Who Will Miss Me When I’m Gone?

Posted: May 15, 2011 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , ,

A couple of months ago I lost most of my blogs. On that day, for no apparent reason, all of my Google blogs sat in some black hole in cyberspace. Filled mostly with memories of all the cute and funny things my kids and grandkids said and did, they were packed with fun-filled memories, and then POOF! one day they were just gone – no explanation from Google – just gone.

Nobody contacted me to tell me they were gone; not many people read my blogs, so nobody really noticed.

I noticed though. My blogs are special to me – almost as important as are my photographs, because they’re memories I can rely upon when my mind begins to fail me some day.

Fortunately, after blogging about Google on my wordpress blog (What Did I Do Wrong, Google?), I researched and discovered a way to report the missing blogs to Google. Within a short period of time, I recovered them.

Sadly, losing things is an ongoing problem for me. I lose things all the time, sometimes as a result of my own distractive mind, sometimes through theft, like the car I had stolen from me when I returned from New York one year. The girl who borrowed it was nowhere to be found – ever.

While what I am about to say may sound like I’m exaggerating, I know how hurricane and fire victims feel when they’ve lost items they’ve treasured. But not because of the loss of my blogs – because of the loss of treasured property:

Years ago, when I was living in New York City and packing to move to the west coast, my landlords threw out everything I owned, because the guy who lived with me lied to them about our arrangement. We were never more than just friends but because of the lie, the landlords decided we needed to be out of there NOW!

Why our arrangement made such a difference to our landlords, I don’t know, and why they felt they had to throw all of my things over a 3-story balcony still mystifies me, but I lost almost everything I owned.

Just as my ex-roommate had lured me with his deceptive promise to introduce me to agents, writers, and publishers who would help me with my writing career, he also lied to the landlords about our relationship. So when our landlords discovered that we were not getting married, they became enraged and, without warning, threw everything we owned onto the lawn. Sadly, “we” included the belongings of my 9-year-old daughter.

For the record, that roommate and I NEVER made plans to get married. I wasn’t even a little attracted to him. As far as I was concerned, our living arrangement was purely platonic and business only – I helped him financially – he reciprocated by introducing me to people who would advance my writing career. Well, that was the plan anyway. I never met any of the writers and publishers he claimed to know.

My daughter and I had been in the process of moving anyway (roommate was going to stay with his ex-wife for a while, and my daughter and I were moving to the west coast) when, after a second trip of hauling all of HIS things to his ex-wife’s apartment with MY help, we drove up to see my daughter’s and my belongings sprawled across our apartment lawn.

My new bed shredded as the malevolent landlords flung it over the balcony. They ripped to shreds my clothes. I stood in horror, staring at the wreckage as the landlords smirked.

My former roommate refused to help me, because he still had to take care of the rest of HIS stuff, and he was the one with the car.

I begged him to help me. I couldn’t carry all of my things by myself and I had already made two trips for him. I was angry at myself for allowing this man to lure me to the east coast because I wanted to believe he was honest. I didn’t know, until after we had driven halfway across the country, that his promise for introductions to agents and other writers relied solely upon my sleeping with him. When I refused to sleep with him, he told me that when I changed my mind, he would make the introductions.

On that day, standing on the front lawn staring at all of my things, I walked to a phone booth and reported my landlords’ property destruction to the local police. They informed me that it was a domestic situation and that I should call a lawyer. I was headed to California the next day by train, though, and with the ex roommate showing no remorse, no sense of compassion, and no empathy, I was left stranded on the front lawn as the horror story of a roommate drove away.

I had to walk again to a phone booth to call a cab, and as I left everything behind, I hoped something would remain on the ground when I returned.

My daughter, who had been waiting for me at a local Y, sat trapped in a room, because I refused to allow her to wander. She waited hours for me to return while I tried desperately to figure out a way to save my (and her) things. Standing on the lawn in the darkness, surrounded by all my belongings, knowing I could carry only what I could fit into the cab, I couldn’t see some of the most important things I would later miss, like the box that carried my photographs. My daughter and I had carried and dragged that box, which held my photo albums, several blocks to the post office but we were told, after the long trek, that the box was too heavy to mail. We had to walk it back to the apartment. I had asked the roommate to help me get it back to California or to Illinois. He refused.

Having been in New York for only a few months, I had nobody to help me, and the ex-roommate was cruelly uncaring. Except for what I could fit into two small trunks, I lost everything else, including my precious photos. It sat on the lawn along with all of my and my daughter’s other belongings. I’m sure the landlords had a bonfire with my things that night, and the conscienceless evildoers probably enjoyed watching every minute of my life blow up in flames.

By the time I got to the Y, hugged my daughter, and told her how sorry I was, I was ready to explode into tears, but I waited until she fell asleep. In the morning my eyes were so swollen from crying, I could barely see. I felt so betrayed and I felt so stupid. Yes, they were only things, but I cared about them. My photographs were my memories.

