God Save Our Queens
The bond between sovereign and subjects is a strange and mostly unknowable thing. A nation’s life becomes a person’s, and then the string must break.
Sam Knight on Operation London Bridge
Monarchies want abolishing, that’s a fact, but sitting in a precarious Massachusetts town settled during the previous Queen Elizabeth’s reign, reading about Operation London Bridge, Twitter unscrolling in Cheyne-Stokes gasps as the world waited, I keenly understood how they can persist. It is thanks to the existence of An Operation.
An Operation meets that visceral human need, in the eye of that specific emotional and administrative storm, to impose order, to look for a plan or a snow-day phone tree, anything that looks like a map. An Operation understands what it is to stand by the bed and in the doorway as the dying is done, and the overpowering stillness that follows. Does the British monarchy’s foresight, its exactitude — and in fact so many other fillips and furbelows of hierarchy: titling, crests, “stylings” of formal address, which curtseys under which circumstances — come not from a desire to comfort its countrymen, but a gelid sense of self-preservation, a cynical consciousness that what many of said countrymen want is to know that someone is in charge, a “real” grown-up who knows how to change a fuse and open the safe?
Probably. But I’ve sat by two of those beds in the last 11 months, watched two warrior queens struggle towards the horizon and waited until they were out of sight, and if the universe had arranged for some sort of The Crown-esque silver stick or Lord Chancellor of Process to appear then at my elbow with a heavy-stock envelope and an instructional inch of Michter’s, I really wouldn’t have given a good goddamn about the motivations. This, needless to say, is not what occurred.
What occurred: my mother died; we waited with the body, and made lists and jokes; a pair of gentle people came and took the body, and we made more lists and more jokes; we cried and drank and told stories about her and told stories about each other, and fiiiiled and filed and filed, for the death certificates, for the title to a car she hadn’t driven since Obama, on and on. I waited for someone else, a “real” grown-up with a probate lawyer, to take over. Nobody did. Hospice liaisons and paralegals periodically reminded us that nobody would, and then handed us another clipboard with yet more paperwork. We are the someones else, Mr. S and I.
What occurred: Mabel began to fail, so we arranged for a house call to help her through the veil, but the vet team got stuck in traffic, and then they couldn’t find parking, and Mabel slipped away on her own. We had two jobs, to give her a good life and to give her a good death, and it’s hard to feel good about the former when the latter got fouled up, and there is no shaman, no Rainbow Bridge toll collector who can tell you what she knew or felt. “Feline Psychometry Bureau, this is Kevin. …Welp, says here she felt safe and loved and she’s sorry she ralphed in your sneaker. …You’re very welcome, please hold and I’ll transfer you to your tuxedo-kitten coordinator.” It sounds like a bit of all right, doesn’t it? I know this. You stand here. Hungry? I thought so.
What occurred: I figured it out, some of it. Some of it I stared at for a while until a work spouse yoinked it off my plate and replaced it with curly fries. Some of it I kicked into a corner and my husband put it out with the recycling. Some of it I hauled onto Twitter all “anyone here speak bureaucracy?” and my DMs filled up with Pomeranians. “Someone” never came; everyone did. Y’all did.
A very happy birthday to a legendary someone/the only reason we haven’t thrown the name “Don” into the sea. Much love, everyone.
Tags: September 11th
I’m so sorry for your losses, Sars.
My thoughts, this year and every year, are with you and Don.
Oh, how I needed this today.
My partner and I found a cat with a broken leg today and took him to the local animal hospital. They take in and treat strays, thank goodness. We won’t learn whether he made it or not–we would’ve had to pay for his care to buy that privilege, and we just can’t afford it. We made a donation, felt a little ridiculous filling out the good Samaritan form, and walked away sobbing. The cat did leave me with a souvenir–a deep bite that’s going to necessitate a trip to urgent care tomorrow.
Meanwhile our beloved house, which we have to sell for reasons, didn’t get a single open house guest, not one.
Friends, I feel all of my 48 years right now.
It’s good to come here and commiserate with all of you, and to be humbled by your grace in the face of losses that far exceed mine.
Don, wherever you are, I hope you’re washing down the corner piece of cake with a glass of something sublime.
oof, the unattended open house. Dispiriting as hell.
Thanks for the kind words and thoughts, everyone. Time does tax the tear ducts, for all of us, but I’m glad we’re all here once more.
I’m another member of the “every year” club, and I come back to reread the old and read the new.
I’m also a member of that other club, and when my mother died unexpectedly almost 10 years ago, I wished for a plan more than anything else. We’d never discussed it – I’d been sternly advised that if she started going senile I was in charge of the pillow, but we never went past that to the arrangements she’d want next. Funerals are for the living, my mother had always told me, and I was the only one left to figure it out.
Thank you for this ritual, which brings its own comfort to all of us. I’m so sorry for your losses, and hope their memories are a blessing to you.
And I so hope that Don is having a very happy birthday.
My deepest sympathy for your losses Sars . . . unfortunately, I too know that feeling this last year. Losing a parent is so personal and final that I haven’t really come to terms with it yet. Losing a pet – that just sucks the entire world out of you as well. I’ve been around TN a long, long time and each year on this day, the first thing I do is come here to read your words for us still here. Thank you, and hey Don, Happy Birthday!
