I'm morbid

I confess. I read the obituaries every day. I hate it when people who read them daily say that they do so to ensure that they are not amongst those listed, and that's not why I do it. I do it because I have to. I've done this for as long as I can remember and, sometimes, I am very covert about indulging this little perversion when I am around others. I've even been in relationships (some long-ish term) with folks who never knew that I did this. I feel so sneaky.

In fact, this is how I found out that my friend, E, died about four years ago. I was just scanning the daily obit index, just like always, and there was her name - EVC. I even recall the initial feeling of disbelief - instead of looking at her name and thinking to myself Oh fuck. E died., it was more like Oh, that's weird. Someone with the exact same name as E died. Part of the denial step in the mourning process? Hell if I know. The obit itself was brief. Nobody had paid for the inclusion of a lovingly-written ode, complete with a smiling photo and a lengthy list of survivors - all named. Nope, just brief and to the point. Although the text never said as much, I knew instantly that she'd committed suicide.

I often notice the last names of folks with whom I went to high school. Most of the time, as I can tell by seeing their first name listed as a survivor, it's one of their parents. Other times I conclude that it must be a grandparent. It feels oddly intrusive and even too personal to be in the know with something like this.

About a month ago I saw the name of a fellow from high school. I didn't really know him in high school and I'm not even certain that I ever spoke to him. I remembered that he played football, that he was pretty large, his hair was blond and he was quiet and reserved. I don't really recall seeing him hanging out with anyone - he might have even been something of a loner...don't recall for sure. He worked as a construction worker and died at age 40, of sleep apnea. His survivors included both parents and a brother. I wondered if he died alone. I mean, really alone. I felt oddly sad for him when I read this.

I began to wonder what would happen if I died. Who would write my obituary and what would it say? Would my survivors pony up the dough for a lengthier and more personalized tribute? Would they include a photo of me and, if so, at what age? And who would see it? Would anyone from my past see my name and perhaps my photo and think of me - perhaps a thought with a memory attached? What about people who knew of me, but who never spoke to me, like people from high school for example?

My fascination doesn't end with the daily obits, though. Some five years ago or so, my friend, L, turned me on to Celebrity Death Beeper. CDB sends out a mass email blast to all of its subscribers whenever someone of note has passed away. And they are FAST. Seriously, it's as if they monitor the news wires constantly and report on a death as fast as any of the more reputable news providers. I swear I found out about the death of Anna Nicole Smith mere minutes after her passing.

In fact, CDB is how I learned of Julia Child's death. I was in Seattle, just beginning Librarian Action Figure School and saw that I had an email from CDB. Seeing Julia Child's name listed put me in a melancholy place. Since I was finished with classes for the day, I walked down to the local pub and put back a few in her honor. I thought of the joy that watching her cooking show brought me - remembering her adding more butter, dropping food on the ground and (in conjunction with the 10-second rule) throwing it back into the mix, sipping off of some sort of libation while cooking. I remembered her distinct voice, which made me laugh when I was a child. I remembered when my friend, David, met her ("She was tall," he said). I remembered when my friend David dreamed about her over Thanksgiving weekend. I miss my friend, David (who is still amongst the living - he just lives far away now).

And I miss Julia Child.

Je Suis le mental case, Part 3

The Lack of Order within my Extremes

This last fall, I was diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder. I've shared this information with some friends and only a handful of people in my family. Mostly, I chose to share only with people who might respond in an understanding and gentle manner. This is one of the ways I take care of myself.

As a result, my mother does not have any idea that I have (have had) Bipolar Disorder. I'm not sure if I will tell her and, if so, how I will tell her. Since Bipolar is often present in more than one family member, I'd like to learn if there might be someone in my family history who had Bipolar Disorder (even if it went undiagnosed) - I suspect this may have been the case with one of my grandparents.

I've struggled with telling people and worry that it makes some folks uncomfortable. People respond differently, though. It's interesting. Some get that "aha moment" look (sorry to quote Oprah) and I can tell that much of my mood swingage and behavior unpredictability suddenly all makes perfect sense to them. People who already know someone with Bipolar Disorder have been the greatest - they know how to respond in a very gentle and respectful way that doesn't make me feel defective. I get a little bit annoyed when I reveal this information to someone and their response is: "yeah, I think I might be Bipolar, too." I mean, I don't want to rain on anyone's parade or anything, but that just seems really insensitive and when I'm struggling to tell something that is difficult for me, "me too" is not the first thing I want to hear in response. Maybe that makes me a hypersensitive wuss, but I don't care.

There are a couple of reasons why I feel compelled to have this information out in the open.

First of all, I have been symptomatic for many years and have not been correctly diagnosed until recently. The new medication that I am on has completely changed my world and I wish I could have been diagnosed and medicated sooner (plus, if my words -here, or in my daily life- help even one person who is struggling the way I was, it's worth it). Why couldn't I get to this point any sooner? Let me explain.

