If I died tomorrow, I would not be happy with the way my life has gone.
How sad is that?
In my previous post, I mentioned that my grandmother’s best friend died. Last Sunday she had a heart attack and 2 days ago she died.
My grandmother, with her foot on death’s doorstep, barely had a reaction when my mother told her about her friend. Her friend that lives….lived…right across the street and four houses up the street. Her friend that used to be like a second grandmother to me, who used to let me swim in her gigantic in-ground pool. Who used to offer me cookies and call me dearie in her sweet little Welsh accent.
Suddenly my grandmother is feeling better. She’ll be going to the funeral on Wednesday. She’s been eating more jell-o than she usually does. My mother told me that she’s also clean from head to toe. My mother, a hairdresser, has to monitor my grandmother when she’s bathing, and does her hair afterwords. My grandmother is claustrophobic and can’t abide having a shower.
What would you do if someone you’ve known for 50 years died? What would I do?
My mom told me she went over to see the lady’s husband today. She told me he was shell-shocked. Lost.
How could you go to sleep with someone one night, and then wake up and suddenly you’re all alone in the world?
It doesn’t help that I’m marathoning Grey’s Anatomy and I just watched an episode where they had an old lady die while all her old biddy friends were around her. (I’m in season 2, in case anyone is interested.)
It makes me sad. I love old people. I hate watching shows where old people are mistreated, or when they die.
I hate watching my grandmother die.
I hated watching while my grandfather died. I cut his disgusting toe nails while he was in triage waiting for a room the day before he died. He was still lucid then. His toe nails were growing around his toes and they were yellow and brittle. There’s a sick and twisted part of me that enjoyed cutting them. But I also enjoy picking noses, so I guess it’s that sick and twisted. Is that love? I loved my grandfather dearly. I was his favourite. I’ve always known that.
My grampy had MS. He was so stubborn he never let it get the best of him. He walked until the end. He had it for over 40 years, he walked until he fell over in the bathroom and hit his head.
He died 3 days later.
Now I’m crying. I can’t decide if it’s the memories or fucking Grey’s Anatomy.
I guess that’s why I started my post the way I did.
I don’t want to grow old in this place. Greyopolis, as I call it. I don’t want to live out the rest of my days living this bleak North American materialistic lifestyle.
“I want adventure in the great wide somewhere,” as Belle sang.
I want to die bungy jumping, or mountain biking, or getting hit by lightning. I want to die by driving my car off a cliff, or even by hypothermia. Anything besides old age. Anything. Anything besides a life of boring monotony followed by a shitty hospital death.