nearly back only slightly morbid

jeeebus, I forgot how much like a vacuum grieving is, sucking up everything in its path. My friend had been sick a long time so I thought I'd done that pre-death grieving thing. But Cathy was too much like herself. Funny, cranky, stylish...just very Cathy.

When my mother was old and I was driving her to a funeral I asked So does it get any easier? Do you get used to your friends dying?

She said no, it gets worse. Each new death brings up all the others.

I haven't found that to be entirely true except that one similar death recalls others--so when Mom died, it reminded me of Dad's death. I think the answer to avoiding this grief thing is to either have very, very large groups of friends, or keep all of your friends and relations in separate compartments, never let them meet each other--and don't let them cross busy streets or breathe foul air. It helps to make sure they're all much younger and healthier than you, too.

Or maybe the answer is to only have online friends. When you hear about someone you've met online dying, you're sad, but it's not nearly so devastating.

I've read all sorts of stories about how real pain means real life and pain and real love and reality is all so very worth it. Right now I think I'm in the mood for a story about a person who's hooked up to a Pseudo-Life Simulator tm and is just fine, after all. Eventually the person dies and that's all right, too. They clean out his simulator, refurbish it and sell it and what the hell is wrong with that?

* * * *

Actually the very best thing to do to alleviate some pain is to get the scores back on a writing contest--the Suzannah--and get 45 out of 115 (on a scale of 1-5, the judge gave me almost all 1's, except for the mechanics). Reading her comments and scores sent me into a total ranty rage. Very clearing of the deck, is good old anger. Thank you, judge! She signed her name, too. Much braver than me. I'd never do that if I gave someone a shitty score. She's published, but I looked her up and I have more books out than she does so neener, neener.

* * * *

I didn't go to Cathy's funeral. I should have, but the thing is..... The thing is, I didn't. She was always pretty tolerant of my weeniedom, no recriminations that she always was the one to call or write. I have a few friends like that who are strong and tenacious and I'm grateful for them, Leslie.

I did go see her finally before she died. Not enough, but that's the theme this week: never enough. Last time I saw her in October (I was visiting yet another sick friend in the hospital) she said she wanted a foot of my hair**. I said I'd throw in about twenty of my pounds, too--she needed them. I wish I could have handed over a couple of my years as well. Assuming I'm not careless in traffic.

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**It was going to be a trade. She was going to give me an ounce of her style. She had oodles of panache. A flair for clothes and accoutrements. Not flashy, or designer. Just ... right.