love you more.

It's all part of it, this dying. That sentence may or may not be mine. I feel like I've read it somewhere before, yet Google defies me. Either way, the sentiment is mine. Every day our bodies die a little. Our teeth are full of cavities, our hair sheds, our skin sheds. Some of us bleed. And all of it amounts to tiny little cells, which make up our tiny little bodies just dying. We don't have to be six for it to be too soon. I learned that this week, because the very same day, someone I've known since I was about six--just days after he was born--was taken too soon. It took a long time for the obituary to show up in the paper. The media didn't know. It just happened, like the world turns, like the geese fly south for the winter. 

Sadly or thankfully, not many people will notice, relatively speaking. It's good on one hand, in that no one will passive aggressively attack our way of grieving. Our way of behaving while we face a loss. No one will criticize us for a lack of respect because we posted a funny joke when we could have instead been publicly sympathizing. Because Facebook, even if you did know that someone else was dying last week, you ain't the judge of me. 

The way I see this person is this. He did what he wanted to do with his life. He did it well. And he deserved at least 33 more years to keep doing it. We had lost touch over the last few years, but the last time I saw him I felt lucky that we had the chance to reconnect as adults, especially considering how close we were as kids. It really was as if no time had passed. 

That's the trouble with time. In no time at all, it becomes yours. It's all part of it.

dislocated.

I woke up yesterday with a full heart, feeling like it would be a good day. My mystery illness was mostly at bay, and my anxiety was at a low. I can usually tell how these things are going to treat me by the time I've had my third sip of coffee. That doesn't mean I can tell whether or not something over the course of the day is going to trigger it. This is mostly true, because outside sources are unpredictable, and I am not psychic. I also have always in my pocket the ace of all anxiety spades--an alcoholic parent. Sometimes it's fine. Other times said parent will ask you to take him to the grocery store, but then turn it into an all day excursion to the emergency room. And maybe said alcoholic parent will have a dislocated finger from falling and blame it on a neighbor's dog, which he was supposedly walking. When you pick him up, he might slip on the bottom two stairs as you're leaving his apartment. Sans dog. He'll then try to get out of your car without taking off his seat belt, which you then have to release. And when he finally gets out of your car in the emergency room parking lot, he will slip again. Sans dog. 

While you're checking in to the emergency room, the triage nurse will ask him, "How is your pain on a scale of one to ten?" 

You secretly wish that thing went to fucking 11, and that he was feeling it. After all, his ring finger is bent in half, saying left while the rest of his fingers are saying straight ahead. He will say, "Well, right now it's a zero."

"You, sir, have a high tolerance for pain," the nurse will say. And you will glare at her and think to yourself, "Yeah, bitch. It's called vodka."

About an hour later he will ask you to go see if they can give him that Motrin they offered him earlier. Then, a convict in shackles with a "DOC" coat on will come in, escorted by two corrections officers. He is throwing up blood and has swollen legs and hematuria, whatever the bloody hell that is. And even though you have no idea what he did to be in shackles, you hope he pulls through whatever it is. Damn you, big heart. 

At that point, I'd reached my "see things I don't need to see" quota for the day. While I'm sitting there, two hours into the stupid ordeal, my phone rings. 

I recognize the number from work, and I know it's the phone call I've been waiting for. For three weeks. I answer, screaming baby in the next bed over, and they tell me I got the job. Great news, laced with the sinking feeling that my alcoholic parent has once again made a happy thing bittersweet. I hate that word. I hate that I didn't feel happier about it in the moment. That instead of calling my friends and family to tell them, I was texting them, while my alcoholic parent began a drunken rant about how he hates that everyone is constantly staring at their smart phones and their tablets and their video games. And I thought, "Yeah Dad. You can suck it."

Because even after I spent four hours of my day off at the emergency room, he said, "You really don't have anything to worry about. This is no big deal, just a broken finger." 

By now, I hope y'all get the gist that it's bigger and uglier than a broken finger. It's a broken person, who in spite of the fact that you're just his little girl somewhere deep down and buried, has no idea that it's a big deal that is slowly breaking your heart into tiny little pieces.

I'm happy that I got the job. I'm happy that after all of this, I was able to open a bottle of wine and start the long process of getting back to playing music, thanks to a little push from a  friend. I wish that those were the only two things that happened yesterday. 

I woke up today with a half-full heart, my mystery illness somewhat aggravated, and my anxiety a four on a scale of one to 11. Manageable. I start work full-time Monday morning. What this really means is that I will have health insurance that I can nearly afford, and vacation, which I will try to not spend in an emergency room. It also means that I can go to college for free, which may turn out to be the biggest deal of all.