Friday, July 29, 2005

Surreal life...

I haven't been writing much these days since I'm still not over my funk about Bob. Of course going through the hellish exercise called "moving his things" with his 80 year old Mother the other day did NOT help things. At all. It was an almost out of body experience. The man is not toast yet but EVERYONE in his family is acting like he is. So, I tried to help his mother with his stuff. I sorted stuff for two days before she arrived from his childhood home, putting things in boxes and whatnot. Do you know what she did? She repacked everything. No, I'm not kidding. Why the hell did I bother? Then, I watched while she, her husband, her sister in-law, and her nephew in-law picked over his stuff, discarding things with comments like "I don't like that, that's too big and ugly.". They were talking about a medium sized piece of abstract artwork. Keep in mind, we were standing in the middle of a loft condo. You know the kind... deliberately designed with exposed ductwork and 12 foot ceilings. Of course, she's 80 and has never lived anywhere other than Greensboro NC, so I suppose her tastes would be radically different than a man who's lived in some far flung places; such as Australia and Uruguay.

All I know is; I wouldn't want to be in HER shoes. Mind you, she drove me nuts the entire time I was around her, regaling me with the same story about the two blue wingback leather chairs and the time that she bought one of them for "Bobby". I swear she told me that story 4 times. In 4 hours. But, ultimately, I realized that she must be having a hell of a time with this situation. Going through her son's stuff, deciding what to do with the minutiae of his belongings when so much more important things hang in the balance. I know she loves her boy. I can only hope that she understands that my helping her dispose of his stuff was my way of showing that I love him too.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Random things...

Ok, so I've been depressed over my friend. Seriously, sleep until ungodly hours of the afternoon and not go to sleep until the light of dawn depressed. Yeah, I'll deal with it, but you'd be depressed too if you were doing this involuntary deathwatch. The proverbial sword of Damocles is not longer just a proverb. It's real and panic inducing. Every time the phone rings, in that instant before I glance at the caller ID, I get seized with the thought "Oh God, this is it. He's gone." Of course it hasn't been, but for the split second, I get this white hot piercing pain. It's quite horrid. I hope none of you have to go through anything like this. Skip it, if you can, trust me, you really wouldn't like this.

Usually, the phone is ringing with something completely inane. For instance, my next door neighbor and long time friend, Lori. Now, Lori and I have been friends since God was a boy. OK. OK. Maybe not that long but since he was teenager. No? Ok, how about since my oldest nephew was a boy? He's now a "growed up" as he used to call adults. Suffice it to say, we've known each other for a really long time. We're both lesbians but she's as handy as the most helpless, straightest woman available at the Home Depot on a Saturday afternoon. She has a girlfriend but Marsha's not much help in that department either. So, she calls me. Lucky me. Toilet not working right? She calls me. Big CRASH in the middle of the night from closet system the developer slapped into our condos being ripped out of the walls? She calls me. Can't figure out what's wrong with her lamp? She calls... you guessed it. ME. Which would be fine, except for the heart stopping, adrenaline pounding mili-second where I'm convinced someone's dead.

Monday, July 11, 2005

My Friend is dying...

His name is Robert. He's 48, and it breaks my heart that he will likely never see day one of 49. He's 6'4" tall and currently about 135 pounds. He's a good man, as well as a gay man. He's been in the hospital, almost without break since March. HIV postive for over 14 years, he crossed the threshold into AIDS territory about 18 months ago. It's been an epic battle ever since he was diagnosed. One that, I suspect, he's grown tired of fighting. Some people would urge him to keep up the "good" fight but I know how tired of all this he truly is. He dreads hospital emergency rooms so much that he endured an entire day of intense pain, writhing around in bed in agony, demanding that I not call 911 before I finally ignored his pleas and called them. For some reason, one I can not fathom, he feels as if being sick like this somehow emascualtes him. He HATES taking all those damn pills every day but if he doesn't then he will die. Sooner, rather than later. I would, of course, prefer later, much later, but that's not my call. My friend, if you must go, I'm glad that you are in a place you love, and I hope that the pain and suffering doesn't get too intense. Before you go... one last time, just so you know and can take it with you... I love you.