Death stinks.
My grandmom died last week. Suddenly. Which was pretty fucking terrible.

Long, miserable story short: early Monday morning, she fell. Not unusual, but not cool. She was taken to the hospital, but was acting strangely: speaking gibberish, being all spacey. By Monday night, they thought it was her gall bladder, which would need to be removed.

On Tuesday, her condition rapidly worsened. She had a heart attack during the night, starting bleeding internally – all sort of bad things. By the time the doctors figured out it was a blood infection, not her gall bladder or anything else, it was too late. She died on Tuesday night. I was on a train, stopped at Newark Penn Station, trying to rush home to Philly to say goodbye to her (even though she was in a coma at that point), when my sister called and told me.

Last week, I wrote a 3900 word post about the experience. But I couldn’t post it; it was just too personal and painful. There are many things that I’m willing to share with you all, down to the last nasty detail, but some things…no dice.

Basically, this sucked a lot. I was very close with my grandmom; my mom, brother, sister and I lived with her for almost three years when my parents were getting divorced when I was a kid.

I feel like I should say something eloquent and wonderful here, but another part of me screams, “Leave it alone.” I don’t feel right eulogizing anyone here among fat/poop/boob jokes, let alone someone so close to me.

But that doesn’t mean that I miss her any less, that I am any less sad, that I’m burying this experience. I am embracing her death, just like I did her life, but this is a personal experience. The good news is that I’m on it. The bad news is that I’m not gonna tell you about it.

Yet I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the astounding capacity to soldier on that my family displayed during the whole ordeal. Of course, much of the experience is blurry to me, since I was heavily medicated (justly so, for the first time ever), but I do remember how everyone pulled together for each other. I’ve mentioned before that the traditional Irish Catholic view of death is to celebrate the life lived and not the life lost, and we certainly acted upon that.

I only hope that when I die, there is more laughter than tears. I think that says a lot about the person who has passed, and I know my grandmother would have been happy with that.

She will be missed.

I am unqualified to write a eulogy.
My family, most of whom do not read this website, assume that I am a writer because I am writing a book.

Big mistake.

(For example, I have no idea if I used “most of whom” correctly there. I think I did, but I can’t say for sure.)

So when it can time to write the eulogy, my mom came to me and asked me to do it. I protested, asking if she was aware of “what I do” (namely, talking about getting drunk and waking up with pizza crushed into my pillows). She, and some other family members, responded, “Well, you’re a writer.” To which I responded, “Um, no I’m not.” Them: “Yes, you are.” Me: “No, you are wrong.” This went on for quite some time. It was all very adult.

A compromise was eventually reached: I would write the eulogy, but couldn’t give it. I knew that I had little chance of being able to stand in front of everyone and speak, since I’m very emotional (I’m a Cancer, after all). So my cousin Michael, the oldest of the grandkids, would give it. I’d take a crack at it, send it along to Mike, he’d edit it as he saw fit, and then give it.

The enormity of recapitulating a lifetime of someone dear was not lost on me. And by “was not lost on me,” I mean, “was completely and utterly suffocating and HOLY FUCKING SHIT.”

Thus began a roller coaster of emotions. I sat in my living room, alone on my couch, looking at a picture of my grandmom, my mood shifting between completely inconsolable, frustrated, laughing at my frustration, hunger, inconsolable again, begging for a lil’ help from my grandmom, hunger again, laughing at my hunger, more begging, inconsolable once more, and finally – finally – it came to me.

I didn’t have my computer (I’d left it in Philly, to where I’d return the next day), and I hate my handwriting so much that I find it stifling and impossible to “create” with, so I spoke the eulogy into my little digital tape recorder. Without having an idea of what to say, I turned it on, spoke straight through, and in five minutes, it was done.

(Big assist from grandmom on that one.)

The next morning, I sent it to my cousin Michael, who edited it, removing some of my stuff and adding much of his own. This was good, because I think it might have been a little too light for the occasion. For example, the part:

“I could go on and on about what a great person my Grandmom was, but I won’t. This isn’t because I’m drunk right now and can’t, but because everyone here knows what an incredible person she was. And I’m only a little drunk, Grandmom. No big deal.”

probably wouldn’t have gone over so well.

