Thursday, 9 May 2013

The effect of death on an anxious person

Can't sleep
Don't eat
Can't eat solids
Don't drink
Feel dehydrated
Apathetic
Empathetic
Sympathetic
Don't want to sleep
I hear my grandfather's voice all but 2 weeks ago.

Hear him say he can't wait to go to my wedding, and play crib with me... Sometime after his surgery that was scheduled today.

How does one handle such a sudden death? 85 years of battling and kicking ass at life. He was taken, swiftly and what I feel is unjustly. He battled everyday of his life. For his family. He made the decision to stop drinking for more life, more laughs. At the end of life. All you can hope is you live a life full of love, he did. Live a life where you battled for someone, something. He did.

Why at 85 years 8 months do I feel that it was unjust to take him?

I'm still in disbelief, I thought he would live until 90-100. Living everyday just as stubborn as the last. It eats at me. He battled for us, we showed it. He lives through my family still. I've been heavily medicated through caffeine and painkillers from my surgery.

Which my aftercare is shot. I was irresponsible and didnt care about aftercare. I wanted to be there for my family, I thought I did well enough. Selfless and trying, it amounted to relationships built, I hope.

It makes me anxious about my own life. My thoughts on the times I thought about ending it. It is overwhelming the impact that would've had on my family.

I'm slowly reverting into a misanthrope, an angry person. It is the most common emotion after sadness from grieving. It is a natural cycle. One that isn't fair to life.

I can't go visit him. I can't do the little things like lift his walker in and out of the vehicle. Talk to him about speaking Cree. Which I had planned on since the age of 7. 14 years I had to indulge myself in his stories. Thought I would have time, lost track of time.  I never did. I think that is why I want to talk, and won't ever end the conversation first when I am talking with people. Hang onto those moments when a conversation goes too long.

My final words to him were "never going to say bye, grandpa. I'll say see you later."

I saw him later. Pale, in suspenders, with his glasses on. Seeing some of me in the reflection of his glasses. Waiting for him to get up into his favourite chair and try to engage a conversation deep enough that you don't leave. Regardless of how lifeless he looked. He in a way told his story when you saw him at peace. You could live the life he lived by touching his face.

As naive as it sounds. I felt he was in the room celebrating life, how he wanted us to.

It is the only thing that brings semblance to this mess I am trying to live through. I have a picture of him, me and my godfather, charred and composting in Kinuso somewhere. The only picture I have with him.

I carry you with me grandpa, My Mushom, my friend, my elder. You taught me so much about the meaning of life when you died.

This blogpost is to get some feelings out.

Regards,

Devon

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