Once again, most recently, I, like everyone else on Blogger, lost all of my Blogger blogs again.

And I lost something even more important, my breath. I am still suffering the effects of asthma, bronchitis, and pneumonia. Breathing is labored, and any attempt at talking or moving causes shortness of breath. I’m on all kinds of meds designed to help me breathe. So far, though, the progress has been so slow, I don’t realize I’m still struggling until I get up to move or try to talk to somebody.

A couple of days ago, I wondered if this was the end for me. I wondered if I should accept the fact that I might never be able to breath well again. The thought was scary. Should I put things in order? Would I ever breathe well again? I’m still conquering breast cancer. I’m supposed to be in remission in September, 2015. Will I still be around to celebrate? Will the struggle just to maintain an existence ever end? I couldn’t stand the thought of breathing this poorly for the rest of my life.

And then I paused as I reflected on the words – rest of my life. How much more life do I have? How much more can I lose?

And then I found out yesterday that my daughter and her husband and children are moving out much sooner than anticipated. Now, unless I can sell my home and find something I can afford soon, I will lose my home too.

Everybody says they care, and I know most of them do, but who really has time anymore to care about anything or anybody other than their immediate families? All I really have is my livelihood, and I feel that being taken away from me as well. I’ve been too sick to write. I can’t be around people with animals or people who smoke without getting sick, so I can’t work in an environment where people wear clothes that might have dander on them or where people smoke on their breaks. So I tell myself that if nothing else, I can write, and maybe someday I’ll make a living from it.

But I wonder who, besides family and friends would miss any of the contributions I’ve made with my blogs? To be honest, even my family wouldn’t miss them.

Have I successfully deceived myself into believing that they would appreciate them, because I wrote many of those blogs about them and for them? I’ve determined that I must be my own Master of Deception. I want so badly to believe in what may have been all along a fantasy – a life filled with dreams that will never come true.

So why do I write? Who, besides me, cares what I write?

I’ve done some soul searching lately. As a blogger and writer, I often think I’m offering something helpful, insightful, amusing, or entertaining to my readers, but what if I’m not, and what happens when I’m gone? Once the blogs and articles sit without promotion, would anybody ever again read them? Would anybody care? Did I offer even one piece of advice or any words of wisdom that helped even one person? Did I give one person a moment of laughter?

Has my life meant anything to anybody but me? I think often lately of the scene where George stands on the bridge in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” He’s crying, because he feels so helpless. I’ve been neither healthy nor wealthy. I never made enough money to leave any for my children. I live in a mobile home that is not paid for and now has to be sold. I own a car that needs repairs.

In other words, I am leaving my children and grandchildren with nothing. I think of a friend who died a few years ago. I think of her often. At the end of her life, she just got so tired of the struggle. Living was painful; living was a struggle. Until I couldn’t breathe for such a long period of time, I didn’t understand how anybody could complain about struggle. Life itself is a struggle. Life has always been a struggle. But I understand now.

I understand how people who get to the ends of their lives get so tired of the struggle to live and to breathe that they ask themselves how much longer they can go on living the way they’re living. If each breath is going to be a struggle for the rest of my life, how much strength do I have left in me to resist the urge to just want to let go?

I’ve always thought of myself as resilient. I’ve always believed in miracles, and I still pray that one morning I’ll wake up and be able to carry on a conversation without gasping for air. I pray that I’ll be able to walk into another room and not feel the effects of lungs tightening with each breath. And I pray that in some way I’ve made a difference in even one person’s life. I may have lost a lot in my life, but I haven’t yet lost my life or my urge to fight for my life.

I just want to breathe. And I want to reclaim the joy I felt before I couldn’t breathe.

If you would like to read more from this author, click any of the following links:

Your Weird Dreams

Your Blog Connection
Help For Single Parents
My Heart Blogs To You
Writing Creatively

Paranormal Minds
Product Favorites
Theresa Wiza’s Blog
My Associated Content Articles
My Xomba Articles 

Thank you for visiting!

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Comments
  1. Linda Johnson says:

    I swear I left a comment on this— maybe on AC? Anyway, let me just say, 1) you’re not going anywhere, and that’s an order; and 2) if you could go which you can’t because I said so we would all miss you when you were gone which you won’t be because I said so. Victory, not victimization is my motto — like ok, God, how are You going to make THIS work together for good — I’m waiting expectantly! And He always comes through.

  2. Donna says:

    Wonderful blog, Theresa. Please keep fighting. I know that me and two women named E&E need you to breathe.

  3. Lyn Lomasi says:

    I read almost every single one of your posts and they are always very touching. I usually read in email and don’t drop by to comment. I will try to do that more often. You do make a difference. 🙂

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