The High Cost of Living
I've been gone awhile again. Actually, looking at my last posts, it hasn't been all that long but it seems like years. I don't feel like sending everyone some massive PMed apology; it feels like a cop out and very informal. Besides, I've apologized to current RP partners too many times already for my spotty activity record. One more, despite the reason, seems like it would be too much. The few I'm pretty sure somewhat follow me around, will likely see this and be sated. Those who don't, hopefully I'll be able to sneak in with nothing being said. I don't feel like explaining twenty times over or rehashing the same events over and over, but I do feel like venting.
It all started about two months ago but has finally come to an ultimate, but untimely end. I'm heartbroken for the loss, but conflicted about my emotions and actions over it.
My husband's business partner, Bob, had been declining for awhile. Calling Bob a business partner seems so... strange. The man ultimately became a sort of father figure for both of us. After all, when your own is an asshole, and you have someone like him, it happens pretty damn quick. Our biological dads were both pieces of shit. Mine was missing from the time I was born. He even went so far as to cut a couple of his sisters out of his life for even wanting to have me in theirs. It caused me to keep everyone I was related to through his blood at arm's length. My husband, I don't know if he had it better or worse. His was around, but an emotionally and physically abusive alcoholic and drug addict. However, he started to get better and then went about trying to rebuild burning bridges. While they were on a vacation in Savannah, he ended up drowning after their Sea-doo hit a sandbar. My husband actually watched his dad die.
Bob used to live down the street from us, just a few houses down the culdesac. I knew his wife, and she was awesome. One of those Southern born and bred women who worked hard in her early life, had kids, and finally settled into the Grandmother stereotype that happens down here. Her job became her home. She was always cooking and helping out. Then she died of cancer a little over a year ago of cancer. The woman they were renting from was quick to screw Bob over when he rebuffed her pathetic attempts to seduce him into marrying her. Great daytime drama material, but when it happens in real life, it is just...
He ended up moving out of town, about thirty minutes away. When my husband had been out of a job for a few months, Bob offered to let him work with him as an apprentice electrician. You always hear about people who 'love their jobs' but to see someone living it is strange. My husband always been very left-brained and sort of a geek when it comes to math and science. He'd come home after having a couple of beers with Bob after they finished a job, and even though I didn't get half of what he was talking about, seeing that light in his eyes whenever he talked about transformers, amps, lumens, converters, even getting the shit shocked out of himself and looking down at his swollen and reddish hand was something that made me smile. Bob introduced him to it, showed him things that you can't learn from books, and was there to guide him.
Back in August, Bob's health had seemed to be on the decline. Again, one of the slightly altered stereotypes of a Good Ol' Boy. He could be a racist bastard at times, but he volunteered in Vietnam. With other men, he'd communicate with grunts over beers talking about politics and weather. With women, he opened doors and greeted them with hugs. He watched his temper, never cursed around children. He had worked from the time he was ten years old in some fashion. If he hurt himself, he wouldn't say anything. Never even saw him with a band-aid on. So of course, not having him down the street from us, it was hard to notice until it got bad.
He'd been giving subtle clues for awhile. Walking with a limp, mentioning how his fingers were going numb sometimes. I used to cook big dinners on the weekends and send a plate to work with my husband to give to him and Bryan started to find them in the fridge, hidden away with only a few bites taken. We finally convinced him to go to the hospital after Bob stumbled on a job and hurt his leg. They misdiagnosed him with Osteoporosis; that was my present. They kept him for two days and gave him some fluids and put him on some prescription vitamins. We thought that he'd get better, but he didn't. Two weeks later and things only kept getting worse. Bob tried to say it was just a cold, but we took him to another hospital where they diagnosed him with Stage Four cancer.
As he stayed, he continued to get worse and the diagnosis darker. It was in his lungs, his stomach, and he had a large but benign brain tumor on the left side of his brain. It was large enough to where the fluid began pressing against it and hampering movement and thought processes. He was still at the hospital when an old business employee of his, decided to screw him over. Bob thought he was just signing his truck over to him, but ended up signing power of attorney and everything he owned over to the guy, Phil.
