The Forty-sixth annual Fuck You list…

The Medical Community-no explanation needed, but I’m going to bitch a bit anyway. I do not give a damn if you will never pay off your student loans, that you are not allowed to practice as you wish, or construction on your new summer home is six months behind schedule, you fucked up and fucked up bad. Not only did you lose one, so did I, and a whole lot of other people. Your decisions effect lives, forever, at least you could try not to be an asshole about things. Oh and quit billing my husband’s worthless estate for killing him.

The Funeral Industry-again no explanation required. I hate everyone of those fuckers. You can take your fake sympathy and shove it up your ass.

The Greeting Card Industry-I’m fucking well aware that I’ve lost someone, thanks for putting on the front of a card to remind me. Is this supposed to make me feel better? Widow pro-tip for my readers, don’t send sympathy cards, send friendship cards. The sentiments of some greeting card writer are not comforting. Poets and Jesus may care, but you can’t buy it for $2.75.

The Greeting Card Industry Again-Like I said my birthday is coming up, and I have to pick out birthday cards for a couple of adoptee friends today. I’m thinking they aren’t going to have anything that expresses my true sentiments of “Gee sorry about this day that brings up all your abandonment issues, but you’re my friend, and I want you to have a good day anyway.”

The Adoption Industry-Duh.

Facebook-Really? What the fuck dude? ‘Nuff said

The Entertainment Industry-This has to be the worst year yet for adoption themed movies, television shows, and any other thing they can throw at us. I got so goddamn tired of not being able to watch a pissing thing without the fucking wonder of adoption being thrown in my face this year, I told DirecTV to take a hike. I’m much happier. Thanks. And don’t even get me started on “still young woman loses her husband and goes on to make a life for herself” bullshit. Yeah it happens and it’s happening to me, but for fucks sake, it’s not one bit inspirational and being widowed doesn’t make me a goddamned saint. The whole let’s make the character widowed instead of divorced so we all know she’s a good girl thing makes me want to clean out the china cabinet with a baseball bat. Fuck you, my trauma didn’t cleanse me.

Verizon Wireless-Talk about profiting on death. They really need to have a recently widowed plan. I think I might have spent as much money with them as it cost to bury David in the first three months after he was gone. Fuck you.

David-Yeah, David. Fuck you for leaving me. Fuck you for not being here to take me out to dinner when I finish up my mid-terms. Fuck you for leaving me the mess of your life to clean up. Fuck you for not being late with my birthday present this year and wrapping up a picture of whatever you just got around to ordering me. Fuck you for loving me. Fuck you for dying.

I’m going to stop for now, but I’m not done.

I laundered it, pressed it, and hung it my closet. His closet in now my closet, just like everything else he ever had. Most of his clothes are gone, I’ve keep a few things, most are packed away, but some things stay. The good things, the things that defined him, the things that made him unique.

When your love dies, in some ways, you become them, not just legally, but in a much deeper sense. You are the closest thing left of them, you incorporate them in ways you never thought possible. Just as you could finish their thoughts in life, you finish them in death. You have their voice. It can be so intense sometimes it’s hard to tell your voice from theirs, but there is no confusing the source of that voice.

You hold on to the irreplaceable, the core of who that person was, the preciousness of memory. To suggest they could be replaced is an impossibility, it denies both my worth and the strength of the true memory of my love. Nobody else could ever wear that shirt, and I would never pretend to dress anyone else in it. It belonged to David.

There is a strange duality to widowhood, if you haven’t been here, it’s hard to understand. Having loved doesn’t keep you from loving and sometimes the message on both sides of the unmistakable border of what was, and what it is now, is the same. Don’t let go.

I’m not good with dates either, more than occasionally I have to do the math to figure out how old I am. After I hung up the phone I did wonder how long mom and dad had been married. I had to first, figure out how old I was, then add the appropriate amount of years to my age. Turns out it’s my folks 50th anniversary.

Around here most folks make a big deal about their 50th anniversary. The milestone justifies a picture (taken at Olin Mills, of course) in the local paper and a reception in the basement of house of worship of their choice, not to mention the mandatory card shower. My family never went in for that stuff.  Though we might all agree that showing up is 90% of success, we aren’t ones to celebrate meeting the minimum requirements. Being married for 50 years simply means you haven’t screwed it up, yet.

