Just Trying to Make Sense of Things

I really debated on whether or not I should do this here, whether I should post something else or not at all, but you know, this is my place, this is where I can (and do) say anything I want, and I'm doing it.  I'm going to be a Debbie Downer, and I'm probably going to feel undue pity for myself, so if you don't want to read that, here's your warning.

A couple hours ago, my sister-in-law flung open my door and walked into my house.  The lack of knocking is nothing new, but the look on her face was something I hadn't seen before.  Shit!  A ridiculous thought ran through my mind.  She found the tapeworm thing. 

"What's up," I asked her, half expecting a fist to my face.

Instead, she ignored me completely and headed to where George was sitting.  She stood there for a minute, just staring at him, finally choking out that they needed to talk.  George was thoroughly confused, but he got up and followed her into the kitchen.  At that moment, I knew it was something more serious than my stupid tapeworm pictures.

"They need to go in the other room," she insisted, nodding to Pie and I.

Normally, that would piss me off (and on some level, it did) but for once I had the good sense to keep my mouth shut.  I scooped Pie into my arms, headed into the living room, and plunked her down on the sofa to watch How to Train Your Dragon.  I tried to focus on the movie, but bits of conversation from the kitchen kept drawing my attention away.  She couldn't have just said what I thought she said, because that's not possible, and--

But that was what she said.  George's mom died.  She just completely unexpectedly died.  Went for a routine surgery, was released yesterday, bled out at home.  No warning, no sense to any of it, just game over.  And here I'm worried about tapeworms.

When my sister-in-law left, I went into the kitchen to hold him.  We left Pie on the sofa and went out back for a smoke.  I had one, too.  Then, life went on.  I finished making the tacos and we had dinner and he and Pie went to bed.  I'm alone with my thoughts and for the first time I can remember, it really, really sucks.

I have things I could do.  I paced around my kitchen, trying to make sense of how to start cleaning it.  I burned a dozen cookies.  I tried to distract myself with the internet, but I couldn't even get into my favorite story.  I have people I could call and I have people who would be here in 10 minutes if I asked, but it doesn't even make sense because I can't think about anything except my husband's hurt and the fact that I have no idea what to do for him.

There's something wrong with me.  I'm too emotionally stunted to process anything I can't turn into a joke.  I'm the mood lightener.  It's what I do.  When something's wrong, I say something so completely out there and inappropriate that no one can be sad anymore.  I always know what to say, and even when it's wrong, at least it's funny.  But I have no idea what to say.  Or think.  Or feel.  He's pretty much in shock right now, and I'm selfishly relieved because it means that if I do fuck up, he only half heard it anyway.  I'm his wife, I'm supposed to be able to comfort him, and I'm failing and useless right now.

On top of that, I've never experienced anything even close to this.  Over the past couple years, I've lost 3 of my grandparents, and it was sad, but it was also more or less expected.  And they'd all been ready.  This is an entirely different realm, and it's just too real.  I can't even relate through experience.  I just want him to be okay.

Then, and I know the two are unrelated, I feel like the biggest pile of shit ever over the tapeworm thing.  What the fuck is wrong with me?  That wasn't a nice thing to post and I knew it and I did it anyway.  Rational or not, I feel like maybe if I wasn't such an asshole all the time, things like this could be avoided.  I know that makes no sense, but that's how it translates in my mind anyway.

Further cementing my position as the worst person ever, during all of this, Pie pulled my laptop off of the coffee table and broke it.  Like, won't turn on broke it.  The laptop itself isn't a huge deal, it was an old as dirt HP Pavilion that I got for free from someone who was throwing it out.  I got it running, and it's served me well as a spare over the past couple years, but it's nothing worth shedding tears over.  The problem is that I've been trying to challenge myself lately, and have been doing a lot of writing.  I use the craptop for that because it's easier to write curled up under the blankets in bed, rather than at the computer desk.  I was ten pages into something I'd really been struggling with when it happened.  I hadn't yet emailed it to myself.  I'm taking it to my dad's tomorrow, where, with any luck, I can pull the hard drive, hook it up to an adapter, and retrieve my files.  If, the hard drive isn't broken anyway.  Thing is, what kind of person thinks about this when so much else is going on?  I can't really be that selfish, can I?  Apparently so.

I'm pretty much a selfish, useless, mean bitch, and now I'm making this about me.  And feeling sorry for myself.  God, I'm an asshole.  Anyway, I guess I just had to get this out.  I don't know how much I'll be around this week, but I'll be back sooner rather than later.  And while I'm feeling sentimental, I appreciate every single person who reads this, even if we've never actually interacted.  You are all wonderful and thank you.