Outrage

Nearly every day since Mark died, I have lived with a sense of outrage. How is it possible that he is not here? How did this happen? How is it that the world keeps turning without him? Add to that a global pandemic and it’s like a match to tinder. When friends say that TJ Maxx reopened and the shelves and racks were emptied by the time they got there, that Clorox Wipes are only available on the black market, that half the people at Target weren’t wearing a mask, I raise my hand and say, “Oh, I know. It’s all ridiculous and can you believe that Mark Fisher is still dead? If you want to talk about outrage have a seat and let’s light it up.”

Last week Outrage knocked on the door and said, “Listen, sis, we don’t think your world has been upended enough so buckle up.” On Tuesday, I got a text from my boss about a Zoom meeting with him at 9:00 where he delivered the news that after five years at the university my position was being eliminated due to budget cuts. “I know you don’t like bullshit,” he said, “so I’m going to give it to you straight.” I have been expecting this for months and was not surprised, and yet I was shocked. After this emotional (on both sides of the screen) meeting ended, I wanted to reschedule another one so I could say, “Just for the record, that’s true about me liking to be told the straight up truth but this time I could have used a couple of shakes from the unicorn rainbow sprinkle jar. Meeting adjourned. All in favor close your laptop and drop kick it out the window.”

The next day was the thesis defense of Mark’s graduate student which I was invited to watch online, and oh my, she took that Anthrax Pore Transformation, lobbed it in the air, and knocked it out of the park. She was poised and confidant and in command of her work, and Mark would have been so proud. Throughout his career most of his students left with a masters degree and she was only the second to graduate with a PhD. It would not be an exaggeration to say that he would have been like a kid on Christmas Eve, unable to sleep the night before out of pure excitement for the next day. It was an honor to witness and one of the hardest days of my life. She paid tribute to Mark at the end, saying he was a feminist, an ally, and a professor who always kept the best interest of his students at the forefront of his days. It was genuine, professional, and a heartbreak.

On Friday I had to go to the med center to meet with the landscaping team for options on a memorial bench in Mark’s honor. The new garden, pond, and outdoor meeting area will be outside his building and I stood there looking at the window of what used to be his office and wondered how it was possible that it would remain unoccupied by him for close to two years, and I was the one there picking out a bench with his name on it.

Saturday I traded our car in. By Sunday, which not only was Father’s Day but Mark’s birthday, I was done by noon. It had been a solid week of emotional avalanches and I had no energy left to pretend I was okay. I was not.

A few close friends knew the kind of week I’d had and kept checking in with me. Those regular check-ins keep me tethered to here when I often yearn to be in a place less painful. A long-time, dear friend texted me Monday morning and said she was thinking of me and praying for me. I texted back that if I could have a warm body next to me at night so I that I could at least sleep (or whatever), maybe I could handle things better. She suggested that I buy a blow up doll. I said with my luck it would come deflated. She said only when I was done with it.

Thank God above that I have the most outrageous friends.