My gods, still coming back all these years. I was a 23 year old grad student when I crept silently into the edges of your ranks, and now a 46 year old retired-for-now. So many lifetimes in between, and yet coming by on this day makes all of them flash before my eyes a bit sharper than on other days. Still get verklempt regardless of the topic, despair and joy, deep and silly. Thank you all for your fellowship.
I came here yesterday as I have every year since 2001. Some years I comment and some (most) I just come to witness. I don’t often know what to say in times like these, especially anything that hasn’t already been said. So yesterday I decided to just be here, and give thanks for the fact that you return every year. That we all return. But I just keep thinking about what you’ve written, and I decided that I wanted to comment.
Sarah, I am so sorry for both of your losses. Some years just really love to give you every awful thing seemingly all at once. And I know the guilt of feeling like you’ve messed up the end, and feeling like maybe the life itself then wasn’t as sweet. But I’m sure if Mabel could tell you, she’d tell you that she felt your love and that was enough. That’s what I tell myself about my Kit, anyway.
My wife lost her grandmother this past Wednesday, the anchor of her family. She was 88, but it was still a shock. Up and around, enjoying her Butterfinger Blizzard just hours before, and then she fell asleep and quietly parted the veil. This also marked a year and one month since my mother-in-law passed away, after a grueling battle with cancer. My wife remarked this week that now she’s truly an orphan, and my heart breaks for her.
I want to tell you how thankful I am that you return here every year. I started reading your blog when I was in my very early 20’s, and I’m 44 now, so in a way I feel like I grew up with you. And even though this is a place that I only visit once a year now, it feels like picking up where I’ve left off with an old friend, if you’ll allow me the familiarity. I listen to (and love) MASTAS and Extra Hot Great, but this will always be my favorite of all of your projects, just because I’ve spent so much time here over the years.
I’m sorry my comment is so disjointed and all over the place. It’s just that I felt compelled this year to tell you just how much your writing and this place have meant to me over the years. This is the one consistent place that I’ve had online since the late 90’s, and I feel like that’s something really special. You have made something so special here. I hope you know that.
Happy birthday, Don.
If it must be done, going out on a Blizzard is doing it right. I’m sorry for your losses too, and glad you’re here.
I’m so sorry for your losses, Sars! I was thinking about Mabel the other day, randomly. My parents adopted an 8 year old cat named Honey who is VERY chatty and vocal. It reminded me how you once described Mabel as liking to yell even though she was only about 5 pounds.
I loved reading stories about your mom over the years. She was an awesome lady. Take care of yourself <3
I lost my grandmother in a rather unexpectedly sudden way this year, and now my mom is an orphan handling all the business, while I am now the person she leans on for emotional support. Nothing about losing loved ones is ever easy, even when the plans are laid out, but how often are they? I’m sorry for all of your parental losses and those of other family, friends, and fur babies and reach out with my heart and soul with a hug for each one of you.
Every so often I come back here to see if anyone I *know* from the last 20+ years is hanging out here,knowing we are all busy with life and pursuits, and missing you and reading old posts and messages, but also having the comfort and relief of seeing you all here in September, on a hard anniversary, sharing love and memories, updates and support throughout everything we have collectively and individually experienced. I love you all and and so glad to see you and be here as part of such and awesome community.
I can’t say any loss gets better, but it’s more bearable with friends like you. Thanks to you Sars — may your love and fond memories buoy you and Mr. S (and Mr. Sars) together in your additional losses — thanks to the TN family, and thanks and happy birthday to Don, wherever you are.
RIP to all the queens.
Happy Birthday Don.
Glad to see the site is still here, sars. Be well.
I’m so so sorry about the loss of your mom and Mabel.
Thank you for writing.
I am so sorry for your losses.
It is hard to be the ‘someone.’ My heart goes out to you.
I know a little of what you’re feeling…you know I’m Randall’s someone. Filing and packing and cleaning and crying.
Chemo is finally (hopefully) ending on the 15th.
Much love to you and yours, Sarah. I am thankful for you.
And Happy Birthday Don.
I’m sorry for your losses, Sars. And thank you for this beautiful gift, once again. I love this space, thank you for holding it for us all these years.
Been coming back for so many years for the comfort of sars’ words and this community provides; the loss of one’s mum is excrutiating
Hello, friends–COVID and the attendant fog made me very late, but it’s so good to see you all here. As we all work on figuring out how to do the things, the touchstones we carry, like this one, make it a bit easier.
Thank you, Sarah, for hosting; I love the image of a cabin with sheet-covered furniture waiting for an annual reunion. I’m so sorry to hear about your mom, and Mabel.
Thank you, Don, for being the first layer of pearl on the painful grit; each layer since is more misshapenly beautiful than the last, a shine over other hard things that accrete with time.
I am so sorry for your losses this year, Sara. It really is tough to realize you ARE the grown up in the room. I am glad to hear you had so many people help you through such a rough time.
A belated Happy Birthday, Don.
*SARAH! Dang it, autocorrect; way to ruin a moment.