In February I wrote:

Less than two weeks ago I called my mother and found out my grandmother has cancer in her glands. The doctors said they could perhaps operate, but she could as well die on the operating table ? she?s not exactly young. They didn?t know where the cancer came from; she had it in her jaw before, and apparently the glands are a secondary place to have cancer, so it meant that it either came from the one in her jaw a few years ago, or? somewhere else. [...] I am going to Poland this weekend to, well, say goodbye. The doctors refused to give an estimate of how much time she has left; she?s in very bad shape altogether, and the cancer isn?t her only problem, although it is the biggest. I have to go there, visit her, keep on smiling and being upbeat and pretending everything is OK and that I?m there sort of accidentally and not at all because I fear I might never have a chance to tell her again that I love her.

A few months later doctors said that actually it wasn’t cancer; it was something else, but they didn’t know what. Then she got better. Then she got worse again. Then she got better. Then, recently, she landed in hospital with a lung inflammation; she was about to be released on Friday. But on Friday morning she had a massive brain hemorrhage and is now in the coma. Within five days doctors shall determine whether she shall die or survive… but remain unable to breathe on her own, speak, move or interact. Basically, her brain is now dead, and body shall follow, they just don’t know for sure when.

In February I was shocked, horrified, stressed, whatever else you can think of, I was all those things. Now, though… the last 9 months have been really hard for her and for my Mom and family. I don’t really want to go into detail, but when a very active person gets grounded in bed, it isn’t very easy, neither for that person nor for people surrounding them. Her hospital visits, despite the lack of cancer, became more and more frequent, her personality changed, my family almost split in two over the treatments, money, time they could/would devote to her. I saw her again in the summer, I was lucky like that. It did occur to me that it was the last time, when I visited her just before my flight, and saw a very, very thin person, almost hidden by a duvet, lying in bed and breathing with difficulty. I said my goodbye, and I said I loved her, and she said she loved me too.

I don’t really have any ideas for a nice round ending of this post, you have to forgive me here.

*

Life wrote the ending (yes it’s a cliche thing to say), my grandmother died today during the day, without regaining consciousness.

I just put on my white hotpants — don’t worry, I only wear them at home, that’s a bit too much Ray to be seen in public — and had a very pleasant thought: “Less than three years ago I said to Scipio that he can have them because there is no way on Earth I will ever fit in them again.”

In other news, I listened to a radio show about depression, starring my friend Cristi (I will put up a link if anybody asks, but it is in Polish). I thought a lot of her observations were scarily accurate and, well… largely about me, too.

And in still different news, last night I arrived home after a long weekend spent with the boyfriend. I biked against the wind the whole way — a total of 40 kilometres give or take a few, since we spent the whole day biking around, suntanning, swimming and in general having a lovely time. The bike started making strange noises at the end of the trip; it isn’t a very new bike, but I love it nevertheless. I took off my top — it was shit hot; put the bike upside down to check the brakes, then put it back up to replace a bell and do some other minor service. Sweaty, sunburnt, muscular and tattooed I caught a reflection of myself in the TV screen and suddenly had a thought: “Shit, I am so sexy, I would do myself — except I probably wouldn’t dare to chat myself up.”

All these things are connected.

*

I believe it was around June, five years ago, that I hit the rock bottom. I drank a litre of wine a day, more or less. I had attempted to kill myself. I had cut myself (finding a mail years later that starts with “Hello xxx, please don’t be scared or anything because I am alright but I cut myself last night” isn’t a pleasant experience). I only had dark thoughts, dark feelings, dark t-shirts and dark everything else. I couldn’t remember how to laugh. I was very very very unhappy and completely determined that there was nothing in the world that could help me.

I remember having a friend, Cristi, also self-diagnosed with depression, over. And our conversation where we assured each other there was no way out. That we had no chance. We felt strangely reassured in our suicidal emo-heads. We were… chosen, we felt. Ones that had no chance on the long road through hell at the end of which was death.

And then Cristi was hospitalised, I went on pills and we both started the long, long process of recovery.

*

I hated myself back then. I thought that I was an absolute nutcase, worthless and stupid and useless, drowning in self-pity. I wrote songs about darkness and blood. And I wallowed in pain with gusto.

A depressed person finds a certain solace in their pain. Certain people say depression is an addiction like alcoholism — that you are addicted to pain and suffering. This is in a way true; after all, you’d expect that a person feeling so horrible and awful would immediately seek help. I didn’t. Neither did Cristi and neither did most people I know who suffered from depression. Some went on and on for years, refusing to go to a therapist or a psychiatrist who could prescribe medication, despite the truly horrible pain we were going through; a very real, existing pain, making us barely able to function. And that does strike me as an addictive behaviour, same as that of an alcoholic who refuses to acknowledge his or hers problem and seek help.

