cancer – day 824

Genevieve’s wedding at Tuttu’s . . .

God Artie, it was such a hard day. Did I do what you wanted me to?
The Rune: Sowelu – Wholeness.
And thus, more tears, but more of relief and tiredness rather than pure grief.

I was doing great. I’ve been hanging out with Artie’s family, and I’ve been fine, enjoying spending time with them before Genevieve’s wedding. And going into the ceremony was fine, I managed to sit next to his little cousin Matthew (who is of course an adult now and a fun and interesting person to boot) during the ceremony, and he’s fun to hang out with. The ceremony was of the Jewish tradition, which is always interesting for us Catholic schoolgirls. But about ten minutes from the end they said something about welcoming or remembering those who could not be with us today, and then, God help me, they said the names, Artie, Grandma Sanchez, one of Adam’s grandparents . . . and I lost it. Luckily I was sitting on the end, sort of (the seat on my left was empty, and naturally Artie would have been sitting there, between me and the aisle) and I turned my head and kept trying to keep the tears back but it just wasn’t happening. I was trying to wipe them away before they destroyed my makeup, and Matthew rubbed my forearm a little, kind of a “there, there, it’s ok” thing. I asked if he had a kerchief. He started digging in his suit pockets, but really, who carries a kerchief these days? So I’m trying to stop crying but it’s getting worse and the silent sobs are coming, twisting my guts and wreaking my breath away, choking me. Matthew found his Yamakuh (how do you spell that anyway?) and I ended up using that to dry my eyes, multiple times. I managed to get my pathetic self together before the ceremony was over, and I managed to keep it together long enough to get away from everyone and get back in the house and upstairs to have myself a nice little cry and reapply all my makeup, in the room I stayed in the last time we stayed over at Tuttu’s.

And everyone was so nice, telling me how they remember me and how nice I am, what a sweet girl, all that, and one of Artie’s cousins has a rare kind of cancer and her sister and I ended up having this really intense eight-minute conversation about cancer treatment and she was so sweet saying goodbye, she took my number to text me so we can get together soon, and gosh, The Fletchers, and The Florins, The Sanchez’s (of course), The Mattson’s . . . so many people treating me like family just because of what used to be.

Freakin’ life. Artie should have been there, not me. It’s not fair. So many people suffered with his death, and here I am. What the hell solace am I, the old girlfriend from so many Christmases and Thanksgivings and Easters ago? They deserve to have him here, not stupid freaking “Cindie” Miller. Only Artie’s family calls me Cindie, no one else. God I hate that name. Not even my own parents call me Cindie anymore, because my own damn nickname reminds me so much of Artie, and how he said it, that I just can’t stand the sound of it from anyone else. And here for three days, that’s who I’ve been. Sort of. I was the current me, Cynthia Miller, but for them I was Cindie too. I am exhausted.