Even if doing what is expected isn’t much revered in my family, neither is royally fucking something up demonized. We’ve all done it, many times in spectacular form. These episodes get more play in family conversation, many times, than our achievements. We just don’t find it nearly so interesting when things go as they should, that’s expected, but a good near death experience, especially due to your own actions, is pure conversational gold.

I’ll be counting on that acceptance of screwing up tonight. The chances of me coming up with a suitable gift for my parents by 6 p.m. are slim to non-existent. My own guilt is tempered by the fact that no two people on the planet need one more thing in their house less than my parents. But karmic justifications do little when everybody else has a gift.

Maybe I should just thank them for expecting the minimum standard and teaching me to admit, and even sometimes embrace, my failures.

This phrase should sound familiar to most folks reading here. It’s the chant repeated over and over as we march in the annual Adoptee Rights Demonstration. After demonstration day its so ingrained in your mind, you hear it in your sleep.

YOU’VE GOT YOURS, WE WANT OURS!

This isn’t the kind of statement that demands an answer, it stands alone. You don’t really expect a cadre of legislators to emerge from their meetings and answer, “Well gee, okay, you can have your original birth certificate, you’ve made a hell of a point there. We’ll get right on that.” They are simply words that you want to be heard.

YOU’VE GOT YOURS, WE WANT OURS!

The thing is I’m starting to hear an answer.

I’VE GOT MINE, SO SCREW YOU!

We live in a world where, at least a vocal minority, cheer at the thought of someone being allowed to die for lack of health insurance. Do you think that bunch is going to give a good god damn if you have your original birth certificate when you’re dying, at home, from a fully preventable cause, because you didn’t have the financial assets to find treatment? They won’t, being adopted, in their minds simply marks you as another useless member of a permanent lower class who didn’t fully embrace the American dream.

Empathy is in short supply these days and empathy is essential to our cause. Those who cannot put aside their own perceptions and feel the plight of their fellow man are sadly becoming more of a force in politics. Their number among state legislators is significant enough it must be dealt with. For that reason, I propose we add a new chant along side the others.

ABANDONMENT IS NOT FREEDOM!

We must make people understand that being abandoned by your government does not liberate us from our our origins, but creates a kind of inequality that will never allow us to be truly free. We are at our very essence people, citizens, even entities completely created, without our consent, by our government. If some would see our government as promoting freedom above all others things, shouldn’t we, the creations of this government, be allowed the truest freedom, that of our identity? If our government judged that we would better enjoy the benefits bestowed upon citizens of our county with revised identities, shouldn’t we allowed all the advantages of citizenship? What possible argument can be made for shrouding our origins in secrecy?

ABANDONMENT IS NOT FREEDOM!

If we look at the on going struggle as warriors, why shouldn’t we tire from battle? Traditionally those that chose warrior as a profession did so not just because it appeals to a need to do good, to protect those that cannot protect themselves, and a baser instinct to apply the force within ourselves to strike at those that do wrong, it was understood that this dangerous work had advantages. The righteous joy taken in the defeat of an enemy, the very things which they defended spread out for the taking, a time to celebrate with comrades all glorious in triumph, and the returning home as subject of honor and praise. Without these things, the warrior life can be a grim one.

When we must band together as guerrillas, few in number, poorly equipped, fighting an enemy so large to be beyond comprehension even by those who are part of it, or be the even more foolhardy one who goes alone, our victories, slight as they are, give us no plunder, no salt, no gold, only the celebration of our own band of fools. Is it any wonder that we tire? Should we not feel we are only receiving half measure of our commission?

There is no wonder in that we tire, the constant battle leaves no time for laurels. We must settle for our scars and scraps. But through that, are we not the truest of warriors? Those that sign on for the fight alone express the purest, most divine, of our guild. And what shall we do when we tire? Return to the fields, the dwellings, the people we defend and advance, and take comfort in them, knowing they surely need us.

We must find satisfaction, if not glory.

I woke up way too early this morning. My life in the last few weeks has included falling way too hard for the media coverage of the political events in Iowa (I’m right next door) and adoption activism. No wonder these things got mixed up in my mind being up at this ungodly hour.

