TGIF

  
It has been a rough week. 

My immediate supervisor died unexpectedly Wednesday. He turned 53 on Tuesday. 

I don’t think I can even convey how much he was loved by everyone. 

I rode my bike home last night and thought about him the whole way. 

He loved this office, he loved our people, he loved his wife and daughter, and he loved this town.

I can barely handle the thought of walking into the office and not hearing his laugh each morning. 

Frank, I’m gonna miss you buddy. 

This ride was for you.  

   

A Hard Week

This week has been a hard week.  Last week was a little bit harder than I thought it would be as well.

The second anniversary of my cousin’s death is Saturday.  It somehow simultaneously feels like it just happened yesterday and I can’t believe that he’s gone and I sort of half expect to see him again and also like it happened forever ago.

It feels like this year the anniversary is harder than last year.

Monday I felt horrible all day.  I felt physically sick and just wanted to leave work and come home.  I had a horrible headache, I think from the rain, I had a sore throat, and my whole body ached.  I couldn’t leave work though until I talked with someone regarding problems with my software on my computer.  I had a can of soup in my desk and I decided to have that for lunch, but with it I just wanted a grilled cheese sandwich.

Soup and a grilled cheese is the ultimate comfort food for a rainy day when you are also sick.  I went to the grocery store near my office planning to buy some bread and cheese.  I knew that at this store the cheese would be outrageously expensive but I didn’t care.  The store didn’t sell one single cheese without cow’s milk.  No goat cheese, no sheep cheese, nothing, so no sandwich.

By the time I came home I just wanted normal.

Homie tried to be helpful and take over dinner.  I felt like a terrible person, but all I wanted was for him to get the freak out of my kitchen and stop interrupting my normal evening routine and go back to his.  I always get home before him, I unwind, then I start dinner and it’s usually pretty close to being ready by the time he gets home.  Or I get home, unwind, do something, then when he arrives home I start cooking and while he unpacks his bag, showers, etc I finish dinner.

But on Monday he got home before me, went for a run, pulled out a recipe, and then when he came back was chatting and discussing dinner options.  All I wanted was to quietly go through my normal routine.

This week being the anniversary of one cousin’s death while another cousin is still in the hospital with cancer nearly 3 months after being diagnosed is too much.

Ernest Gets It Right

I’m not an Ernest Hemingway fan. I’m trying to like him. I really am. I read The Sun Also Rises in college and hated it. And that might be an understatement.

The characters in that book are all douche bags. And then I read a couple of biographies about Ella and F. Scott Fitzgerald and came to the conclusion that Hemingway might have been as much of a douche as his characters.

But I love American novelists. And I want to support the American literary tradition. So I made myself choose another Hemingway book to read. I chose Islands in the Stream. So far, I love it. The only problem? Hemingway didn’t do the final edits and cuts. He died while the book was still in manuscript form. His wife Mary published the book posthumously based on his manuscript. She and his editor made spelling and grammar corrections and a few cuts but left it largely untouched. That makes me wonder had Hemingway actually finished the book to his liking would I like it?

But all of that aside, I came to a passage that really struck me last week. Friday the 26th was the one year anniversary of my cousin’s death. That’s a story for another time, but I came across this quote last week and it’s so true I almost like Hemingway just for this quote:

He thought that on the ship he could come to some terms with his sorrow, not knowing, yet, that there are no terms to be made with sorrow. It can be cured by death and it can be blunted or anesthetized by various things. Time is supposed to cure it, too. But if it can be cured by anything less than death, the chances are that it was not true sorrow.

Ernest Hemingway – Islands in the Stream p. 195