I’ve been taking Kaye’s death really hard.  Surprisingly so, given that we weren’t altogether close.  I keep thinking about her at odd times during the day.  I checked out her blog again after a long hiatus, which chronicled her time in VT since moving here in late 2004.  I realized that she embraced VT as her adopted home (in much the same way as Rob and I have), and that she grew to adore everything that our little green state has to offer.  I found myself surprised at many points, especially when reading about her depression (she was constantly smiling and surrounded by friends).  This made me feel particularly crappy that I was not there for her in the ways that she really needed.  I hope she had friends to fill that niche for her.  It’s also really weird to read someone’s blog after they have died; everything about a blog is so conversational, so present.  It’s hard to believe that the writer could really be gone.  I read about the tough project that she and Rob had to work on together, over night, after putting in a full day at the office.  I had forgotten about that time (I think it was in 2005 or so), but as soon as I read her words it all came back—the insane deadlines, the stress, the expectations.  A lot of her blog entries were about work….about the 12 hour days, about the 2nd job she took at the grocery store, about stress, disappointment, and longing.  It just all feels like a waste.  So anticlimactic.  I don’t want all of *my* blog entries to be about work, stress, disappointment, etc., because I don’t want my *life* to be about work, stress, disappointment, etc.  But I think that many of them are.  And I think that my life is.

The two most chilling entries were these:  the next to the last entry she ever wrote, was about how she gave up carpooling, public transportation, and walking, to indulge in buying a car (the same car in which she ultimately lost her life).  She talked about the freedom of being able to go wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted.  I read this and winced.  Of course, how could she have known?  How could anyone have known?  The other chilling entry was a self-effacing rant about the state of her apartment, how messy and unkempt it was, and what other people might think about it if it were the apartment of a dead person.  Her family is here this week to collect her belongings.  They are in the apartment of that dead person.

All of this foreshadowing–how much of our own destinies do we script?  How much of my own future ending can be gleaned through my writing?  How much of what I write about will be meaningless when I am dead?  I need to find a way to do what I want with my life and my time, while I can.  I need to let all of the other bullshit go.  I need to really not care so much about my stupid job or career.  So what if I worked so hard for it?  That time is gone now, and I’m not getting it back.  H is here now, and he is what matters.  And we’re off to a good start in 2011, H-wise.  Every Saturday from mid-January through the end of March, H and I will be sharing a special yoga class together.  I have been wanting to do this for a long time, but kept finding excuses about the cost or about being able to fit it into our schedule.  I finally just reserved our slot in the yoga class, money and time be damned.  It’s time to just start doing things, instead of thinking about doing them, and ruminating over not having done them.  I also took H to the ENT today, and got the scoop:  If he has 2 more ear infections between now and April, he will get tubes again.  My H-related New Year’s goals are already well underway, and I am feeling really good about that.  My year is really going to be about doing all the shit that I’ve always wanted to do but never have permitted myself.

As H would proclaim:  “Cheers!”