Poetry of sorrow

Today is a crying day. I haven't had one in such a very long while. Years, really. What's frustrating is that the thing that actually got me crying is not the thing I was crying about. It was a bastard coworker who started the waterworks. He was being the world's worst listener and the planet's foremost controlling jerk. Luckily, it was a phone meeting and I held it together long enough to (a) make my points, (b) promise follow-up, and (c) not let my voice quaver. Then I hung up and cried and cried. BASTARD. I was furious. Good thing I'm working from home today. I went up, cried some more while taking a shower, and then came downstairs, made a snack and a vodka on the rocks and drank during work hours for the first time EVer. Yes, I'm that much of a dork.

But what really started me down that weepy path was a phone convo I'd had a half hour earlier with my second cousin, Deb, whose husband, Joe, is dying--right now--from ALS. He's at home, and she and their other family are around him. He's been actively dying for about a week now. It's a strange term, "actively dying." What you're doing is living, until you're not anymore. But, whatever. It could be any moment, and I feel so awful for her. And the phone conversation really connected me powerfully with how I was feeling when my mom was dying.

Anyway, I stopped after that one drink, and kept working. It's Friday. I won't have to deal with that wretched person again until Monday, by which time my bad-assedness will be back in full force.

A couple of days ago I started writing a poem about those who stand watch as their loved ones pass. Eventually, we're all on one side or the other of that little scenario, so I suppose it's a poem for everyone. When it's worth letting anyone else see, I'll post it.

Happy weekend.