Sailing in a storm
It's been a tough few days. Once again, *I'm* fine, I just wish I could give that out to everyone else around me.
We went to Houston on Saturday to help Brett's mom move. Got to town, dropped $250 on a U-Haul, went to the house... and nothing was packed and she was refusing to leave the house. There wasn't much we could do-- we had no idea what to pack or keep or discard or where anything went, and she was so tired she didn't want to tell us. We packed up the furniture she wanted to give us, I sorted through a bunch of stuff in the shed and closet and got rid of a lot of trash & recycling, and then we sat and spent a couple hours just visiting with her (which I think helped her more than the physical work), and then headed back to Austin. As expected, the next day the rest of the family was upset with us for not doing enough. Fuhhhhnfgsf.
Last night was rough too. Brett and I were devastated by Robin Williams' death --doubly so as the method of suicide was very similar to Nat's-- and I had to go for a hard run just to... I dunno, process it.
I'd gotten less than half a mile in when I found a tiny baby squirrel on the sidewalk. And I mean tiny-- pink, hairless, eyes still closed, wriggling-- when I got closer I saw it had ants and ant bites all over him so I brushed off the ants and picked him up and clutched him to my chest to keep him warm. I turned around to hurry home and (I'm sorry, it's really hard to type this) accidentally stepped on another one, killing it.
That moment keeps replaying in my mind and I have no idea what to do. It was so small I didn't see it there, but... I killed a helpless animal.
We rushed to the emergency vet, who gave us a towel and box to put the living baby squirrel in, and took the body of the dead one. They then sent us up the road to another ER vet with a wildlife rehab section. By the time we got to the second vet, the first baby squirrel was moving more and more slowly, but still alive, if barely. I'm so angry at myself for taking him out of my hands and putting him in that towel. I knew I should have kept him on my chest but I thought "vets know best" even though the towel wasn't heated... I don't know.
Anyway, we brought him to the second vet and he was put in an incubator right away. I have no idea if he made it through the night.
In my imagination we magically knew about the wildlife rehab vet and rushed there first. In my imagination I was watching my step and looking for other babies. In my imagination I just kept him cupped against my boobs for body heat.
"I did all I could" is a fucking cop-out. But given the knowledge and abilities I had at the time, I don't know what else I could have done. Even if he died, I guess the difference was between dying on a wet sidewalk covered in ants and dying in a warm place.
I don't know.
Brett took me to dinner afterwards -- I couldn't bear to eat meat -- and then I went out for a run again when we got home. I ran hard, considering how out of shape I am -- and almost managed to cry a couple times. But it didn't work.
I drank a good amount of vodka when I got home, in the hope that lowering my inhibitions would let me cry, but nothing came out until just now, when I wrote this all down.
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I'm drawing a picture of Robin Williams as Adrian Cronauer in Good Morning, Vietnam. IDK if I'm going to share it anywhere. The last thing anybody needs is my thoughts on the matter, and I don't want Tumblr on my back going "if you enjoyed this film you totally support racism huaraghghghgrrbbb"
...But GMV had an enormous impact on me as a writer. Not the specific jokes or subject matter, but the blending of comedy and tragedy; laughing in the face of a nightmare rather than turning away from it.
Sometimes I can laugh, but sometimes I gotta turn away and recuperate.