Day of Death.

The title's a little dramatic. I understand that. But, well, I can be a little dramatic.

Five years and two days ago, I was at the hospital with my Grandpa, Tristan Meinecke, a getting-more-famous-now-that-he's-dead Chicago artist. My grandfather was the number one man in my life for a good majority of my life. I spent a lot of my childhood seriously wondering how the hell I fit in to my family. My Grandpa was that link.

He was seriously depressed. Had very serious bad days and very dark days and very very hard days. But he lived through it. I don't know how much to write about him right now, because I stupidly didn't write about it yesterday. Anyway. Five years and two days ago I sat at the hospital with him. The doctors said he couldn't hear, and they were lying. I sang and I kissed his cheek and told him about my day. I was a senior in high school and had quit my job a few months prior to take care of him. I would change his feeding tube and help him tie his bow-tie that he insisted on wearing. We would watch old movies together and I would fight with him about eating real food. We would talk and talk and talk. We would argue about my clothing choices and women's rights. He was the least traditional man I've ever met, in my life. More open-minded that anything, but at the same time he was incredibly stuck in his ways.

I was at the hospital with him and I put my hand on his arm and snatched it away. My hand left a visible palm print and water began pooling in it. I never knew that skin could leak. It can. It pooled until my hand print was full, a lake with five fingers and the water dripped on to the floor. The plan was to pull the plugs of the machines that were helping to sustain his life the next morning. He wouldn't want to be plugged in. Everyone was fighting about it, yelling and screaming and it was awful. I know everyone has been through this. I don't know why my experience is unique, or why my feelings feel so, mine. But they are.

The next morning we got a phone call that he had died. And I know it's cheesy and I know it's poetic to an annoying extreme, but he did it on purpose. He didn't want to make my Grandma, his Angel, an actress and the love of his life, feel like she had any part in killing her husband.

Last night I curled up on the couch and watched TV with The Girlfriend and cried. I feel like I should be over it.

Five years and one day ago, my Grandpa died. And I miss him. A lot.


Yesterday, Emily's fish, Charlie died (see, DAY OF DEATH. I told you.) We had a funeral (and my camera won't load the fucking pictures, of course) and flushed Charlie down the toilet. I got her a new fish, a new beta fish to be precise, and one that does not look like Charlie at all. It's a pearly color and has pink and purple fins. It's a boy, and Emily named him Goose.