Here are some of the red flags of my diagnosis: depressive episodes (both major and minor, recurring, sometimes without explanation or not pertaining to current upsetting situations), chronic and debilitating insomnia (during which time I would often experience bouts of creativity - writing all night long, or go on cleaning binges, or rearrange the furniture in the house, or cook gourmet dishes all night, etc.), extreme variances in energy levels and irritability levels and degree to which I would participate in things socially, then there were the sex and shopping binges.

Seems pretty cut and dry, huh? However, much of what a medical/psychiatric professional is able to conclude depends on how the information is reported. Without having any idea that I was skewing an analysis of my problems, I have always placed an emphasis on depression and insomnia when I sought treatment. And then I would be treated for depression and insomnia. Why wasn't I reporting manic episodes? Because I had no fucking clue that I was experiencing manic episodes. I even had a therapist, many years ago, ask if I ever experienced manic episodes. Not really knowing what this meant in psychological terms, only what I thought it meant socially/pop-culturally, I looked at him indignantly and gave him an adamant "no." Since he had no reason to believe that I didn't know what the hell he was really asking me, he accepted my response and moved on.

Herein lies the problem: when asked if I had manic episodes, my thought process went like this ---> manic episodes? ---> mania? ---> maniac? ---> who is a maniac? ---> Charles Manson, Hitler, Aileen Wuornos ---> have I gone on crazy-ass killing sprees? no, I have not ---> I'm not a maniac, what a dumb question. Hence, my response to him.

As a result, did I ever tell this therapist about some of the things I do in the middle of the night when I had insomnia and all of the energy I had that enabled me to do these things? Of course not! They just didn't seem important to me because I'd spent so many years experiencing these things on-again and off-again that I just thought it was no big deal - I'm just a little weird and that's just me.

So, I've been taking medication (Lamictal, no Lithium for me because it would make my Essential Tremor worse) since last fall and, not only have I not experienced any polar mood swings (or anything remotely resembling them), but my insomnia is virtually GONE. In the past few months, I've had insomnia about twice and, both times, it has been situationally related. This is a major improvement over having horrible insomnia 4-7 nights a week, every week. Sure, I got a lot of writing and schoolwork done then, but at some expense to my health. While I don't miss my depressive episodes and how they felt and all of the crappy thoughts and self-talk that come along with it, I have to admit that I miss my middle-of-the-night writing binges a little. I fear that I am less creative now (on medication) and less interesting, as a result. I worry that it will make me less successful, probably because I would often measure my self-worth by what I was able to accomplish in the middle of the night when the rest of the world is sleeping. Ultimately, though, I believe the medicated route is more beneficial to me in the long run, even though I hate the idea of having one more pill in the til-death-do-us-part pillbox. But now I know what normal feels like and what it's like to sleep seven hours a night every night and there's something really likable about those things.

There was another reason that I wanted to bring this issue up. Three years ago, an old friend of mine, E, shot herself. Sadly, she was struggling enormously and had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, amongst other things. Even more sadly, she chose not to share this information with anyone she knew, including her closest of friends. As a result, when she would seemingly disappear and not return phone calls and barely acknowledge her disappearance when she would return, we all just thought she was a flake. And a liar. Consequently, E would frequently find herself losing friends and attempting to acquire new ones. After one too many times of dealing with her lying, betraying, and disappearing, I told her that I couldn't be friends with her any more. She responded to my lengthy letter of explanation as to why I could no longer be her friend with an email. It said, "Great to hear from you. Let me know when you're in Portland again [I lived in LA at the time] and we'll do lunch."

I didn't know what to make of her apparent denial and I had no clue about her mental diagnosis, nor had I really thought beyond the fact that she could be a flake and would get on my nerves. I never did rekindle the friendship or run into her when I moved back to Portland. It was about a year or so after I sent her that letter that she killed herself. I attended her memorial service with a dear friend of mine who was also close to E at one time and then later took some distance from her. It was then that we both learned that she had struggled with Bipolar, and all of its symptoms, and that she wasn't so good about staying on medication.

It breaks my heart that she was unable to reach out to anyone and perhaps, if she had, she might have had more empathy in her life and fewer people abandoning her. I was saddened when I once did a Google search for her after she had passed away. E had taught English Comp. at a couple of the local community colleges and I stumbled upon a site that posted student reviews of professors. E had two reviews, both of which were graded 'F.' One student even went so far as to explain her review by referring to E as 'Miss Flaky Pants.'

So this is the part where I get to my point. And it is this: if some of the symptoms I've described sound like you or someone you know, you might want to further investigate. Talk to your doctor, your therapist, or someone you know with a PhD (okay, kidding...or maybe not). Don't take my word for anything, I'm not a doctor - I'm just a kitty. But just remember that if you have a Miss Flaky Pants in your life, there might be more than meets the eye. If I knew then what I know now about E, I would have responded to her irrational behavior much differently, or so I like to think.

Also be kind to yourself and to others.

Ode to Avion

Since I've started a tradition of bidding farewell to the lives around me that cease to exist, it would only be fair for me to bid a farewell to Avion, even though I never really was able to see the fabulous and caring side of her that I am told does exist.

Above all else, my heart goes out to Whitney, Avion's on-again/off-again partner who nurtured her and took care of her for more than a year, while Avion's health posed unique challenges and Avion stubbornly refused a bone marrow transplant, claiming that her doctors didn't know what they were doing and that she was no closer to dying than she was to winning the lottery.

