Apricot (Miss Babette’s Kitten)
Just tell me
We all go to Stars Hollow
When we die.
I’m not sure that poor Gordon, my dearest (and only) Platonic Euro Husband (PEH) quite knew what to make of that very cryptic email, sent to him several days ago at 10:30P my time (ohmigod o’clock his time). Jow was sleeping on the floor as he often does and I was intoxicated and watching “That Damn Donna Reed” episode of The Gilmore Girls. I can never remember which of the older episodes I’ve seen or not seen.
It has been a trying week. There’s my new health problems with my cholesterol, glucose and triglycerides which feels somehow extra insulting since I’ve been eating so much healthier and lost a good chunk of weight. This cheery news came with a side of “If you want teh babies, you better start working on that within about six months. P.S. You’re a poor candidate for breast feeding due to your crazies and fibro!” from my doctor. She thinks that being off my meds for longer than needed is a bad idea which is correct, to be fair. I suppose the bigger question is do I want to have a baby? No? I think? But I expected to have a couple more years to fester on the subject.
There’s still the matter of my pre-existing health problems, my dead (cremated) cat I need to pick up from the vet, April1’s grandfather just passed, April2’s grandfather is not far behind, a friend (our age) going through cancer and everything that goes with that with the cherry on top that she wants as little info as possible and doesn’t want (doctor recommended) chemo, and a close friend of ours is going through a painful breakup that’s a friendly reminder of my own divorce as the circumstances are bizarrely similar.
In the background: 99 Nanny Problems (But a Sippy Cup Ain’t One), pickling and cordialing and drying All The Things to try to cook all my feels as is tradition, new diet and exercise plans, trying to keep laundry from eating our house whole, trying to order supplies to craft everything for the impending craft season, ordering things to make sure my craft show set up looks beautimous, coordinating with various partners to continue my Tea & Trunk Shows at LYSs, mapping out my “standard” holiday season while herding ferrets to plan out a more ambitious plan for attempting to get into shows that are farther away and more difficult to get into while still trying to find new markets that aren’t so much of a “reach”, actually crafting everything and researching in several very different directions for contracted pieces for future annuals as well as planning book proposals.
Last year seemed so impossible, but all I really had to do was work as hard as I could at everything. I cried a lot, I rarely had clean hair, I felt like a complete nervous breakdown was always right at the edge of my vision. This year is much harder because it’s about strategy, planning and implementing.
But life continues to not stop happening. I thought I was worn thin around the edges last year but last year everyone (including the gods it seems) knew I was attempting like four impossible things at once (planning a wedding, writing a book, starting a couple businesses in earnest, starting life as a freelancer) and gave me a pass card on Other People’s Problems/Surprise! It’s Death! This year on the other hand . . . The death tainted entrophic energy that is entirely no one’s fault has been exhausting. In the last week, I’ve watched a very stoic man near tears with the hopelessness of losing the one he loved best, I saw a woman tenderly kiss her husband of sixty years good night and whisper to him as her adult children cried while he laid so still and calm in his casket, I listened to one of my oldest and dearest friends cry for the loss of her grandfather because it’s never enough time together, I sat with another friend who is struggling so hard with her business, her love life and her health and her family’s health.
Each new loss is a daisy chain connecting us to losses not so long ago (Max, A.’s mom) and longer ago (divorce, my dad, cousin A., cousin D. who was A.’s mom., D. who we never figured out why or how, J., P. . . .more).
And sometimes, I can almost make it all make sense. Almost. For moments. But then it goes away. And I’m mostly alone with Jow’s soft snores and a tiny apricot kitten on the television who looks just like my tiny apricot kitten once did. Apricot who came into Miss Babette’s life after the death of her beloved cat. And I watch, intoxicated and marinating in entrophy and all I can think is, Please God (if you are there), let things make sense in the afterlife. Let me open a Witch Shop in Stars Hollow where people will love me for being exactly as I am and just nosy enough to show they care. Let Jow and I make spells for the beloved dead’s love problems and money problems that never go away. Let me be somewhere I’d want to be. Let me have this perfect thing.
But I won’t.
Then one day, he went away. And I thought I’d die — but I didn’t.
And when I didn’t I said to myself, “Is that all there is to love?”
Is that all there is, is that all there is
If that’s all there is my friends, then let’s keep dancing