Michael then delivered it at the funeral with aplomb. All my life I’ve looked up to him as my older cousin, the one who actually talked to girls and was good at sports, but I can’t recall a time that I was more proud of him.

(And yes, I’m only saying that because I borrowed $600 from him last year and there’s no way I have that kind of cash to pay him back. Maybe this will hold him over for a while.)

I’ve aged ten years in the past ten days.
There’s a lot of weird stuff going on, and I think I might finally be having that quarter-life crisis I’ve been waiting for for so long. Sweet!

There are something like 15 grandkids in my family. I am the second oldest. However, it terms of maturity, I rank somewhere around 12th.

After the funeral, we had a luncheon. And as I looked around the room (when I wasn’t stuffing my face with the corner pieces of the cake, as they have the most frosting), I saw my cousins: some married, some with kids, all growing up, all maturing.

And then I thought about myself and what the fuck I’m doing and had one of those typical “What’s wrong with me?” moments: no wife, no kids, not even a girl that I’m sleeping with on a regular basis that I didn’t meet through MySpace, Craigslist, Friendster, this site, or my Fantasy Baseball league; while cousins around my age are fussing over babies, I’m at the bar, sticking (free) bottles of Amstel Light in my suit; I have a good job but nothing to show for it except for a few grand in credit card debt and a nice guitar because I spend all my money buying women Amstel Lights so that they’ll let me kiss their mouths and other secret places.

And it kinda freaked me out.

In addition, some other points:

– I’m growing my beard out and my hair is pretty long and messy and I look like a goddamn crazy person. I’m hoping to take care of this soon, but I can’t guarantee this.

– I’m on this weird, strict diet for no reason. Well, I want to lose maybe 20 pounds, so last Monday I started a diet. It took a setback when my grandmother passed and I was in Philly surrounded by all sorts of lovely foods, but since then I’ve stuck to it. I’m basically eating around 800 calories a day and burning off 500 at the gym. I’ve lost four pounds in the last two days. I actually already feel thinner, but I also feel like a goddamn crazy person: irritable, forgetful, extremely sexually aggressive (I guess the beard doesn’t help with any of this either).

– I can’t sleep. This isn’t uncommon, but after eating nothing and working out, I’m pretty exhausted. So it’s no good when I lie down in bed and wake up thirteen times during the course of the night.

– I’m becoming a recluse. I spent my 4^th of July walking around Manhattan, listening to my iPod. No barbeques, no parties, no nothing – I don’t even think I spoke to another human being, aside from store employees that I bought bottles of water from on my walk. Again, goddamn crazy person.

– My birthday is coming up and it’s freaking me out. I’m not one to get worried about birthdays or anything like that, but this one legitimately concerns me. I’ll say this for a full post later on, but 27, well, that’s late-twenties. Late-fucking-twenties. Wow.

I assume, like a bout of diarrhea, this will pass – most likely when I’m down the shore this weekend, wearing a t-shirt that says, “Drink Until You Shit!” on it, trying to convince a woman I’ve just met to give me a beejer because “my name is on the shirt.” But as for right now, it stinks.

…

I’ve just read the post over and a) have no idea where it’s going; and b) no idea where to end it. See? I told you I wasn’t a writer.

Let’s just break here and let Uncle Jason get his shit together. But please, do not worry. Long-time readers know that I have been feuding off and on with God for many years now. Though He won a major battle this week, I have not yet begun to fight. As a matter of fact, I plan on unleashing such a torrent of sin over the next few weeks that I should have Him on the ropes by late August. Come hell or high-water, we are going to finish this.

Now I have to get sinning. As I write this, I’m coveting my neighbor’s wife. I’m also screaming the Lord’s name in vain (I don’t want to scream and write it – that’s kinda redundant). So that’s two sins at once. And it’s only just begun…