Skip to main content

..if I don't keep blowing air into it.

After Ryan died I signed up for grief counselling and waited 8 weeks for the class to start.
I put so much on the counselling; everything, in fact. I thought it was going to fix me.

When the day finally came, I was dropped off at Rockyview Hospital where it was being held in the chapel.

It wasn't the same hospital that Ryan died in, but from now on, all hospitals will feel like the same hospital.

I was early so I got a coffee from Good Earth, and as I put sugar in it, realized why I was feeling so giddy. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Somewhere deep down in my subconscious, I had decided that he was still lying in a hospital bed somewhere and I was finally going to get to see him again.

The subconscious is a motherfucker.

"You think you're going to see him, you stupid stupid girl".
What they don't tell you is that it doesn't just happen once, it happens over and over again. 

So I walked my mind through what it had wanted. Me and my coffee walking down the hall to his room, and strolling right in. But that's where my dream ended. 

It makes sense. That was where I left him. I missed him wholly; my life was upheaved, and now I was back where I'd left him and I was going to finally see his beautiful face.

Grief is fucked. I lost it. Losing it in a hospital, however, is sort of ok.

Grief counselling, although not what I expected, was helpful. It reminded me that death is everywhere, and my complete world destruction was not unique, only a part of life. This was a necessary piece of advice, because grief can be harmful when full-strength.


To the land of the living grief is sadness, but I can tell you it's also selfish, delusional, irrational and mean.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

What it's really like to have a pot-bellied pig as a pet.

It's summer in Ramsay and I'm on the front porch reading when a little girl and her dad walk by. They get a few steps past the house when I hear “A pig lives in that house”. “Is that right?” her sceptical dad responds. “Yep”.

That is right.
A pig does live in this house.
My house.
Like a dog?
Yes, sort of like a dog but different.
Why did you get one?

I wish I could answer that. It might be because I saw one on a leash as kid, or because I love their cute little faces, or maybe just because I wanted to be different.

It all started at the wise old age of 24 when I googled "How to keep a pot-bellied pig as a pet". The articles were very helpful, and painted an easy life with a smart, obedient and charming pet. Filled with confidence in my pet-parent ability, I did what anyone would do; I drove to an exotic animal auction in Olds, Alberta with Georgia and bid on a baby pig while my boyfriend waited in the car. The baby pot-bellied pigs were grunting, groaning, and screaming. I …

The South Country Fair

It was one stupid weekend.
He wouldn’t talk to me on the morning I left, because he suddenly wanted to go, but now it was too late. Bye! I yelled to his torso through the open car window.
I wandered through the hippies, reacquainting myself with this alternate reality. Barefooted, bare-bodied youth.

The first night was uneventful, so we drank and smoked and put up a tarp, ruining my car in the process. It was no Frog Fest but it was fun and it was dry. Our more prepared neighbor kept asking if we wanted more rope, which we didn’t. The following morning we wandered through Fort Mcleod, and returned to the festival to discover Nanton friends drinking Pilsners and having songs dedicated to them. They had artist bracelets on because they were Lance’s woofers. We watched Tin & The Toad.

DN played after them. I swooned at his way with words. I’d never seen anything like him, except for that one time.
I was introduced to Kris, as Georgia was handing him beers from our cooler. “The art…

Ramsay Newsletter

In 2005 Ryan Fox and I lived happily in Bridgeland, next to a nice Italian family. One day, out of the blue, our landlords informed us that our beautiful green bungalow was being torn down to make way for two large grey houses. Our house was almost 100 years old and had a laundry chute from the bedroom closet to the top of the washing machine, so, pretty handy.
*(I made a short film in that house, that turned into a shorter film, and then not really a film at all. You can watch it here if you wish: Super 8 Film.)
In any case, it was a travesty for us, but an opportunity for them. Rental houses can be difficult to find in Calgary and moving in the winter sucks, so we were a little worried.
A few weeks later I came across a nice top floor in Ramsay for rent. "Where's Ramsay?" I asked Ryan. “Ooh, let’s move there, I love Ramsay!” That weekend we set out on a big old walk across the river to take a look.

Across the Langevin bridge, through East Village, and past Fort Calgary w…