I began to think about the current crop of GOP candidates in terms of adoption, specifically what role they would fulfill if they were part of the adoption community….

(insert soft focus and the dream music from any 1970’s sitcom here)

Mitt Romney-Birth father, adopter, envies adoptees, duh, he’s Mormon.

Michelle Bachman-Adopter, with a blog and a website, working on a book, will tell you how important she is to the adoption community, known to troll adult adoptees reminding them how grateful they should be while misquoting Margaret Mead, who she thinks wrote a baby book.

John Huntsman-Adoptee, but nobody has noticed.

Newt Gingrich-Late Discovery Adoptee, claims to be grateful, but is troubled by sexually charged homicidal fantasies involving his adoptive mother.

Sarah Palin-Adoptee that wants to adopt, already has really bad ass names picked out, but has been turned down by every agency in the country. She can see Russian babies from her house.

Ron Paul-Adoptee, nobody listens to him, compensates by overachieving, but just can’t please his adoptoraptors by becoming president, destined to fail. Also wonders if his children are actually his. He still truly believes he came from the hospital.

Rick Santorum-definitely not a birth father. Google it.

Herman Cain-Adoptee, look at the group picture.

Rick Perrry-Sperm donor, but underutilized, has probably not fathered any children, intelligence means more to potential buyers than good hair.

(Que end-of-dream-sequence music)

Perfection only exists in the minds of the deluded. It’s all really a clusterfuck.  If you recognize this, it gives you perspective, but no advantage.  You’re going to walk right into it. You can do nothing else.

After spending some time in the bubble of perceived perfection, where we must all go sometimes to maintain our sanity, the absolute enormity of the clusterfuck can be overwhelming.  It can take your voice, your heart, your whole self. It can be like adjusting to altitude. It incapacitates until you adjust, you just can’t get your feet under yourself.

Sometimes you find your bearings in time, sometimes you don’t.  If you don’t find your feet in time, you can only hope the nature of this clusterfuck will bring you back around.  If all isn’t still, there’s hope.

There are folks that always seem to be in sync with each other, no matter the situation, or how much time has passed since they last saw each other. It was that way with David and a friend of his. They were friends as children, extremely close as teenagers though they lived far from each other, and constant companions in young adulthood. Their lives took different directions and communication was just here and there as they got older, but when they were together, it was as if they were never apart. They were true friends.

I think he probably cared about David as much as any one in the world. His grief breaks my heart. He was my friend too and I hate to hear the pain in his voice. Grief is a strange thing, you don’t just grieve for the one that’s gone, you grieve for the loss others feel.

He’s coming to see me today. It’s going to be hard, but I hope he finds some closure, peace, or whatever he can. I hope I can help.

For some reason this song always makes me think of him. He’s a real what you give kind of guy.

My own little everyday world has shrunk by half. The demands of keeping everything running smoothly have become simpler.  I don’t have anyone to feed, I just eat when I can. I don’t have enough laundry to worry about sorting it. The clutter around the house has been frozen in time. Many of the things left out a few weeks ago, waiting to find a place, are still waiting. Some of this clutter will be acted upon, saved, filed, other things will never their intended use here. Maybe someone else will find use for these little things, maybe they won’t. I don’t know yet.

Everything outside my door has become bigger by two, maybe more.  I’ve always been independent, have taken care of my own things and my own business, but it was good to know I had some back-up when I needed it. My friends and family are there, but it’s not the same. It’s not their job to take care of me, I’m not supposed to be the person taken into account about the decisions they, or I, make.

The best definition I have ever heard of marriage was that it is an institution that makes you take another person into account in every decision. I was comfortable in that, I didn’t see it as limiting. I saw it as the opportunity to take advantage of another viewpoint, another set of skills, the wealth of another experience. David and I were very much alike, but our thought processes were very different. He was more mechanical, logical, a gatherer of all essential pieces before beginning. I tend to run a lot more on emotion, passion and anger. He kept me out of a lot of trouble and I pushed him toward things he might not have done.

I find myself asking myself what he would have done a lot lately. I usually think I know, but I can’t be sure.

I know I’m going to lose my balance and crash now when I wouldn’t before in some situations. It frightens me.