Sadly, she never did win the lottery. Instead, she passed away a week and a half ago, quietly at home, with loved ones by her side. She was 29 years old.

I raise my *Grasshopper to my dearly departed Grandmother, Doris

May 11 was the one-year anniversary of the death of my dear maternal grandmother (see also this post) and as I was speaking to my biodad (not to be confused with my dad, who is my dad - he raised me, taught me, helped me through school, has been emotionally supportive when I needed it most, helped me become me - he has done everything a father should do and so much more, but he was not the one to initially create me...hmm, I see my future Father's Day post here) on the telephone, he told me that his mother (who was, I think, 93 years old) was not doing so well and he believes her to be near the end.

Instantly, I thought to myself that it would be so bizarre if she passed on this day, the exact same day one year later than my maternal grandmother...but I did not utter that thought aloud, as it seemed inappropriate and somehow morbid. Instead, I offered words of support and assurance to my biodad (who I have really only known for about two and half years but, again, this is the subject of another post). I reminded him that she has lived a long, wonderful and happy life and is fortunate that she is still rather healthy and not in pain. He expressed regret that she never really got to know me and I was touched by this - it felt very kind and warm, hearing this.

This conversation reminded me of how important it is to value the people around us who really matter and to tell them that they are loved. I made a point of telling my wonderful wife and fabulous daughter how loved they are and how much I treasure them both. I vowed to myself that I will spend the summer devoting much quality time to those I love the most and that I will let my loved ones know how wonderful I think they are.

I have some regrets that I had some friction with my grandmother a few months before she passed away (I regrettably refer you to this post ) and am happy that I put that behind me and spent some quality time with her before she was gone.

Later that day, I learned that my paternal grandmother passed away earlier in the day. Yes, the exact same day (albeit one year later) that my maternal grandmother had passed away. So, to Dorothy, who I did not know very well at all, I remember you with warmth and love in my heart and may you rest in peace.

*A Grasshopper is a nasty drink that my grandmother used to concoct in the blender around Christmastime. On the day she died, last year, I bought all of the ingredients for this libation and proceeded to whip up a batch in her honor.

Grasshopper

1 1/2 oz. Green Creme de Menthe
3/4 oz. White Creme de Cacao
3 oz. half-and-half

Combine in blender with about one cup of ice. Blend until smooth and then pour into a parfait or margarita glass. Enjoy, if possible. (Note: does not glow in the dark).

Ode to Opus

Sadly, I lost another canine friend today (see also this post). Opus was an awesome and happy beagle with the softest ears in the history of the universe. I liked that he didn't piss my cats off and that he didn't realize that he wasn't a very big dog. His clear bent for adventure was evident in his many escapes from the backyard on 34th Street and the many friends he'd accumulated throughout the neighborhood. Everyone knew Opus. I'm still embarassed that I'd presumed that Beth had named him Opus because she enjoyed classical music, rather than as an homage to Bloom County. On the few occasions when I was temporarily in charge of walking Opus, we had wonderful conversations in which we discussed the nuances of the various aromas we encountered along the way. Okay, I admit it, I couldn't actually smell a damn thing, but it seemed really important to him to compare and contrast the various aromas from one yard to the next, one block to the next, one tree to the next, so I just went along with it. Opus, I apologize for faking it.

I hope you will forgive me. I shall overnight you an assortment of the finest biscuits to doggie afterlife immediately.

ode to Doris (for my dear grandmother, who left the earth on this day)

When people in the family have told me that I’m “just like Grandma,” I know that what they’re often referring to are the... shall we say?... more challenging aspects of Grandma’s personality. That’s fine by me, as I know that I also take after my Grandmother in other, more flattering ways.

Grandma was always very proud of my academic achievements – yet she contributed to some of my successes there as well. When I was in high school and had to read George Orwell’s “1984” for my Honors English class and was struggling with writing a corresponding essay, my grandmother (an avid reader) read the book overnight so that she could assist me with writing my paper the following day.

Speaking of reading, I have many fond memories of my grandmother reading to me when I was very young. So often, Grandma would take me to the library and let me select as many books as I could carry. I was always in awe with the tall stack of hardbound books that she would check out. In fact, Grandma claimed that she helped me obtain my first library card when I could barely write my own name. I so loved going to the library with my grandma and this experience has had a profound impact on my use of the public library throughout my life, on my continuing education, and on my choice of career. I am nearly halfway finished with my Master’s degree in Library Science so that I can later become a librarian (which is what I always secretly wanted my grandmother to become).

ode to Ulysses

I just learned that a canine friend of mine has passed on. Ulysses was an awesome and obedient dog who was good at catching flying popcorn kernals mid-air and understood the value of Prada. He was gentle and patient with me upon learning that I'm not exactly a dog person and kinda afraid of dogs. He liked to watch "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" and I think he even knew some of the answers. He only slobbered on my backpack twice (but it came off). So I raise my glass to the recently departed Ulysses -- may doggy afterlife be everything you could ever wish for and more!