The hardest thing I've ever written
(WARNING: This is likely going to end up to be a bit of a tear-jerker. I take no responsibility if you read this anywhere except within the safety of your own home, but if your workplace is cool with you getting all weepy and shit, hey, go for it!)
Disclaimer aside, I guess I feel obligated to say that despite the fact that I'm having a bad day, bad days are not a characteristic I associate with my life. I think, despite my various deficiencies, that I live a pretty good life. My last week was a ton of fun; I got a chance to hang out with both friends from Texas and Curt and his wife Kristin (It's pronounced "Christine"!), and I had a lot of fun.
The highlight? Having a fancy meal at the Five Fisherman (I tried the Seafood Curry, I liked it!), and not paying a dime for it (Thanks Kirill!). Our server, a former roommate from a few summers ago, even comped us the bottle of wine we had, which was incredibly nice of her.
My weekend was spent essentially doing what I do best: playing video games.
I cannot complain about my life, because there's so many people who don't have all the things I do. There was this guy who used to work with me at Canadian Tire, but was fired for perfectly legitimate reasons (he was chronically late). I've heard rumours that the guy is now living on the street, which is stupidly ten times worse in my head than all the thousands and thousands of people living on the street that I didn't know on some "standing outside Tim Hortons asking for change" kind of level, but I digress. There's a lot of good in my life, and even when it all goes tits-up I've got a lot of good family and good friends who will unselfishly catch me.
So when I say I'm not having a good day today, it's not because life sucks, nor is it some plea for sympathy. It's simply what it is.
* * *
Here's a gigantic secret of mine: I get incredibly emotional hearing about a mother or father dying. I swear, I was watching Star Trek (the new one) and (spoiler) there's a scene at the start of the movie where poor Kirk loses his father. My friend Sarah was sitting next to me, and you have no idea how badly I was holding it in. I like Sarah, and she's a good enough friend that I don't think I would be embarrassed breaking down and balling like a kid in front of, but come on. It's friggin' Star Trek. I mocked my brother for years for crying when we watched Disney's "The Fox and the Hound." Crying during a science-fiction movie would probably destroy any chances of me being a dude bad enough to rescue one or more Presidents.
Some of my friends got me a Nintendo DS game called Elite Beat Agents (I've mentioned it a few times in this blog) and oh yeah, there is a whole scenario where a little girl tried to bake a cake for her Dad (who died in an unrevealed accident). I was heaving huge sobs of sorrow as I tapped the little DS screen, wiping the salt from my eyes so I could properly hit the little circles the game was throwing at me. The little girl popped up during the ending to cheer for my victorious well-dressed Agents and I immediately broke down.
* * *
I read somewhere that the most traumatizing thing that can happen to a man is to lose his mother (for women, it's apparently divorce). I make no secret about that fact that I've lost a mother twice. I mean, it's not something I just bring up in casual conversation, but sometimes you just have to slip it in there you know?
I was registering university debaters for a tournament once, way back when I attended classes (well, sometimes) at UNB. We were putting on our first ever "Cup To Be Determined" tournament, and I'm sitting at the table collecting names and money. This slender, handsome blonde man comes up. I've never met this guy in my life before, so I ask him for his name. I'm pretty sure this is a conversation he's had a painful amount of times in his life, it went something like this:
Me: "Hi, can I have your name?"
Him: "Patrick LeGay."
Me (trying to spell his last name): "L... E... G-g..."
Him (scornfully): "G. A. Y."
Me (sheepishly): T-thanks.
Now, Patrick is an incredibly cool guy, and I don't think his last name is silly. But I don't know, when someone has an awkward name, I think peoples natural instinct is to feign ignorance.
I think it's in the same vein that no one wants to assume that your other died of cancer when you were seven; that's a horrible horrible thing to think. No, they want to believe that each time you mention "step-mother" or maybe "my mother used to..." you're not suggesting that there is something darker behind it all. But I can't pretend that my step-mother Selina (who I want to mention, is a wonderful woman and I'm incredibly happy my father found her) is the same woman who raised me, and hey, it's particularly troublesome when I'm trying to refer to her as a different step-mother than Nette.
If anyone reading this ever gets the chance to work for Oxford or Webster, please invent a word that means "second step-mother," please. You would make things so much easier on me.
To avoid confusion, here is how it went:
First mother: Jeanette. Passed away due to cancer when I was about seven.
Second mother: Jeanette (Nette). Passed away in 2003 in her sleep.
