denial. shock. sad. pain. acceptance. anger. peace. repeat. repeat. repeat...

Tuesday, November 22, 2011


Everyday I wake up, I'm shaken and scared again. Is this really happening? One year ago, I had no idea how much my life would change in one night.

Thanksgiving will stir a lot of emotion for me and my family. I rented a car last year because Scott was too sick to drive his car (stick shift requiring a lot of work in rush hour traffic). I remember walking behind him at all times to ensure he didn't fall over or get too light-headed. I forget where we stopped to eat on the way to MI. I hate that I forget details. I want to cherish them all so badly. On Thanksgiving, my mom, sister and I cooked. We ate later than usual. I remember Scott eating a little turkey with gravy and a lot of mashed potatoes. It was 8 or 8:30 and I needed to drive Chaz home. Scott wanted to come but he was starting to feel sick. On the way to take Chaz home and on the way back all I could think was "please don't get sick, please don't get sick." I immediately rushed to the bedroom to where he was laying down and of course, he had gotten sick. This was my life. I was devastated. I knew that whatever was happening to him over the past couple of months hadn't gotten better. I needed to take serious action.

I was on the phone with UofM's ER, both medical and psychiatric divisions, trying to understand what course of action I needed to take. I had had it. I wanted him well and isn't UofM one of the best hospitals? With the help of my family, they encouraged me that this was the right thing. I told Scott that I was taking him the next morning to UofM and he wasn't happy. He blamed the mashed potatoes for making him sick. We fought. I hate that we fought but said we'll see how he feels in the morning. He was so sick, all night and on the way to the hospital, clearly he wasn't getting better. It wasn't the damn mashed potatoes. He insisted everytime he ate them, he got sick. I still haven't eaten mashed potatoes, nor do I think I ever will.

I always think I should've fucking fought harder for him at the hospital. We should've known his heart was bad. Why did they miss that? Because he was only 36. Fuck 36, you can still have heart disease. A good doctor would know better, considering we were on the cardiac floor (constantly hooked up to a heart rate monitor) and he complained of some chest pain, had tachycardia (fast heart rate) and was diabetic. Like do a fucking stress test. Damn. What a mess. I get so mad thinking about it now.

It's hard to think about "what I'm thankful for" when I'm so sad. I'm thankful for those who have supported me throughout all of this. I won't name names, you know who you are. But I can't help being really mad at the same time. Mad that this is my life. Mad that I have to wake up and keep moving, just to survive. Mad that I have to live with a huge hole in my heart and cannot function the way I once did. That's grief. You cannot accomplish what you were once able to when it hurts this bad. Will the day come where I can, yes, but I'm not there.

I'm not ready for a lot of things thanks to this thing called turmoil.

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