I remember certain bits better than others (my memory has been shot to threads by the antidepressants — it still hasn’t improved all that much, I write down a lot of things). I remember once coming home from work, seeing a genuinely funny billboard, acknowledging its funniness and saying, in a monotone voice, “ha, ha, ha”. Not laughing. Saying. I wasn’t able to laugh. I remember being at work and hiding in the kitchen to cry for five minutes, then quickly wash my face with cold water and go back to my desk. I remember lying on the floor for hours, whipping myself with thoughts along the lines of: you’re useless, you stupid piece of shit, looking for attention and pretending to be ill, why don’t you fucking do something you crap excuse for a human being? — and not getting up from the floor and doing “something”, because I genuinely wasn’t able to.

It is not moving abroad, buying an apartment, releasing an album or becoming fit that is my biggest achievement. It is the fact that I learned to love myself.

Part IV to follow…

When my first rat, Timo, has died, Scipio and me couldn’t bear to look at the empty place where his cage used to be located. After a few days Scipio found a place that sold rats, exchanged mails with the owner, then sent me pictures of two beautiful cute little rats, black and white. I fell in love with them immediately, although I didn’t really plan to get new rats — but once I saw those pictures, I was conquered. He brought them home soon afterwards.

They were brothers, but they grew up to be extremely different. The white rat, called Sheep due to his white, woolly fur, was the dominant one; brave, easily angered, stronger and more of an explorer. The black one, Mole, was easily scared, ran away when I tried to catch him, then slowly came back only to run away at any sign of movement from me. They had a strange SM kind of relationship — Sheep would beat and bite Mole, but when it seemed they were in peace, Mole would provoke Sheep until the fight resumed.

A few months ago they contracted a strange foot infection. Initially Scipio and me thought it would just go away on its own, but it wouldn’t go away for a few weeks and so we went to the vet. Antibiotics were prescribed and we gave the rats their meds on bits of bread, which they devoured happily. But the infection didn’t go away. Painkillers were added. Then dosage was upped. Mole recovered completely, but Sheep didn’t. He lost weight. Then he lost more weight. Then he started trying to sit on his ass (rats don’t sit on their ass, they don’t have one). Then he stopped walking or running and started crawling. Then I’d start finding him lying flat in the cage, immobile, looking half-dead already, like a spine covered with thinning, balding fur. He didn’t want to eat. I was told we had to stop with the antibiotic because he was taking it for too long; I gave him the painkiller alone. At the beginning he fought violently — I had to force the meds into his mouth because he didn’t want to eat it on bread anymore. Then he stopped fighting. And the painkiller stopped working.

Sheep was put down to sleep this morning. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, then I burst into tears the moment the doctor admitted me in. She told me we did all we could do and that I shouldn’t feel guilty. I didn’t feel guilty; I felt heartbroken. And very, very lonely. It didn’t feel fair that I had to be the one to make this decision. And then, once that happened, I had to go home, clean the cage, the transport box and go to work. You don’t get a day off to mourn a rat.

*

Less than two weeks ago I called my mother and found out my grandmother has cancer in her glands. The doctors said they could perhaps operate, but she could as well die on the operating table — she’s not exactly young. They didn’t know where the cancer came from; she had it in her jaw before, and apparently the glands are a secondary place to have cancer, so it meant that it either came from the one in her jaw a few years ago, or… somewhere else.

Last Thursday, a week ago, I called my mom and found out grandma said no to surgery; she didn’t want to die on the operating table, she didn’t want any more pain (the jaw surgery left her with practically non-stop pain). I called grandma, and she cried and said she just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again. I put down the receiver and I felt, again, very, very lonely. Then I cried a bit. Then I had to pull myself back together, as I had until the next day to finish renovating my old apartment and return the keys to the agency.

I am going to Poland this weekend to, well, say goodbye. The doctors refused to give an estimate of how much time she has left; she’s in very bad shape altogether, and the cancer isn’t her only problem, although it is the biggest. I have to go there, visit her, keep on smiling and being upbeat and pretending everything is OK and that I’m there sort of accidentally and not at all because I fear I might never have a chance to tell her again that I love her.

This is what being a grown up is like. You kids who can’t wait to start drinking and smoking without asking older people to buy you the booze and cigs might want to think about it.