Death and houseguests……….
By Carrie • Feb 2nd, 2009 • Category: NewsAfter Greg died I stopped talking. It was as if my personality followed him down the dark passage of death and left someone who looked a lot like me, except that now my features where organized into an expression of abject fear. I had been scared—-not TO death, but BY death…you might say that Greg’s death had scared the fucking life out of me.
The thing about someone dying, though, is that life goes on. While your loved one is busy relaxing in their cozy coffins, you still have appointments, a job, friends, children —-a whole parcel of living things pulling on you to get on with it. I mean, life can be just as demanding as death in, it’s own way…….Of course, as far as I know, the demands of those us as yet unceasing are probably more of the high class variety than the demands of the deceased.
Now, I’ve never really been the type of person who gets over things easily. —-I mean, I had a hard getting over the fact that I didn’t have blue eyes or finding out that I hadn’t been invited to some big party someone was throwing somewhere……., so being confronted by something as formidable as dying—well, it wouldn’t be too difficult to predict that I wouldn’t be the person putting the “fun” in funeral. Not that anyone finds it particularly easy burying someone who wouldn’t normally be considered the burying age. I mean, Greg was way far from being past his prime. His wild lifestyle probably placed him neck and neck with his prime, but for anyone to die in their forties in this day and age is a hearty mix of premature and tragic.
So after Greg died I just couldn’t seem to be able to shake it off. Partly because I had loved Greg—–we had always had a lot of fun together. Much of it was the truant type of fun, but that didn’t make it any less amusing for us. Just for the folks around us who had to deal with our antics.
But the other reason because I blamed myself, you see. I mean, it had happened on my watch. If only I’d woken in the middle of the night, I might have been able to save him. If only I hadn’t been so busy sleeping, I might’ve been able to wake him up the next morning…..
The fact that Greg lived life like there was no tomorrow didn’t enter into it.(of course, eventually there really IS no tomorrow—–which occurs right when you run out of your stash of yesterdays and todays) I mean, it was as if Greg’s dying had more to do with me than it did with him. Which is a pretty fancy twist of perspective, when you think about it. “It’s all for you, Damien!” the nanny cries out in the movie, “The Omen”—-only in this case it was me shouting, “It’s all for you, Greg!” —-and unlike the nanny, I didn’t subsequently hang myself. Not literally, anyway.
So, I lay in bed for most of the day staring at the TV, as if waiting for it to provide me with an explanation as to how I’d been chosen to survive this particular set of circumstances. Or, perhaps a show would come on that might somehow relate to my predicament. A new cable show called, “C’mon! Shake it off! What’s the big deal?!”
But no such show came to my rescue. Instead, in exchange for Greg I was provided with an assortment of 5 brand new……..HOUSEGUESTS! Hooray! One visitor dies and 5 others take his place!
Needless to say, I wasn’t much of a hostess at this point. I gave more of what was left of my undivided attention to the television set than I did to the visiting friends that now crowded my house.
After Greg’s body was removed, (ugh……) I had my bed frame discarded, considering it’s inability to keep Greg alive—– and then we moved the remaining mattress to a new, no death free location in my room. (having, no doubt, determined that the mattress was virtually innocent in causing Greg’s untimely death).
So you might say that the entire tragic incident was just a question of luck. Perhaps the reason Greg had died was because of where the bed had been previously located and now that it had been moved from that place, no one else would die. Of course, it might have been simpler had I just moved to another room—–ANY room—why not the LIVING ROOM?! I mean, especially considering the room was designed for LIVING, unlike my bed room, which it turned out, had been designed for death!
Death sucks. I’ve lost my father and sister but at least they were in the hospital when they went. Dying in the bed next to you, now that will fuck you up. I’m sorry that happened to you. It would give anyone the heebies. The whole grieving process is odd and if you’ve been through it once you think, hey, I’m good now, I have this licked. Nope, it’s different each time. Hang in there, the freaky part will go away but that nagging guilt over saving the departed does still pop up now and again. Thanks for sharing, I love this blog. – don’t stop.
Damn.
I don’t know how you keep going. But you did, and continue to do so every day…and now not only are you surviving death knocking at your door- almost literally, you are thriving! Your book, your show, and raising your daughter are just a few of your many accomplishments despite this terrible and tragic thing happening. And thank god for wit… and a sense of humor. We may use it to hide, but I don’t know how others survive without it.
Well, just keep going! The blog is going amazingly. Rock on Carrie, Rock on!
I remember when I found out that my uncle died, at a fairly young age, I literally felt my brain shift in my head. People like to say, ‘the world shifted’. Nope, its your brain. This weird axis in the middle of your body, and you get shoved off center. and you think, ‘hmm. maybe i ought to center myself again.’ But why? life shouldn’t be the same anymore. When someone you love dies, that’s when you feel the real need for the universe to have a pause button. Just to stop your world for one minute. Maybe even 30 seconds. Lives we love deserve that.
But we don’t get that. and the phone rings, and you get houseguests, and etc. I am one of those annoying/nutty people that swears everything happens for a reason. Sometimes the reason is one you see immediately. And sometimes, it takes years. Maybe if Greg hadn’t been with you, in the bed of someone who loved him, he would have died alone. Now of course, you didn’t die with him, but maybe, just maybe, that was a fate worse for him than the fate you suffered in finding him. I could be completely off my rocker, too.
