Body Bag of my past

My roommate unexpectedly died in her bed last week.

The medical examiner zipped up her cold, lifeless body in a black bag.

She was hauled up the driveway to an ambulance that carted her away.

Hmmm...

Yeah, it's been an interesting week to say the least.

Furthermore, I still don't have a vehicle.  Seems the car I bought failed the emissions test.

Hey, but at least I have a good tan and I've dropped 8 pounds... that is, from walking everywhere for almost 3 months.   I'm most grateful that the Emory School of Medicine has a showering facility in the basement.  That's where I bathe and unstink after my many, many strolls to work.

Oh, and let me tell you, I'm quite the catch on MARTA.  Every male at the station who does not own a vehicle wants to take me out on a date.

My question is, "We gonna take public transit to dinner?  Great, because these $5 round trips are breaking my bank account, buddy. You're paying my fare for our pizza date.  By the way, I'm gluten free.  Can you afford that?"

Usually I get a few toothless grins and some gold toothed smiles with my response.

Flattering?  Well, maybe...

The month long flea problem in my bedroom still exists.  The 80 dollars I spent on the powder for this second go round, hopefully does the trick... But hey, at least I don't have bed bugs, right?

Funny thing:  I don't own pets.  Nope.  Not even a gerbil.  I had a fish once.  Two actually.  They died. Owning pets is a goal of mine.  I love furry lovies... but I PURPOSELY do not own pets because I cannot afford one, nor do I have the time to devote to one.  However,  my hoarding landlord who lives above me, with his hermit wife, believes in free love... and keeping things natural... that's why we have a cat farm on the outside perimeter of the house...

Hmmm...

Ask a couple of friends earlier this week how I might be coping, and they'd probably say,

"Ummm... Caroline?  Yeah, she's having a rough go of it..."

A few nights ago, my dear friend and an innocent bystander witnessed a fairly traumatic moment at our local Atlanta Zocalo's Mexican restaurant.  Yours truly nearly passed out on my taco.  I'm sure watching my face go stark pasty pale, as my blood pressure plummeted to the point of breaking out in a relentless cold sweat, and dreadfully close to passing out, was enough for them to say, "check, please."  Even the guy in the unicorn socks sitting beside me, wasn't enough for me to utter even a chuckle... My mind and body said, "Neun!" that night, and all shut down...

This past Tuesday evening my therapist asked me if I wanted to try meds.

"Caroline, I'm not saying you need them, but they might help.  You've been through a lot.  You aren't expected to cope with all of this without assistance."

I reluctantly sighed.

"Ugh... Do I have to?  I got this.  No.  I'll give it one more week, and see how I'm doing."

Yeah, so...cognitive therapy is in order to get over the apparent possible panic disorder that could be my diagnosis.  Someday, I may even be able to drive on the freeway again.

Yeah... there's that too...

And the almost six year relationship with my boyfriend that ended in July?

Yeah... well... why don't we just stop there...

I walked down to my roommate's room yesterday, as I would, maybe once a month, to bum a cigarette... thinking that maybe there was a pack in there that I could steal a smoke...

Upon entering, I felt this sense of emptiness, as I looked around the dark room, shades drawn, the bed sheets still crumpled in the same position as when she passed, the old ash trays, and the pink shirts and skirts hanging in the closet... a sense of things left undone.   I had a vision of her, sitting in her bed, as she always did, smoking a Pall Mall.   She was so in love with her cigarettes... I chuckled a bit at the sight.  Whenever I'd walk to her room, she'd always ask me to sit down, and take a shot of liquor with her.  I usually wouldn't.  Even though I really, really wanted to...I didn't want to enable an already horrific problem that may have been killing her slowly.  Usually we'd talk for a few seconds, and then she'd say, "I'm going to bed."  She'd tell me she loved me, she'd hug me, and then I'd leave, and finish my cigarette in my room.

I walked out of her room yesterday, with no cigarette, and no hug from that sweet, troubled woman.

I walked out, and shook my head in confusion, sadness, and relief.

Confusion and sadness because she deserved to live... Relief I felt, because of her deliverance.

I'm not entirely sure why she died.

Saddest part was that she had been sober from alcohol for two weeks.  Part of me feels guilty because I put my foot down on the alcohol consumption.  She wanted to get clean.  And she did.  She did it for herself and the peace in our house.  And then she died.  I feel guilty, and I also feel relieved.

My roommate was a good girl.  She was only 49 when she died.  She had a story that would rock most people's worlds.

She shared a lot with me.  She loved me.  And even though living with her was exhausting, and really challenging, I loved her too.  She had a sweet soul, and I watched her everyday battle a demon of addiction, pain, and sickness.

I feel relief in knowing that she is in heaven.  She is dancing and singing, and she was delivered through death to celebrate everyday... she has a new life, and a new body... and quite honestly, I'm happy for her.

After I left her room yesterday, I stared out into the commons area of my kitchen.  Looking at the space we used to share... seeing her sit in that chair in the kitchen, late at night, eating chicken wings, bobbing that leg up and down, darting those eyes around, asking me if I was "ok."  She clearly was not... but she wanted to talk to me...

I breathed in a memory of fondness and pain.

I looked into the space as if she was there, and then...she suddenly disappeared...

I felt this immediate compulsion to rip up the carpet.  To wash every dish... to clean all the cabinets... to chuck all the old food in the fridge... to sweep and mop the floor...

And for almost 8 hours I purged the filth from our apartment...

I sensed the newness of her life, and her desire for me to do the same... to begin my life anew.  That's what SHE wanted... She always wanted to get past the crap, and ENJOY life.

As I rolled up the 30 year old 10x12 foot carpet from the nasty kitchen floor and pushed and kicked and tugged and screamed as I dragged it down the hallway... I cried... and I pushed the toxic OUT.  The moldy, mildewed, disgusting, old, dingy carpet was sandwiched in half, as I folded it with all my strength, and kicked it down the stairwell into my driveway.  I used every ounce of strength to lug this mass of nastiness into an old red wagon I found on the side of the house... and with profane words, and tears of joy and sweat, I somehow managed to fold this heap into the wagon and drag it up the driveway...

I stopped at the top of the driveway where I laid it down, and I sighed...

"It's time to live again, Caroline...it's time to LIVE again..."

I took in this moment...

I breathed deeply....

I allowed the old to pass through... and the new to envelope the space...

Even though my roommate died, she is alive... and she is free...

I miss her... I don't miss her ailments or the pain, nor do I miss the day to day battle...

but I miss her...

I saw her...

I knew her...

I do know this...

She is in glorious bliss with Jesus.  She is healed of all her pain.

She loved me.  I know she did.  I loved her too.  And now that she is in heaven, she is free... free from pain... and free from torture...

I love you Allison...I'm so glad I was your roommate too...

Thank you for speaking to me yesterday...

Thank you for being proud of me...

Thank you for the fight to find beauty...

I will see you again someday...

Sweet dreams...