Nothing quite like being on sick leave from work for depression/anxiety and finding out a loved one has passed. It’s not like it was a big shock or anything though, after all the man was 93 years old. I asked if I should go back to my hometown since I’m off work anyway, and my mom told me it’s not necessary and everyone’s doing all right. Which is probably for the better since jet lag in the winter sends my anxiety straight into crazy-town.
My family has never placed a whole lot of importance on funerals and “the end.” Being there for the weddings, Christmases, cookouts and fireworks is more important, even if it is by Skype as in my case.
From what I’ve heard about our family history, my dad’s side of the family (let’s call them the von Batschitzingers) was a bit, erm, melancholic and gloomy and German. I like to think they’re distant bastard relatives of Otto and Ludwig II of Bavaria. Who were totally batshit. My mom’s side of the family, the McLoonies* (or if you prefer the original Gaelic spelling MacLoun’iobhanhaileiligh), tend to react to bad things with inappropriate humour. I don’t know whether that’s healthy or not, but whatever.
I had this conversation with my mom just now.
Mom: Be thinking of us at 11:00 am our time tomorrow.
Me: I will. or I might be asleep because that’s 1am for me and I take my Xanax at 11pm, but maybe I’ll dream about it.
Me: I dreamt about Grandma right after she died, so. But I’ve also dreamt that Rick Astley averted a plane crash, so don’t read too much into it.
Mom: Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down….
Me: never gonna lose altitude and hurt you
*Names may or may not have been changed to protect the guilty. Use your best judgment.