Ms. Mousie & the Goose

Everything at work and at home has been eerily normal lately.  Except that the kids are still in Knoxville with their mom for another few days.  It’s nice to have Tim to myself for two weeks at a time, but it’s not the same when they are not here.  Quiet… a little too quiet.  (j/k)  I’m enjoying the peace.  Getting caught up on the chores & bills, etc.  I still haven’t got my feelings figured out, yet.  Most of the time – 95% – I’m fine.  Really OK, inside & out.  That is almost as weird to me as the 5% of the time that I’m not OK.  When I’m happy, sometimes a voice in the back of my head tells me that I really should be sadder, or that I am sadder & I’m lying to myself.  OR that maybe I’m fucked up for being so functional.  And when I do get upset, it comes so suddenly and I get totally overwhelmed.  It makes up for the rest of the time that I feel oddly happy.  I am still somehow entirely surprised and unprepared whenever anyone expresses any sort of sympathy.  I feel so sorry for the people that have to work with me.  I promise that there is no wrong way to approach (or not approach) the subject of my loss(es), but it must seem that there is no right way to talk to me.  Mostly, people have steered clear of the subject.  Some people are steering clear of me… that’s fine, too.  The handful of times that people have said to me: “If you ever want to talk…” or “I’ve missed you…” I have a physical reaction.  I lose my words, tears spring instantly into my eyes and I just start nodding or mumbling that “It’s OK” and looking for an exit.  It pretty well sucks.  They’re only being nice.  I can’t take their kindness.  I’m sure I make them feel bad, like they’ve said something wrong.  It happened today when I was leaving work.  My victim was lady that I used to work across the hall from, who doesn’t know me well but who has said “hello” a few times in the past.  She is really quiet and sweet and Southern.  She always wears a skirt or a dress.  She has a teeny little voice.  I don’t even know her name – I’ll call her Ms. Mousie (as a term of endearment, of course.  I loved that song when I was a kid and it’s just what occurred to me at the time, so I won’t let myself feel bad about it).  Anyway, it was the end of another regular day of work.  I was not remotely sad.  As I was leaving, I held the door for Ms. Mousie.  She sort of hurried up to come through and we walked down the steps together.  She thanked me and then made really, genuinely friendly eye contact and asked “How have you been?”  I can’t remember exactly how I reacted to be honest, but it must have shown on my face.  I tried to stammer out that I was doing OK.  She said “Well, we’ve been praying for you.  I think it helps.”  Now we were walking through the parking lot.  “Thanks,” I said, but I could feel the lump in my throat and my face was crumpling.  I could feel the tears stinging already, blurring my peripheral vision, making blinders.  We went in opposite directions and I made a bee-line for my van.  I must have been holding my breath.  As soon as I got inside and shut the door, I just sobbed.  I know that people saw me crying as I drove away.  Frankly, it’s embarrassing.  I know that it’s natural and it’s alright and that I’m entitled to my feelings but I don’t like feeling so exposed.  It fucking hurts.  It’s my hurt.  It’s not really that I don’t want to talk about it, I can’t talk about it.  But it’s not your fault.  Shit.  I can write about it.  Facebook comments are great.  I can talk about everything at length with my family and my close friends and people that I know know.  Does that make sense?  If I know that you already know, I am not so surprised when you bring it up and you won’t be weird when I bring it up.  It’s the people I haven’t seen at work yet, the grocery checker that likes my tattoo of Jacob’s footprints… new people on my turf.  I’m seriously crazy as hell.  And if that weren’t enough… then came the goose…  My work is located right on the Tennessee River.  It’s a beautiful place and we have a pretty little garden on the river walk.  There are herons and turtles and butterflies and flowers everywhere.  On the little driveway out to the highway there is a pond that is always thriving with life; always something going on there.  There is usually a gaggle of geese doing their thing – flirting and fighting, grooming each other and occasionally clogging up traffic.  I saw this poor goose (this is sooo stupid) limping along in the road.  One of his little webbed feet was crushed.  He was moving really slowly and struggling to get across the street.  I was still crying from Ms. Mousie and when I saw the goose it was just too much.  I slowed to a stop to let him cross in front of me and just bawled.  I’m not even really friends with geese… everybody knows they can be jerks, but I felt so bad for him.  Maybe it was because something natural and innocent from one of my sanctuaries was hurt… again.  Not fair.  Maybe it was because now I could feel sorry for something instead of someone feeling bad for me as usual.  MAYBE it is the birth control kicking in or the return of PMS.  Who knows?  In any case, I was a big baby all the way home.  It felt like the drive would never end.  Tim was home already.  He immediately knew that I needed him.  He cuddled me and listened to me babble about how beautiful and sad and unfair everything is.  And that was all it took.  5% over.  It cuts off as quickly as it cuts on, like someone flicks a switch somewhere and I am back to “normal.”  I still feel bad for that goose, though.