Ever notice how it's the little things in life that amuse us so much? More to the point, ever notice how it's the silly little idiocies in life that amuse us more than anything else? Well, this is not as much ''the little blog that could'' as it is ''the blog that enjoys going up the down escalator in your local mall.'' Will it have anything of real importance? No, probably not. But enjoy the ride never the less!

 
Humility

There hasn’t been much to this little bit of nowhere as of late. It hasn’t been for lack of trying. However, it’s difficult to write when you sit down in front of the computer, and find yourself unable to type anything. I wish it were something as simple as writer’s block. I’m sure I could write of a few quirky experiences, or even of the ice cream of the future. But this had to be written before all that. And it’s not been so easy to write.

This little of bit of nowhere somewhat exemplifies why I like writing things down where people can read them if they so choose, but be unable to immediately reply. Ultimately, it’s a record for me. It asks not for mercy or pathos, not for criticisms or commendations. It’s my pain and my catharsis, my memories and my sorrow.

Last week I lost my grandmother. At the very least, she died peacefully in her sleep, though I know the months leading up to this were not so peaceful. It’s one thing for your body to shut down. It’s another for your mind to shut down in the process, to suffer dementia and a complete loss of self and recognition.

Standing next to her open casket in the funeral home remains only the second time I have stood before death. This time I had no say in the matter; the first time I stood like this, death came at my choosing, and it was perhaps the longest and toughest choice I have ever had to make.

About a year ago, Shady had a puppy (courtesy of her brother, and two parents I will never let babysit a dog in heat ever again). Given how young she was, it was amazing the puppy wasn’t stillborn, though there was a second who did not make it. However, the puppy had incredible trouble breathing, and Shady did not seem to like him at all. As Shady’s owner, I was given a choice by the vets: take care of the puppy (and at the time, it would have been feedings ever two hours for the next two weeks at least) but risk there being further health complications due to the delivery and parentage; or put the puppy to sleep, and ease the suffering he was already and notably going through.

You can call me callous for choosing what I did. You can even call me a selfish bastard, or blame the medical background I was raised amidst for giving me a defense mechanism that helped me put far enough distance away from the puppy. That particular night I had to make a choice, and I asked that he be put to sleep.

His name would have been Connor.

Sleep came very difficult for me that night, and rare is a day that goes by where I am not reminded of him, and where I still ask myself if I had made the right decision.

Now, roughly fourteen months later, I have found myself in the company of death once more. Anything I could have chosen, anything I could have said or done, would not have made a difference in saving my grandmother. The Alzheimer’s was first to take her, and the systematic shutdown of her body followed.

I was not there when she died, though Mel & I were going to be visiting her and my grandfather not twenty-four hours later to offer up what support and assistance we could. Perhaps if I had, I would not have been standing during in the funeral parlour, staring into my grandmother’s open casket, and thinking how surreal and stupid it felt to be half-expecting her to suddenly open up her eyes, yawn and remark how she’d needed that nap.

It took a closed casket resting in its gravesite to break me, and once more I was back in the hallway of the veterinary clinic, suffering the scars of humility. I stood humbled not by the frailty of human life, but by the sheer, relentless power of death. If it is one thing we all share, regardless of colour, creed, religion or caste, it’s that everyone bleeds and everyone dies. No one is immune, and no one escapes.

Families tend to gather for two significant events: life and death. In between, we gather together to celebrate hope.

I plan on visiting my grandfather as often as I can. But now everything has changed, and there will be no Grandma Layng there to greet me as well. I have a picture of her sitting by my desk, where she is starting to show the signs of her ailing mind and health, but she still is smiling as she holds Sinatra (one of Shady’s brothers), who resembles Snoopy given the way his head is looking straight up.

The grandmother in the photograph is a far cry from the grandmother I saw two weeks before she died. In all honesty, the Grandma Layng in the picture is the one I would rather remember. I can still see the vibrancy and laughter and love in her eyes there.

There were words I wanted to speak during her eulogy, though I was unable to, and in all likelihood could not have said without breaking down completely. It remains rough and unpolished, but this is meant for me. This little bit of nowhere is my recording, so I won’t forget what I wanted to say.

There’s not much to believe in anymore. Anyone who would like to claim that this world is a great place is as poor a liar as they come. But that doesn’t mean that everything is gone, and that there is no reason to hope. If someone wants to challenge me on this, then I offer up this apologesis.

If a man stops me on the street today and asks me to show him someone who was admired and spoken highly of by all those around her, from those who knew her intimately to those who knew her only by name and reputation, I will give him the name Thelma Layng.

If that same man then asks me to show him someone who always smiled, who showed equal love to any and every person she ever met, I will give him the name Thelma Layng.

And if this man then asks me to show him someone who loved his wife and who was ready to sacrifice all he had for his soulmate, I will given him the name Don Layng.

Buildings burn and fall. Bodies crumble into dust. Even memories fade into blurs and forgetfulness. After all that, love still remains.

“The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death.” --Oscar Wilde
posted by Phillip at 9:34 PM