For some reason, I think it would be cathartic to write it out. I had to watch someone who I loved dearly, my cousin, lie in a bed choking on tubes dying, literally dying, in front of us. It was the most horrific thing I have ever seen (or heard) in my life. She was fine. Then she got pancreatic cancer. Then she started throwing up blood. Then she lay in a hospital bed half alive. We all just sat around her and cried. It was disgusting, it was disturbing, it was a shame she had to go like that. I cannot even explain what I saw in there. Her eyes half open, failing and dying right there. Then I had to see my mentor, someone who I looked up to, and hell even loved, in a hospital tied up to every machine wasting away. He was a genius. He knew everything about everything, and now he couldn’t even talk. He lay there frustrated that he couldn’t get the words out for all the things he wanted to say. He couldn’t even write it out. It was a tragedy. They both died. I had no time to grieve. None at all. Because med school takes you away from real life. It throws books on you that have no real end. It doesn’t let you be a human. Which is ironic, considering we are supposed to be caring individuals full of compassion, when we can’t even attend our loved one’s fucking funerals because of it.
Then it seemed like shit was relatively ok, aside from my horrendous anxiety and
come-and-go depression. Sometimes I was fine, others I couldn’t get out of bed or even function. It was odd, but it made sense.
Then on Christmas night we got a call grandma was sick. Then suddenly she was in hospice. I watched the strongest woman I have ever known beg the Lord to die. As she dry heaved from the nausea from her lungs and heart pleura filling up with fluid crushing her from the inside. I watched this woman, who my family nick named me after (ice queen), lay there agitated and restless, in agony, beginning to die. All still entirely mentally with it. Then she did. She fucking died. My grandma, 92 (or 95, what fucking ever, you wont get it), died. It was surreal. It was almost like she would live forever. The worst part? I can’t be there for my dad. She was his everything, it was adorable. And I cannot even fucking be there for him. I always had to be everyone’s rock in my family. Can’t be the crier, had to be the voice of reason and the strong hold that kept everyone’s shit together.
What the f&^%? Why? Does this make any sense? Finally, finally, doing what I thought I always wanted to do, and I get these horrendous disgusting obstacles thrown my way? In what world is that fair? But, being me, I can’t even have a pitty party for myself because I’m Alyssa and I’m not allowed to. And that’s what's wrong with me. Everyone is dead. I am not even over the fact that my Bruna died and that was four goddamn years ago. And now everyone is dead. And it hurts like a bitch. And it stings. And sometimes I just want to run away. Why did this all have to happen at once? The deaths, the anxiety, med school being the biggest ass hole, all at once.
I guess it's because I should be able to handle it.
Love & Thanks,