If there is a hell, Phil will go there. Dude thought that Bob had all sorts of insurance money that would be coming in and going to him, but Bob had to cancel most of them when there was a slow period over the summer. So, there was next to nothing. Finding out that he'd have to pay for the funeral, Bob's family (who were living in California) managed to talk him into signing most of the assets back over once Phil had squandered it away within a matter of days. He still owns the actual business, tools, materials, accounts, and contacts of Bryan and Bob's business. Bob's house and shed were plundered. Attorneys were contacted, but when you are actually worried about someone's health, legal shit falls to the wayside.
He was released from the hospital on the 11th and given 6 to 8 months to live. That Wednesday night, while his daughter was running to grab some clothes from the hotel they were staying at, he fell into a coma and passed away. We got the news Thursday, over Facebook. His daughter couldn't find Bryan's number. The funeral and service were held Friday. I'm still trying to find away to break the news to my little girl. After all, a dead pet and a dead person are two completely different things. Even with my miscarriage earlier in the year, she didn't exactly 'know' what it meant.
So, here I find myself.
I've grown sort of numb to the whole thing myself. I think I've known more than my fair share of people who died too early. I don't know why that is. I'm dubbed as a suicide magnet by some. My best friend killed himself at thirteen. I was the one who found my cousin and my god father after they had killed themselves. I helped clean up blood splattered walls and clothes of my best friend's brother, who I had used to date, years later. But there is something about a taken life and an ended life that are different.
I'd rather deal with suicides. However misguided, there was an intent there to extinguish their life. In normal circumstances, there is no control. Everything just stops for that person. I had started to distance myself from Bob much earlier than I should have, because I was able to see the signs. A man who was so close to me. I had meant to go see him. I actually had plans to the day he got out of the hospital, but something came up. It was trivial, but at the time, I deemed it more important. What would one day matter when I was told he had six to eight months?
I never do funerals well. I'm awkward and quiet, and prefer to keep to myself. I have no clue why some families decide to do viewings. I can see it in a sentimental purpose, but looking down at the lifeless corpse. Knowing what exactly the embalming process entails... body drained of blood and filled with chemicals, cotton place between the eye and lid to keep them from opening, mouth and jaws sewn shut, organs stabbed so gases and fluids can be sucked out. Dealing with an autopsy, makes it worse. Makeup used to make someone look more natural... just makes them look fake. Like a broken doll. I went with my husband to the viewing, but stayed outside for about an hour smoking cigarettes back to back to give myself a reason to stay outside. I didn't want to talk to his family. They all seemed to know us, but I had only heard them mentioned from time to time. What would I say? Sorry he's dead, but at least he didn't suffer? It seems so hollow, especially when no one really had time to prepare. They had just arrived, moved into the house and were setting up for a long term stay when he died. I think my smoking came across as inconsiderate, considering he died of cancer but they mostly found traces of agent orange in his system.
The funeral service itself was small and 'intimate'. I'm actually sort of glad it was short. Afterwards, we all went out to eat at a little sports pub here that was his favorite. Reubens and beer around, except for me. I hate corned beef and sauerkraut. I don't drink beer. I still felt out of place. I was the only person who hadn't cried that day. Like I said, it was sort of a relief. I wouldn't have to watch him get sick and slowly die. I could remember him like he was. I was shocked at the speed but thankful for it. He passed in his sleep, in his home, in his bed. Not going through chemo, in a hospital, hooked up to IVs.
I've become very close friends with Death. I think Neil Gaiman had the personification down pat with his Endless personification: quirky, nice, beautiful in her own way, and someone you'd like to meet at the end. That is how I always look at it, but I feel bad for... not feeling bad.
Anyways, I'm rambling now and time to put my daughter to bed.
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