I need a drink.

I need a tall, stiff drink, with several shots.  Perhaps a Long Island Iced Tea or one of those poorly named concoctions that they serve at chain restaurants with names like "Holy Crap Am I Glad This Week Is Over." (The chain restaurants, not the drinks.  The drinks have names like "Your Baby Mama's Miniskirt.")

(I feel like I'm channeling Deb here.  Not a bad thing at all.)

Anyway, back to my point.  I'm really not a big drinker, despite the fact that 1) I'm currently wearing my Mommy Needs a Cocktail t-shirt (get yours today!), 2) I've been known to drink with girlfriends on occasion, and 3) I actually sound in this post like I've already been drinking, although I am sadly stone cold sober.  I guess after a lot of drinking in college, plus some instances where I saw up close and personal the effects of alcohol abuse, drinking heavily just doesn't hold much appeal for me anymore.

But not tonight.  Tonight I could use that drink.

(Can you tell I'm having a hard time getting to the point here?)

OK.  Sigh.  The funeral was today.  The funeral of my coworker and former friend.   I'm sure my current coworkers probably thought I was off to a job interview today in my somber attire (hose and heels on a FRIDAY, even).  I wish.

The service was nice, but very rough.  I stood in line for several minutes to greet and express my condolences to Joe's stunningly beautiful wife, who I had not previously met.  She looked fragile, but was holding her composure so well.  When I said that Joe was a great guy who would be sorely missed, she looked me straight in the eyes and said sadly: "Joe was perfect, to me."  I nearly wept right then and there.

There were a few moments during the service that I really had trouble.  When Joe's brother did a reading, I could hear a familiar cadence and pronunciation in his voice.  Closing my eyes it was like hearing Joe, and I lost it.   And another time, more than once actually, the officiant  referred directly to the manner of Joe's death, which was like a shock to my heart even though I'd heard the rumors. 

The turnout from my old office was amazing, though, and made me proud.  It would have touched Joe deeply to see how many people from work were there, to see how many of us had been impacted by his strong work ethic, his kindness, his gentle but insistent ways of educating others.  I know Joe's family was tremendously grateful to have so many people paying their respects.

Such a roller coaster of emotions hit me directly after the service.  I'd just said final goodbyes to one friend and then saw so many other friends (most of whom I have not seen in over a year) for a teasingly brief period of time.  I felt a little bit guilty to see these friends with fresh tears on their faces, grieving at Joe's loss, come over to greet me and give me a hug after the service.  Guilty because I'm the one that left, and I haven't been great about keeping in touch, and I don't want to wait until someone else is gone to see these people again.  I'm not going to let that happen, no way.

After the service and lunch with a few former coworkers, I headed back to my current job in a haze of residual grief and exhaustion.  I barely remember the drive back.  Not surprisingly, it was business as usual at work, and I just couldn't keep my mind focused.  I kept whipping out the program from Joe's service to gaze at his dear face. 

So I called it a day and went to pick up Rosie, only to discover that the car was not where I'd left it when returning from the funeral.  I take that back.  The car was EXACTLY where I'd left it, only I'd parked one level up in the garage from where I usually park.  I just shook my head ruefully when I realized my mistake.

That's when I first started thinking about a nice frosty beverage, or maybe a fruity one.  Figured I'd come home this evening and let J handle the kids while I relaxed a bit. Also, my disease seems to act up when I'm under stress (bone pain increases) so I thought the drink might numb me nicely.

Heh.  No such luck.  J's come down with the horrible icky achy sickness thing I had two weeks ago, and headed to bed about 6:30 PM.  Rosie tormented Annie while I prepared dinner (a bagel and fruit, which she asked for but did not eat).  Mimi insisted she was not hungry, though I asked her repeatedly, until 3 minutes before bedtime when she was immediately STARVING and needed food ASAP.  The girls wanted to sleep together, but could not agree which room to sleep in, and Rosie for kept up her shenanigans for almost an hour (keeping Mimi awake, calling me, etc.) before passing out a little while ago. 

So no drink, no relaxation. 

But do you know, I am just so happy to be alive today.  Despite everything -- the grief, the regret, the difficulty of young cranky children -- it's a blessing to be here in this world, living this life. 

I think that calls for a toast.

Comments

[Julie]

Nancy, I'm sorry. What a long, difficult day.

Raising a virtual glass to you.

[Sarah, Goon Squad Sarah]

I'm so sorry. That really sucks.

[Stimey]

Funerals are so hard. I hope you get that drink soon, and maybe some rest.

And I'll toast to what you say at the end as well.

[magpie]

Oh hon, what a long hard day. I hope the weekend gets you some peace & quiet, and maybe even a drink later.

[Suebob]

Hug.

[Heather]

If you lived closer I would be happy to play mix master and drink virgins alongside you. I do make wicked long island iced teas. Sorry your day was so tough and hope the loss doesn't sting as hard soon.

[deb]

I'm not sure if you're insinuating that I'm an alcoholic or if I just have a way with describing my (in fact) alcoholistic tendencies that you enjoy.

Either way, flattered, but mostly wishing I didn't have to wait 'til SF to give you a hug and tell you you're fab. And stuff. And my sincere sympathies for the loss of your kind friend (and, oh, his poor wife).

((((((((Nancy))))))))

[Jamie]

I'm so sorry. :(

You deserve a big stiff drink. Or three.

And a big hug.

[mayberry]

Hugs to you ... and I hope you got that drink eventually. Or maybe a nice piece of pie.

[DBN]

Your last line sums it all up pretty well, I think.

[DBN]

(Last two lines I should say.)

[Amy]

I'm happy to have a virtual drink with you anytime. What a difficult day. Funerals are so hard. But I guess it only makes sense. If you had a really easy nice day, it wouldn't really go with your mood, right?

[Meg]

Glad to see your post - I was going to ping you and ask how you were, as it had been more than a few days since your last post.

And isn't Murphy's Law a bitch? I've so been there, the evening when I just need to CHILL and then can't, for whatever reason.

You have the opportunity for a whole new week and I'm sure things will be back to "normal" for you soon. (Whatever that means, right?) Meantime, keep on prayin' for the young widow, because it'll be quite a while till she can say the same thing.

[Chicky Chicky Baby]

Yes you do deserve a drink.

So sorry for your loss.

[Kimberly]

Thinking of you, sweetie.

[Pendullum]

Raising a glass your way...
Odd how many feelings are swirled up in a funeral...
Feeling all sorts of mixed feelings and knowing exactly what you mean...

[apathy lounge]

You know...I just feel for you after reading this. The world needs more people like Joe...not less...and when something happens to folks like him the planet really takes notice. I'm thinking about you today.

[J]

Blech. So sorry for the loss of your friend, for his wife left behind to grieve, and that you didn't get the relaxing evening you craved.

I went to a funeral late last year for the daughter of a coworker. Boy did that suck. My first funeral for someone in their 20s. Blech again.

[k8v]

Life is hard, and doesn't make much sense. But like you said, there is SO much good. So let's plan on having a nice drink after (or during???) work soon and celebrate one of the good things--friendship!

[Becki]

I am going downstairs to concoct a drink called "Your Baby Mama's Miniskirt," pour it into a jar, and FedEx it to you.

I'm so sorry you had such a hard day.

[Nicole]

CHEERS!

[lumpyheadsmom]

I'm so sorry for your loss.