I Wish I Could Do Better Than This
The one thing I do here is tell the truth. Some of this is gonna hurt people. Some of those old posts that my heart wrote with tears and fear and terror of what was happening to different kids, yeah, those are gonna sting maybe.
I can't write a fake story to save my life.
My father died. May 18th. Eleven o'clock in the morning at Baystate Hospital, he looked right at my sister's face, and then he was gone. He was down a right leg by that time. Took two surgeries to get it right and kill him real good. Fucking hero surgeon decided to keep his leg below his knee so he could.... what? Run a fucking marathon? He was dying of a myriad of diseases but the tough son of a bitch said NAY to that. And what do we say to death? Not today. Six years he fought back that pending doom so he could lay in his recliner, holding his wife's hand, watch fucking John Wayne and be with his family. He didn't give a shit about anything but that. The surgeon tried to save six inches of flesh and ended up surrendering everything. She did it again. She had to amputate his leg again. Because pulmonary fibrosis is so good at general anesthesia, she thought it was worth the shot. Knowing there was a good chance it would fail.
This is rambling.
But that vascular surgeon? She amputated the same leg twice in a month. And that's what it took folks to take that man down. A fucking hero surgeon whose ego wanted an eighty-two-year-old man with a list of diseases you'd think it was Trump's family STD list, wanted him to go for a fucking jog with a knee joint. No bitch, you forgot to ask one very important question: WHAT DO YOU WANT MR. CURRAN?
My life, he answered.
Even for just a few more weeks. I want my life.
She didn't ask.
We buried our father's ashes in front of people we wanted to cling to but couldn't go near. We had to have our beloved family and friends drive by and WAVE because also, there's a fucking pandemic.
I wrote nice words.
Now I'm writing my truth.
I wrote dad's just fine, but this is what you all get. A rambling, crying, woman who can't pull her shit long enough to take a breath IN.
George Floyd was murdered and all the news is crazy. The world is crazy. I aim all my hatred at Donald Trump and in my head I rerun all the ways he's the worst fucking thing to have ever happened to this country outside of the slave trade. I knew it when he openly grabbed his fifteen-year-old daughter's ass on national television. God, the fucking world.
My dog Clancy died. Two weeks before my dad died, my fucking dog died. I held his beautiful big head in my hands and I whispered thank you. I held him until he left this world so he could ready heaven for my father. I think he knew and I believe they are watching me right now. Hi guys. I wish I was better than I am.
I wish I could do better than this. I can't quite wrap my head around so I'm pretending it's fine but it's not fine. And I'm not okay. Maybe one day I'll be okay, but that day is not today. I cannot stop typing. If I do...
There's a pandemic.
Tens of millions of people out of work and a whole lotta people are living in a dream world. We're (the nation), about to lose everything. People are being laid off and let go. They ain't gettin' those jobs back. I'm doing the job of four people. Right now in fact. I took my week off for my dad, but I'm working. And it's just the worst thing ever. Nothing is going well. Everyone is miserable and I have almost nothing left to give them.
I wish I could do better than this.
I can't write a fake story to save my life.
My father died. May 18th. Eleven o'clock in the morning at Baystate Hospital, he looked right at my sister's face, and then he was gone. He was down a right leg by that time. Took two surgeries to get it right and kill him real good. Fucking hero surgeon decided to keep his leg below his knee so he could.... what? Run a fucking marathon? He was dying of a myriad of diseases but the tough son of a bitch said NAY to that. And what do we say to death? Not today. Six years he fought back that pending doom so he could lay in his recliner, holding his wife's hand, watch fucking John Wayne and be with his family. He didn't give a shit about anything but that. The surgeon tried to save six inches of flesh and ended up surrendering everything. She did it again. She had to amputate his leg again. Because pulmonary fibrosis is so good at general anesthesia, she thought it was worth the shot. Knowing there was a good chance it would fail.
This is rambling.
But that vascular surgeon? She amputated the same leg twice in a month. And that's what it took folks to take that man down. A fucking hero surgeon whose ego wanted an eighty-two-year-old man with a list of diseases you'd think it was Trump's family STD list, wanted him to go for a fucking jog with a knee joint. No bitch, you forgot to ask one very important question: WHAT DO YOU WANT MR. CURRAN?
My life, he answered.
Even for just a few more weeks. I want my life.
She didn't ask.
We buried our father's ashes in front of people we wanted to cling to but couldn't go near. We had to have our beloved family and friends drive by and WAVE because also, there's a fucking pandemic.
I wrote nice words.
Now I'm writing my truth.
I wrote dad's just fine, but this is what you all get. A rambling, crying, woman who can't pull her shit long enough to take a breath IN.
George Floyd was murdered and all the news is crazy. The world is crazy. I aim all my hatred at Donald Trump and in my head I rerun all the ways he's the worst fucking thing to have ever happened to this country outside of the slave trade. I knew it when he openly grabbed his fifteen-year-old daughter's ass on national television. God, the fucking world.
My dog Clancy died. Two weeks before my dad died, my fucking dog died. I held his beautiful big head in my hands and I whispered thank you. I held him until he left this world so he could ready heaven for my father. I think he knew and I believe they are watching me right now. Hi guys. I wish I was better than I am.
I wish I could do better than this. I can't quite wrap my head around so I'm pretending it's fine but it's not fine. And I'm not okay. Maybe one day I'll be okay, but that day is not today. I cannot stop typing. If I do...
There's a pandemic.
Tens of millions of people out of work and a whole lotta people are living in a dream world. We're (the nation), about to lose everything. People are being laid off and let go. They ain't gettin' those jobs back. I'm doing the job of four people. Right now in fact. I took my week off for my dad, but I'm working. And it's just the worst thing ever. Nothing is going well. Everyone is miserable and I have almost nothing left to give them.
I wish I could do better than this.
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