BTW, thank you, thank you, thank you for donating that awesome stuff when you were on The Bonnie Hunt Show. (Leia bust, wig, etc) I work for the company that does her auctions, and your stuff raised $380 for charity.
You rock.
Death sucks. No way around it, and it’s worse when you feel in any way responsible for the deceased’s deceasedness (new word!).
Never mind my telling you that it’s absurd for you to feel in any way responsible, even though that’s clearly the case. Intellectually, you know this, but inside you have doubts.That is what you have to work through, and you always will, baby!
Carrie,
I was going to write you through your publisher when I finished reading Wishful Drinking but this is way better. I loved the book but I wanted more and so here it is, your blog.
My mother dated Richard Hamlet for several years before she left his sorry blue-eyed ass and then shortly thereafter he married your mother. My mother and I often wished we had gotten to Debbie before Richard did so we could warn her about him. My good friend Carole Wells Doheny called Debbie once when I was visiting her and I spoke with Debbie but I couldn’t bring myself to mention Hamlet — the marriage had just ended.
Congrats on the blog. Visit my site if you get a chance,
David.
If only moving the bed could make all this terrible stuff go away. I’m sorry, Carrie. Life can get difficult. Sometimes it’s a lot like playing Russian Roulette and then finding out there are two bullets in the gun.
Death sucks – but there’s no sense blaming the hippo.
My parents bed had to be destroyed after my mom woke up, horked up massive blood and died suddenly. My poor sister and her husband got the awful cleanup chores – my dad was a wreck for days. Since Greg’s spirit was such a huge part of your life, his death will be too. Burn bright – we all go to ashes eventually.
Carrie — Give me a break. Use a larger font. Your stuff is great. Wry … droll…. irreverent .. my favorite attitudes. Please don’t make me squint. Thanks. molly
You might want to consult a feng shui expert about that bed placement.
Death is never easy. It is even harder when you were very close to the person. I still have a hard time dealing the with death of my grandpa, who died fifteen years ago because he was more my father than my real dad. My brother has a harder time dealing with it because he was the one that found him. It’s true that life goes on but there is no shame in mourning someone you love and taking your own time dealing with their death.
Hmmmmm….remembering my dad. He died young too. Amazing how fragile and yet how resilient this mortal coil is…
I’m still dealing with the death of my wife (29) of nearly 4 years. She died in our bed while I, like you, was sleeping beside her. It seems we were together for too short of a time for her to be taken away from me so suddenly. I’m still trying to figure out how to completely move on, though I have taken baby steps. I guess that ’s all one can really do: take baby steps.
Carrie, Let me graciously extend to you an invitation to join RED ROOM–WHERE THE WRITERS ARE, a San Francisco based website just for writers. You must be published to join. Hey, Salman Rushdie, Barack Obama, Mia Angelou, Jon Stewert, James Patterson, Dennis Shay, and several thousand other top authors are in it. You would be a shining STAR unto yourself. You potentially could add thousands of professional writers to your blog readership.
Check us out! http://www.redroom.com
When I was oh, nine years old or so, I was sent to wake up my Aunt Maggie by her sister (my birth grandmother-Aunt Maggie was my mom’s adoptive mom as well as her aunt. Long story. For another time.)
She was dead as the proverbial doornail.
Odd, how I knew something was wrong, knew NOT to touch her, backed slowly out of the room…and yet my young mind somehow wouldn’t let itself register that I had just seen a dead person. And not just a dead person, but my beloved Maggie.
No, not as surreal as what you went through, but certainly something that has stayed with me for over 40 years. I remember that day almost as if it were yesterday.
I am glad you are able to write-and write well, and wryly-about it. One thing I know about death that is dead dog true is that Death itself has not a drop of a sense of humor about it.
Hang in there. I like the blog.
Funny, how
Who the hell is Dennis Shay? “Carrie, I’d like to invite you to join this website…of course, you must be PUBLISHED…like ME…” Weird.
Someone on Twitter tweeted a link to your blog–so thrilled that you’re blogging! Bummed that I missed your show when it was in Berkeley–sure it was fab. Can’t wait to read what you’ll post here. Are you on Twitter? If not, please consider it. I just wrote there not long ago that my two dream tweeters would be you…and Albert Brooks.
Dear Carrie, i am so sorry you experienced this. sometimes doesn’t it seem that life is just about “death”. the rest of the world goes on while we turn our loss around and around in our minds. i was waiting for my boyfriend to arrive at six pm. when he didn’t arrive, didn’t call, i just knew. I called his office, pretending to have a delivery for him, and was informed by a co-worker (” I am so sorry to have to tell you this…..” , that he had had a massive heart attack that morning on the treadmill. His beloved wife knew nothing of me, nor did I know of his loving congregation. We all have such secrets, don’t we? I went to his funeral, alone, anonymous. What a celebration of faith it was! As I looked at him in his coffin, it was pretty obvious to me, that he was one dead duck.