Third mother: Selina. Currently kicking my dad's ass, God Bless Her for it.
* * *
So I have bad days. I'd like to think that every day a small sliver of the love that my mothers gave to me just slips in, and eventually it just becomes too much and I just need to take a day off to let it all out. The last time this happened was in or around the 4th of April, 2008. This is the day that Dan Savage (the awesome sex-advice columnist who writes "Savage Love")'s mother passed away, and it came up in the next column he wrote. It was the straw that broke it all I suppose; the next day I was a total wreck. I guess I was having a panic attack of some sort. I called my close family and brother and Ali and I'm crying and batshit insane and I'm worried that maybe I've turned into one of those psychics who can feel when something horrible has happened and oh-my-god-someone's-hurt and...
... no one was hurt. The only one who wasn't fine was me. I think I sent my sister Janis into a panic; I got a string of text-messages from her asking if I was okay. My Dad and Selina handled me being crazy well.
Well... yesterday I was talking on the phone, and the episode where Nette passed away came up. It wasn't anyone's fault, lord knows I didn't want to talk about it. But the conversation wormed it's way there.
* * *
I was talking about how much I miss my brother John. It's not hyperbole or exaggeration or anything when I say how much I love him. Anyway, I was talking about him, and I was asked when was the last time I lived with him. The last time I lived with him was Fredericton in 2002.
We lived with a roommate named Greg in a three bedroom apartment somewhere off of Regent Street. It was a nice place, and John and Greg were great. But I wasn't. Another year at university had started, and it was going poorly for me. I didn't attend half of my classes, and the ones I did attend I was doing miserable in. Money was tight, which didn't help. I ended up making the decision to quit university, which in retrospect was I think a good choice, but hell. I think it took a lot out of me personally.
It was a huge defeat in my life. I mean, I was a fairly bright kid, who got fairly bright marks in school. It didn't help having a twin brother who stuck with it, and was much more successful at it than you were. This is no complaint about John, because again-- best dude ever-- but all of this lead me to decide the morning that the bus was supposed to leave back for Fredericton to not get on it, and stay with Netter in Sydney. I was tired. I needed out, away from John, away from UNB, away from failure.
Nette was living in our place on Grey Street in Sydney. It's not there anymore, the people who bought it tore it down. Dad was working out in Alberta, and I'm pretty sure was having a rough time with it, but I don't begrudge him; he was doing what he could for all of us, and he certainly wasn't the only father to part from family and friends just so he could provide. And I don't want to portray Nette as a shut-in, becuase she totally wasn't. She had her wonderful daughter, Janis, nearby, and three grandchildren who were the light of her life. She lived with our dog, Dusty, who was pretty attached to her for obvious reasons.
She had gone through so much during her life. It was only recently that her first child, a child she was forced to give up for adoption, found her. She never talked about this, but again, no grudges. She dealt with a lot of shit in her life, from a miserable first husband to my extended family, which certainly didn't treat her with the respect she deserved.
But she was always there for me and John. She was, and still is, the most important person ever in my life.
I had just gotten a job at one of the local call centers in Sydney. We were both happy I think, me and her. I'd like to think for the short time we were both supporting each other. Not too long after she had gotten some coupons for Swiss Chalet. She really liked Swiss Chalet, and we agreed to go soon.
* * *
It was the next day. I was still in my training period at the call center, and that involved waking up for 9am or whatever to go down and train with the rest of the new recruits. Her bedroom was right next to mine, and she rarely had the door closed. I remember walking by and seeing her lying in bed, and feeling something was strange. But I ate breakfast anyway.
I was about to leave for work, when I felt I just had to check on her. I don't know if I can describe how she looked, or even if I want to. This is difficult enough. But the second look confirmed the worst. I remember bits and pieces of the phone call with 911. I was crying and hollering in the phone, our damn dog was braking at me. The operator was asking me to try and lift her out of the bed, I couldn't. She was asking me to check for breathing, I couldn't. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't do anything but collapse in a ball against a wall as a pair of paramedics confirmed the worst.
* * *
So I'm having a bad day, and that is certainly the root of it. Every year since 2003 I've tried to sit down and write something about it. I wanted to write more, but I think the above is all I can muster.
Look, if you've read this far, thank you, that's enough. Please, tell your parents, your brothers and sister, tell them you love them. Tell them as often as you bring yourself to, because I can tell you what it's like when all of a sudden you can't.
