the generic response of "it's going to be okay"?
• Or the standard, "Don't cry", "Come on, you're better than this", and "You're strong; no need for all that crying"?

Even typing this, it's maddening to go through this cycle of questioning before feeling safe enough to speak.

After deciding that I wanted to express these thoughts, they tumbled out, along with the tears, which had already spilled during my mental gymnastics.

Verbally expressing my emotions never seems as streamlined as when I write them out. There are digressions, and expansions on the digressions, but I try to get back to the core.

The multiple takeaways are:

I miss you.

I miss Grandpa.

It hurts that Mom hasn't stepped up to be the mom she said she wanted to be for me (for whatever reason). Yes, this is magical thinking.

(Sigh ... Chalk it up to remnants of the little girl who optimistically believed it's unnatural for a mother not to want the best bond with her daughter.)

At times, being of service isn't enough.

I pour into others that do not pour into me with the same exuberance. Those people who solely took from me are no longer in my circle ... most of them, you warned me about.

The ones who remain ... who truly care about me ... it's difficult for me to express this.

What can I say? When you are used to not being seen or heard, it feels like magical thinking to expect a different outcome.

There are moments when I could do with a few more hugs and words of affirmation, even though they are on the lower end of my five love languages.

To know whom to get the aforementioned from, along with not feeling awkward about being the recipient of these things, is a struggle for me.

I want life spoken into me, especially those rare moments when life feels harder than death. 

The latter is one of those days.

I visualize things I may want to do or have, but your loss makes these things hazy. Your birthday melody and your voice made the start of the day brighter and the end of the day incomplete.

How can brightness still exist in a world where you are gone? Where Grandpa is gone?

I'm still seeking that brightness. 

I'm currently poured out.

Before, I would somehow turn air into liquid and continue to pour.

Now, I have to simply say, "I don't have it."

Every moment, day, and hour feels too long to take things as they come. It all comes too fast, and I'm swimming against the tide of my anguish.

Today ...  I'm just not okay.

I love you.

💓