It never ends Pt 1

8 Nov

I lost my grandfather, great-grandfather, and great uncle when I was two.  I don’t remember grieving, or anyone around me grieving.  I suppose I was too young.  Or maybe when we’re little we are less attached, the world is more simple, or we have some innate deep understanding of life and death.  Who knows.

My first major loss of someone was when I was freshly 13 and it was my Uncle.  He was taken from the world so quickly and unexpectedly, it was like a time-bomb went off in my already pretty small family.  Some were left blaming, never to speak again, some were left wondering, some felt guilty, some were mean and nasty, and I could go on with the bizarre behaviors I saw displayed.  I suppose that’s kinda when I learned to not really grieve in public.  I was so young, but my cousin was going through such a bigger loss than I was, to grieve in front of anyone felt selfish.  And I can’t even get started on my mom.  My mother is so selfish that she wouldn’t leave room for anyone around her to grieve or feel anything.  God, she’s such a spectacle of a human being.  So I would only cry, for the most part, when I was alone.

I lost a few friends in high school.  Most died from just being young and reckless.  I think about them often.  I think about them as my sons get older and I feel pain and heartache for their mothers.  How could I go on if I lost one of my babies?  I think about them with every drinking, pickup truck, bonfire, beach-redneck, mug-bogging, teenage crazy country song I hear.

Last year…..I lost my baby brother.  He wasn’t a baby, he was 21 years old, but he was my baby brother.  I continue to have such a hard time with his loss, it keeps me up at night.  It’s a problem for me that is hard to talk about.  I can tell you the facts, but not my feelings….  Just the facts.  Then I will distract myself from the conversation.  Sometimes I go into the bathroom and play his funeral songs and ball my eyes out with the water running so nobody hears me.  I dream about him a lot.  I even wake up groggy sometimes and think that I hear him talking to me or see him walk through my living room, and he had never even been to my house.  I feel like such a piece of crap that I wasn’t there for him more than I was.  I figured he was big enough to know better than to make his mistakes, and he needed to clean up his own messes.  And then he died.  He wasn’t a thug, in some kind of gang, or a bad person.  He was allowed by my mother to drop out of high school at age 15.  I am assuming she was too wrapped up in her own life to give a rats ass about whether or not he went.  He started drinking and smoking within a couple years after.  They lived in crappy houses that were never clean because my mother was too busy with other things to worry about that.  He saw and experienced A LOT more than he should have.  He looked up to and emulated people he shouldn’t have, with the exception of me.  He told me when he was 16 that I’d abandoned him.  See, I got married at 19 and moved away, and he didn’t have me to protect and guide him anymore.  I got him to come visit me once, but he got homesick after a week or so and returned home.  Eventually he got into those things that kept my mother so busy.

I used to tell him that if he EVER EVER EVER did drugs of any kind, he could cross me out of his life.  I would have nothing to do with him.  So when he developed a problem with pills, (coincidentally the same as my mother’s) nobody told me.  He begged them not to because I wouldn’t talk to him anymore if I knew.  I could have helped, though.  I really could have.  He went to the Keys and got arrested for catching a lobster without a permit and was on probation for it.  Back at home, he would wash people’s cars or headlights with this special solution as a way to earn money.  Some stores wouldn’t allow him to do it so if they caught him, they would call the police for trespassing.  So he was arrested for trespassing which violated his probation, and was sent to jail for 2 months.  He got beat up in there, really really badly, and severely hit in the head.  When he got out, he would have headaches that wouldn’t go away.

My mother was on the following in addition to her other prescribed medications (prescribed by a doctor in FL that was recently shut down, that would up her prescription if she brought in new clients)

Fentanyl transdermal patch (Durogesic/Duragesic/Matrifen) is used in chronic pain management. The patches work by releasing fentanyl into body fats, which then slowly release the drug into the bloodstream over 48 to 72 hours, allowing for long-lasting relief from pain. The patches are available in generic form which has made them available at lower cost. Dosage is based on the size of the patch, since the transdermal absorption rate is generally constant at a constant skin temperature.

Rate of absorption is dependent on a number of factors. Body temperature, skin type, amount of body fat, and placement of the patch can have major effects. The different delivery systems used by different makers will also affect individual rates of absorption. The typical patch will take effect under normal circumstances usually within 8–12 hours, thus fentanyl patches are often prescribed with another opiate (such as morphine or oxycodone) to handle breakthrough pain.

Here is the link if you’d like to know more:

He ate one of these.

According to my mother, she found him in his room having seizures (which happened occasionally due to a head injury from when we were younger) and called 911.  The ambulance came, but he was awake and alert and could answer their questions properly.  He also refused to go to the hospital.  So my mother, doing what any normal parent would do after their finding their kid unconscious and seizing, decided to go to the store for some cigarettes.  She came back to find him blue and not breathing on the couch.

I was on my way t Chuck E Cheese as a reward for Merik having good behavior in school.  I had talked t my brother the day before, and he was excited about recently passing his GED test, and planning on getting a job.  I called to talk to him, but was informed by my mom’s friend that something bad had happened to him and I needed to talk to my mother.  The paramedics came back, packed him in ice and took him in.  One of my best friends happens to be a paramedic there, so he made a call to ask them to really give it their all.  The hospital wouldn’t give me any information, but wanted to speak to me to find out about what medications he’d taken.  My mother had told them she thought he took all her somas (another lovely drug) and did it intentionally. My husband called and spoke with a detective that shares a military background and confirmed that they lost him.

I lost it in the middle of my front yard.  I don’t even remember much after that.

My mother came to his funeral after she’d shot herself up a few times…in a white tank top, and nail polish all over her fingertips that looked like she fell in the dirt on her way in.  The priest had to wake her up in the front pew to give his condolences.  There’s SO MUCH MORE to her in this story, but I’d have to write a blog series about that.  My poor Dad.  As nasty, cold-hearted, and terrible as she had been to him, still sat next to her and held her.

He’s been gone for over a year now.  He would be turning 23 this year.  Dominick asks about him randomly sometimes, which makes me happy that he remembers him.  Or at least remembers his memory.


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