I'm having a bad day, but I need these bad days every once and a while. They remind me of how lucky I was, and still am.
- Eddie
Disclaimer aside, I guess I feel obligated to say that despite the fact that I'm having a bad day, bad days are not a characteristic I associate with my life. I think, despite my various deficiencies, that I live a pretty good life. My last week was a ton of fun; I got a chance to hang out with both friends from Texas and Curt and his wife Kristin (It's pronounced "Christine"!), and I had a lot of fun.
The highlight? Having a fancy meal at the Five Fisherman (I tried the Seafood Curry, I liked it!), and not paying a dime for it (Thanks Kirill!). Our server, a former roommate from a few summers ago, even comped us the bottle of wine we had, which was incredibly nice of her.
My weekend was spent essentially doing what I do best: playing video games.
I cannot complain about my life, because there's so many people who don't have all the things I do. There was this guy who used to work with me at Canadian Tire, but was fired for perfectly legitimate reasons (he was chronically late). I've heard rumours that the guy is now living on the street, which is stupidly ten times worse in my head than all the thousands and thousands of people living on the street that I didn't know on some "standing outside Tim Hortons asking for change" kind of level, but I digress. There's a lot of good in my life, and even when it all goes tits-up I've got a lot of good family and good friends who will unselfishly catch me.
So when I say I'm not having a good day today, it's not because life sucks, nor is it some plea for sympathy. It's simply what it is.
* * *
Here's a gigantic secret of mine: I get incredibly emotional hearing about a mother or father dying. I swear, I was watching Star Trek (the new one) and (spoiler) there's a scene at the start of the movie where poor Kirk loses his father. My friend Sarah was sitting next to me, and you have no idea how badly I was holding it in. I like Sarah, and she's a good enough friend that I don't think I would be embarrassed breaking down and balling like a kid in front of, but come on. It's friggin' Star Trek. I mocked my brother for years for crying when we watched Disney's "The Fox and the Hound." Crying during a science-fiction movie would probably destroy any chances of me being a dude bad enough to rescue one or more Presidents.
Some of my friends got me a Nintendo DS game called Elite Beat Agents (I've mentioned it a few times in this blog) and oh yeah, there is a whole scenario where a little girl tried to bake a cake for her Dad (who died in an unrevealed accident). I was heaving huge sobs of sorrow as I tapped the little DS screen, wiping the salt from my eyes so I could properly hit the little circles the game was throwing at me. The little girl popped up during the ending to cheer for my victorious well-dressed Agents and I immediately broke down.
* * *
I read somewhere that the most traumatizing thing that can happen to a man is to lose his mother (for women, it's apparently divorce). I make no secret about that fact that I've lost a mother twice. I mean, it's not something I just bring up in casual conversation, but sometimes you just have to slip it in there you know?
I was registering university debaters for a tournament once, way back when I attended classes (well, sometimes) at UNB. We were putting on our first ever "Cup To Be Determined" tournament, and I'm sitting at the table collecting names and money. This slender, handsome blonde man comes up. I've never met this guy in my life before, so I ask him for his name. I'm pretty sure this is a conversation he's had a painful amount of times in his life, it went something like this:
Me: "Hi, can I have your name?"
Him: "Patrick LeGay."
Me (trying to spell his last name): "L... E... G-g..."
Him (scornfully): "G. A. Y."
Me (sheepishly): T-thanks.
Now, Patrick is an incredibly cool guy, and I don't think his last name is silly. But I don't know, when someone has an awkward name, I think peoples natural instinct is to feign ignorance.
I think it's in the same vein that no one wants to assume that your other died of cancer when you were seven; that's a horrible horrible thing to think. No, they want to believe that each time you mention "step-mother" or maybe "my mother used to..." you're not suggesting that there is something darker behind it all. But I can't pretend that my step-mother Selina (who I want to mention, is a wonderful woman and I'm incredibly happy my father found her) is the same woman who raised me, and hey, it's particularly troublesome when I'm trying to refer to her as a different step-mother than Nette.
If anyone reading this ever gets the chance to work for Oxford or Webster, please invent a word that means "second step-mother," please. You would make things so much easier on me.
To avoid confusion, here is how it went:
First mother: Jeanette. Passed away due to cancer when I was about seven.
Second mother: Jeanette (Nette). Passed away in 2003 in her sleep.
Third mother: Selina. Currently kicking my dad's ass, God Bless Her for it.