But I sure did love him.
carrie: I read your book in 2 hrs – not sure if that is too long but very quick for me. I have a son, age 21, who is suffering from depression and I am trying to get him some help. your book was terrfic – I felt like you were sitting next to me chatting. I can’t wait to read your other books. you certainly are a success story and what a wonderful sense of humor which really helps, I know that. Thanks for an inspiring story. Love to you and your mother PS – I named my daughter after you!!!
UnsinkMolly– If you’re using Firefox, you can zoom in/out of your screen using CTRL and the + or – keys.
I have found that once you have been pushed into survival mode – you never ever really live a life without it again. At least I haven’t – no matter how good things are.
Sometimes it kicks in – without me being aware. And I wake one day finding myself putting one foot in front of the other. Staring ahead. Seeing not much. Felling nothing. And I am reminded of all I have seen.
Incest, homelessness, abhorent parents, self medication, death, loss of hope — all comes rushing back as you stand in one place and wonder how it could possibly be that you are there. And having no idea where there is. Or why you are there.
At least for me.
life is weird.
Carrie
EXCUSE THE PUNCUATION MY BIPOLAR SON BROKE THE KEYBOARD
I wanted to tell you i love your book wishfull drinking living with a son who is bipolar laughs are very far and few in between so once the craziness of the day settled down and it was time for bed my husband and i read your book. We found laughter in your honesty sadness in your pain and most of all someone else who understood what my son goes feels like on a daily basis. My son is fifteen and has a face like and angel and the personality of the devil. Then he has days where he lets say (normal) wait what is normal??? I wanted to let you know the list of people with bipolar i showed him and wanted to let him know its possible to be successfull . Thank you for your book i feel your pain on many levels. THANKS for giving people a glimpse of life with mental illness my son will one day get thru this.
Michelle
Carrie or loved one.
Please contact me.
Kent.
I just saw Mara’s link to this blog on another site. I completely relate to this story. My wife and best friend of 17 years took her life while I was away for a day. She was the love of my life. Hers was the 4th suicide in 18 years I have lived through. I have been forever changed by these events; I have gone through all the woulda, coulda, shoulda guilt a man can place upon himself. I could not let go of my friends suicides for nearly 15 years, but no longer choose to live in this dark place. These people all had a positive impact on my life. To simply stop living is to dishonor their memories. Since I acknowledge I will never completely get over these tragedies, I have decided to channel this energy for good, instead of dying a little more with each passing day. These people played an important role in my past; I am only now learning to take control of how this history will be used in the present. Each one of them has left a living imprint on my soul that only I have the power to let fade. I now allow their energies to work through me as forces for good, which, in turn, can serve to educate and benefit my fellow man.
George
I hope death doesn’t mean the end. I hope it means the beginning of a new chapter. It’s hurts to be reminded always of the empty spot that they leave in our hearts, but the imagination can come up with any number of fantastic possibilities. I like to think that my Mom is zooming around the universe a bright light. each day that that i let her go a little more the faster she gets.
When someone dies there is (well, hopefully) people back here on planet earth wondering what they could have done better––how could they have altered the situation. In 1972, when my mother died at 47 from a terrible auto accident, she had been driving from Seattle to Coos Bay, Oregon, to see me. I’d transplanted myself as a hippie in Coos Bay (only for a couple years, mind you), and she wanted to visit. Someone drove over the yellow line and crashed into her head-on. If I hadn’t decided to be a hippie in Coos Bay, this never would have happened. When I sobbed this to my father upon seeing him soon after my mother’s death, he snapped back, rather scornfully I thought, “Anybody can say that, Joy! If I had driven her, this never would have happened!” So my older brother pipes up, “But Daddy wanted me to drive her. If I had driven her… this never would have happened!”
As I was saying, if I hadn’t moved to Coos Bay to live as a hippie, my mother’d probably still be alive today. But also, if my father hadn’t been finger fucking my sister (who later committed suicide because her life was impossible to deal with), I probably wouldn’t have escaped my life in Seattle and my mother, who I loved, to move to dreadful Coos Bay. So you see… who knows.
I am not trying to feel sorry for myself, although it is a pretty sorry situation (although even worse for my younger brother who was a mere 16 when my mother was killed).
I could say, “These things happen.” But you know, things like THIS doesn’t usually happen. Things like waking up in the morning with your friend dead, beside you, doesn’t usually happen. I’m glad it didn’t happen to me and I hope it never does.
What is my point? Everyone has their regrets when someone dies. I would also like to say I think it’s because of my dad’s perverted behavior that my mom died so young and beautiful, so repressed and so screwed up and over. But he’s dead now too. And when he died, did anyone really mourn his death? As far as I could tell we were basically mourning our mother’s death all over again. We’d all heard about cause and effect.
Love you Carrie. Keep writing. I just read Postcards. The character Jesse at the end sure reminded me of the man I married nearly two years ago and my cockeyed way of perceiving him when I first met him. When I first met him, it was our third date and I was supposed to meet him someplace, and I had to call a mutual friend because I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember what he looked like––––even though I felt madly infatuated with him at the time. That always made me wonder about myself. I blame it on my dad (!)