Monthly Archives: May 2016

Four Times

It was only four times yesterday I thought to myself that I needed to call and check on Mom.

That’s down from five times last Monday.

It’s been a month. Holy shit.

I can’t bring myself to even open the big pouch from the funeral home.  It has all the acknowledgement cards, the guest book, and all that shit I need to send thank yous to the people who came or sent flowers, or baked pound cake (which I may, or may not, have eaten every last morsel of).

For now, it sits on the floor of my room…my she-cave…the one room in my house filled with just me stuff.  It’s judging me for being so damned intimidated by a friggin’ leather pouch, and probably fake leather at that, isn’t it?

This will get easier, right?

Did I Tell You About The Time…

….my mother died and then I had a head-on collision a couple of days later?

Yeah, so that happened.

I think y’all have heard me gripe about our frat boy neighbors across the street a time or two, amiright?

Well, one of them got up close and personal with me the day we were traveling to my mother’s funeral a couple of weeks ago.

And I don’t mean that in a good way.  He hit me, head on, on our street as I was taking the critters in for boarding.  They are fine, by the way. Me, not so much, but I digress.

He was turning onto our street at a “T” intersection, and I was coming up to the intersection to turn off the street.  When he turned, he cut the corner really sharp and accelerated – as you do, when you’re 19 and too cool for school – when he looked up, and remembered this isn’t England a millisecond before his Beemer hit my Impala smack in the nose.  One inch to the right and my airbags would have deployed, likely totaling my car, but the gods of mechanical shit were with me and instead of totaled, the car sustained about $5K in damage.  He bent the frame when his little car went under mine or else it wouldn’t have been so much.

Amazing what an impact at 20 mph will do to a car and the bodies inside.

So, after he hits me I just sat there staring at him through the windshield and after a minute this big boy, covered in tattoos, gets out of his car..and he’s crying.

Crying.  There’s no crying in car crashes. But there he was, crying like a baby about having just had a crash “and it’s my fault” he kept saying.

Damn right it was, and I was pissed…and this is what happened next as I sat in the driver seat dialing 9-1-1 as he approached me.

ME: What the fuck? HOW did YOU  not see ME??

CRYBABY: I don’t know. I just….*sobs*

ME: Stop being a pussy, will you?  Are you hurt?

CRYBABY: *hic* No.

ME: Well, I am..my chest hurts and I’ve got the cops and fire department coming.

CRYBABY: *wails*

ME: Geez…you live across the street from me, right?

CRYBABY: *sniffle* Yes

ME: First, why the fuck do you think I want to hear your music all hours of the day and night?? TURN THAT SHIT DOWN!!

CRYBABY: *sniff* Okay.

ME: And that has nothing to do with this. I just saw an opportunity. Now, the police are coming, everyone’s fine, you just stay where you are.

*an aside, I’ve had dipshits try to run on me before – this is accident #7 and twice that’s happened*

CRYBABY: I’m not fucking going anywhere.

ME: Don’t you talk to me that way, young man!

CRYBABY: (stares at the profane old lady in the car)

So, the police and hunky firemen came (seriously, why are all firemen so damned cute?) and checked me out.  My chest was bruised, and I had a goose egg on my knee from hitting the dash.

I rode to my mother’s house with an ice pack strapped to my knee.  And every breath hurt.

I thought I was fine.

I’m cute when I’m in denial.

Last weekend, two weeks after this incident, I noticed a GIANT lump in my chest.  Looks like I’m growing a third tit, and it hurts a whole helluva lot.

What. The. Fuck.

My doctor took x-rays and said I fractured the xiphoid bone, and have a large hematoma (third tit) in my chest.

No worries, none of that is as bad as it sounds. It’ll heal on its own and the hematoma isn’t in a vein or anything.  It’s on the bone and surrounding cartilage.  It’ll just take time. Time and ice.  Really, ice seems to help a lot. But, I can’t go around with an ice pack in my bra at work.  Stupid social rules and shit like “propriety” get in the way.

Since the day of the crash, I’ve been trying to get Crybaby’s insurance to accept liability.  First, they had no copy of the police report.  Then, no copy of the report AND Crybaby was not responding to calls or letters. Then Crybaby said it was MY fault, and they were investigating.

THEN, this morning I went all bitcharoni on their asses in a pain-induced fit of rage. Lo and behold, they have their reports, they got his statement, and they are 100% sure they are accepting liability.

Hallelujah, holy shit, where’s the Tylenol?

 

That’s A Big Hole

When a larger-than-life character departs from this world it leaves a big hole.  A ginormous, gaping wound of a hole if that person is someone you love-despised.

That someone, for me, was my mother.

She died on April 25th, 2016.

I just typed that my mother died and I still can’t wrap my head around it. Granted, she was not young nor in the best of health, but her death was very sudden (heart) and unexpected.  I mean, six hours before she left us I was talking to her and her last words to me were “I love you, baby”.  She was in the hospital, having been admitted that morning with chest pains, and we were still awaiting test results.  The EKG was normal and all they’d found so far was she was dehydrated.  Then they found her on the floor, unresponsive, and with no clear code status in place (no idea why, but that got missed on the admission questions to my nurse-sister) they resuscitated her for AN HOUR.  By then, the mom we knew was gone.  It just took another 24 hours for her body to catch up.

She was exasperating, exhausting, funny, mean, smart, vulnerable, beautiful and flawed.

And I loved her awful…and sometimes did a terrible job of that, but she knew and I knew in the way only mothers and daughters can know.  It’s that tie that binds, for good or bad.

R.I.P. Mom, and give ’em Hell up there.  Lord knows you are capable.

donna johnson 1968