* * *
So I have bad days. I'd like to think that every day a small sliver of the love that my mothers gave to me just slips in, and eventually it just becomes too much and I just need to take a day off to let it all out. The last time this happened was in or around the 4th of April, 2008. This is the day that Dan Savage (the awesome sex-advice columnist who writes "Savage Love")'s mother passed away, and it came up in the next column he wrote. It was the straw that broke it all I suppose; the next day I was a total wreck. I guess I was having a panic attack of some sort. I called my close family and brother and Ali and I'm crying and batshit insane and I'm worried that maybe I've turned into one of those psychics who can feel when something horrible has happened and oh-my-god-someone's-hurt and...
... no one was hurt. The only one who wasn't fine was me. I think I sent my sister Janis into a panic; I got a string of text-messages from her asking if I was okay. My Dad and Selina handled me being crazy well.
Well... yesterday I was talking on the phone, and the episode where Nette passed away came up. It wasn't anyone's fault, lord knows I didn't want to talk about it. But the conversation wormed it's way there.
* * *
I was talking about how much I miss my brother John. It's not hyperbole or exaggeration or anything when I say how much I love him. Anyway, I was talking about him, and I was asked when was the last time I lived with him. The last time I lived with him was Fredericton in 2002.
We lived with a roommate named Greg in a three bedroom apartment somewhere off of Regent Street. It was a nice place, and John and Greg were great. But I wasn't. Another year at university had started, and it was going poorly for me. I didn't attend half of my classes, and the ones I did attend I was doing miserable in. Money was tight, which didn't help. I ended up making the decision to quit university, which in retrospect was I think a good choice, but hell. I think it took a lot out of me personally.
It was a huge defeat in my life. I mean, I was a fairly bright kid, who got fairly bright marks in school. It didn't help having a twin brother who stuck with it, and was much more successful at it than you were. This is no complaint about John, because again-- best dude ever-- but all of this lead me to decide the morning that the bus was supposed to leave back for Fredericton to not get on it, and stay with Netter in Sydney. I was tired. I needed out, away from John, away from UNB, away from failure.
Nette was living in our place on Grey Street in Sydney. It's not there anymore, the people who bought it tore it down. Dad was working out in Alberta, and I'm pretty sure was having a rough time with it, but I don't begrudge him; he was doing what he could for all of us, and he certainly wasn't the only father to part from family and friends just so he could provide. And I don't want to portray Nette as a shut-in, becuase she totally wasn't. She had her wonderful daughter, Janis, nearby, and three grandchildren who were the light of her life. She lived with our dog, Dusty, who was pretty attached to her for obvious reasons.
She had gone through so much during her life. It was only recently that her first child, a child she was forced to give up for adoption, found her. She never talked about this, but again, no grudges. She dealt with a lot of shit in her life, from a miserable first husband to my extended family, which certainly didn't treat her with the respect she deserved.
But she was always there for me and John. She was, and still is, the most important person ever in my life.
I had just gotten a job at one of the local call centers in Sydney. We were both happy I think, me and her. I'd like to think for the short time we were both supporting each other. Not too long after she had gotten some coupons for Swiss Chalet. She really liked Swiss Chalet, and we agreed to go soon.
* * *
It was the next day. I was still in my training period at the call center, and that involved waking up for 9am or whatever to go down and train with the rest of the new recruits. Her bedroom was right next to mine, and she rarely had the door closed. I remember walking by and seeing her lying in bed, and feeling something was strange. But I ate breakfast anyway.
I was about to leave for work, when I felt I just had to check on her. I don't know if I can describe how she looked, or even if I want to. This is difficult enough. But the second look confirmed the worst. I remember bits and pieces of the phone call with 911. I was crying and hollering in the phone, our damn dog was braking at me. The operator was asking me to try and lift her out of the bed, I couldn't. She was asking me to check for breathing, I couldn't. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't do anything but collapse in a ball against a wall as a pair of paramedics confirmed the worst.
* * *
So I'm having a bad day, and that is certainly the root of it. Every year since 2003 I've tried to sit down and write something about it. I wanted to write more, but I think the above is all I can muster.
Look, if you've read this far, thank you, that's enough. Please, tell your parents, your brothers and sister, tell them you love them. Tell them as often as you bring yourself to, because I can tell you what it's like when all of a sudden you can't.
I'm having a bad day, but I need these bad days every once and a while. They remind me of how lucky I was, and still am.
- Eddie
