Guilt

I received a tweet from Shillz with regards to poker spam.  She had voted on a couple of different emails and hasn’t received poker spam on any of them!  This warmed my heart for several reasons.  First that not only did she vote, but she did so more than once, and I don’t know why but reading that made me smile.  Secondly, NO SPAM!  Whaahoo! And thirdly, the fact that she took the time to tweet me and let me know.  Thanks Shillz!

I’ve been feeling guilty every morning when I’d check my email and see all those poker spam things in my spam box, and I’d think of you and how I lead you down the primrose path and to have your generosity and kindness, rewarded thusly (is that a word?). 

Guilt, every morning served up with breakfast.

And for what?  You weren’t getting poker spam.  Just I was.  I can’t tell you how exciting this news was to me.

And it got me thinking about guilt.  Wondering about how often I feel it when there is no cause?  How come I have over-developed the guilt muscle so that I take on the responsibility and embarrassment for things that aren’t even my fault? In big things and small.  Someone who I love dies and in my head, I know it’s not logical, but in my heart I feel like somehow, if I had been a better person, more vigilant, more caring, more loving, it would have made a difference and if I had been all of those things, perhaps that person would still be here. J___, obviously, comes to mind.  He is always in my mind, these days.  Happy memories.  Sad ones.  What I would do different.

And then there is my friend, P__.  Hers is not a daily missing.  Not anymore.  I think of her, off and on.  At milestone moments, like my son’s wedding, holidays, when I visit somewhere we used to go.  I also think of her, I know this might seem weird, but I think of her whenever I lay toilet paper down on the toilet seats in public bathrooms. 

She had called me one day, wanting to chat.  She was feeling very talkative, the conversation wasn’t our usual fare, she wanted to know if I was happy? 

I had recently made a huge change in my life and she had been worried, needed to know if I was glad I had.  Now, for someone else, this might have been normal conversational, but not for P__.  I had known her for around fourteen years and never once had she asked me something like that.  She also needed to tell me that things were good with her husband, how much she loved her daughter, how proud she was.  That she was happier than she’d ever been. 

Again, not something she would usually volunteer.  She was not a rabble-rouser, a talker.  She was shy, quiet, loyal, super-loyal, nervous hands that always were trying unsuccessfully to contain their energy by holding, clutching, wringing each other.  She was orphaned young, raised by her grand-parents and the Catholic church.  She dyed her hair a shade too dark, her roots growing in way too quick, her make-up stuck in the 70’s, dark eyeliner, clumpy mascara, too much blush.  She was hard-working, a dedicated nurse, plump.  She was super-smart, but hid it well, from herself and others too, didn’t trust it.  But every once in a while some bit of weird wisdom would escape from her lips, and it would be so right, so on, that it would set me back on my heels and I would look at her stunned.  Stunned and grateful that I was fortunate enough to have a friend like her.

But this particular day, I was wishing, needing to get off the phone.  Firstly, her uncharacteristic conversation was making me feel funny.  Secondly, Don and I had been just heading out the door to pick up his mother from the airport.  I can’t remember if this was the first time I was going to meet Don’s mom or the second, but I was nervous, had been cleaning the house all morning.  I did not want to be late.

Since our relationship was relatively new, even though we had to leave, Don wasn’t saying anything, just hovering by the front door, keys in hand, waiting.  While P__ chatted on and on, my stomach getting in tighter and tighter knots, like time was running out. 

Finally, I stretched the phone cord so I could stick my hand and part of my arm out the door of my office, gesticulated in Don’s direction.  He appeared in the doorway, eyebrows raised. 

“Help get me off,“ I mouthed, sweating now.  This weird panic had taken over my body. Like I had to get off and I had to get off now.

“Meg,“ Don called.  “We need to go.“

“Okay,“ I fake answered, my voice a little too… I don’t know, felt bad and saved all at once.  But she wouldn’t get off the phone, had one more thing to say, and then another.  Another non-P__-like behavior.  And I didn’t understand why, but I suddenly felt really mad at her, grouchy.  Like it was too late.  Those were the words that dropped into my head, “it’s too late.“ 

“I have to go,“ I said, interrupting her. “We have to pick Don’s mom up at the airport.“

“Okay,“ she said, I could hear the fluster in her voice, like she finally got it.  More than got it.  And instantly, I felt bad.  Not so bad that I didn’t hang up.  But I thought, I’ll call her back later.  Explain. 

Don and I walked down the walkway toward the car, my stomach still in knots, still inexplicable grouchy, depressed, sad.  “I tried and tried to get off the phone, and she wouldn’t let me and now it’s too late.“

Don looked at me odd.  “It’s not too late.  We have plenty of time to pick up the present for Will at Toys R US and get to the airport.“

I didn’t answer. 

We went to Toys R US asked about whatever game it was that Will was coveting, the salesperson had to look in the back.  And suddenly, I’m filled with panic, like I have to get out, like it’s too late, like I’m trapped, can’t breathe. 

“Are you all right?“ Don asks me.

I want to say yes, but I’m not. 

We have to leave the store.  I have that falling down, going to throw-up feeling.  Sweating.  Sweating all over.  We leave the store.  We leave the poor salesperson searching around in the storage area.  I’ve never done that in my life.  I’m shaking.  Can’t stop.  We get to the car.  “Are you alright?“ Don asks me again.  But I’m not.

When we get home from the airport, there is a message from a friend.  P__ was trying to make a left hand turn off Lougheed Hwy, a truck ran the red light, smashed into her.  She was in a coma.  They didn’t know if she was going to make it or not.

After six weeks that family made the decision to disconnect her from her feeding tube and a little over two weeks later, she died.

10 years and still I miss her.  I think about her, and the fact that if I hadn’t gotten off the phone, or if I had gotten off sooner, maybe she would still be here with us.  One of my best friends.  I was the last person she talked to, and I was grouchy and waved at my husband to help get me off the phone.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Monday, January 30, 2012 in Chewing the Fat