Dept. of Pick Yourself Up, Dust Yourself Off

[kaffy_r]

What Happens When a Drive Dies?

Specifically a drive on which one's Best Beloved has gathered all the live television that we have, well, gathered, over the past 10 years? 

The one that all our Dr. Who, from 1963 through last week, was gathered on? And all the Sarah Jane Adventures? All the Torchwood? All the Class? All of BB's beloved Gunsmoke? All of GoT? And more, much more?

Well, you sit in shock. And the shock expands as you remember more and more titles that were on Drive L. And then you feel bad for BB, because he had a whole bunch of other things that were very important to him on that drive, other than the live TV. 

You spend a brief second or so wondering if it's the Internet Gods getting back at your for gathering things in the first place. 

You spend more time wondering whether some of the titles, gathered back as far as 2006, might even be available in electronic fields where one gathers these things. 

You mourn the Third Doctor adventures you'd planned to watch this weekend, and the Game of Thrones episodes you'd planned to do the same for. 

And then you decide that you'll have a long term project ahead of you (and more realistically, BB, since he tends to want to be the gatherer.) You decide you'll look for options in which you can actually pay for things. Because you're not a total ass, even if your gathering habits might suggest that. 

And you remember it's just TV. It's TV you love, but it's TV. 

...

...

...


AAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa - 

I said that out loud, didn't I?

Comments

[kaffy_r]

I am a hoarder of personal historical artifacts, which is probably a result of growing up with my Nana, who was very much into using physical objects as memory touchstones. On the other hand, my experience has taught me that life doesn't end when valued possessions disappear. One of the more recent situations where I needed to deal with not being able to save things that were personally important to me was when my brother had to get rid of dozens of my grandmother's paintings. He had no room for them; nor did I, but I remembered her painting most of them, and that was important to me. Luckily, he took pictures of all of them, and I have those on ... a hard drive. Well, one does what one can.

Right now, we're dealing with something much more immediately sorrowful. It's become clear to us this afternoon that the oldest of our three cats, Alex, can't last much longer - as in probably a matter of days, and maybe only 1 or 2. We will not put him through the stress of being put into a cat carrier and taken to a vet, so I've just spent the last half hour reseaerching vets who do in-home euthanasia.

Puts the loss of television shows into perspective.

[shanghaied]

Oh my dear, to have him die at his own home is the best of a painful thing, yes?

When my most beloved of dogs, who had shared all his seventeen years with us, had gone downhill to the point of wanting to leave - and oh yes, he did let us know - we took him to our vet, who was a friend of his and of ours, for a gentle death. And when the time came to start the wind-down process, I couldn't face it and had to go wait in the reception room while my then-husband and my eldest brother stayed. And do you know what happened? My most beloved of dogs fought the anaesthetic, and fought it, and fought it until he did the one thing he'd never done in all his years, the one thing we used to tease him about never doing: he howled. He howled a primal howl, and I ran back inn - and even though he had been blind for months, the moment I entered the room again he stopped howling and raised his head to me. And I held him and stroked his head, and then he licked the flood of tears on my face and sighed a parting sigh, because he'd said his goodbye to me and was ready then to die and this time it was all right for me to go and wait outside while my men held him until his heart stopped beating and he was all gone.

And the name of my most beloved of dogs, still loved and missed by us all forty years later (to the month)?

Alex.

No, really.

x x x

[kaffy_r]

Oh ... that story ... I understand. When we first chose Alex (or rather, he chose us), down at the Humane Society, BB asked me what his name would be. I looked at him, and that name popped into my head for no reason. It was the right one; it fit his personality, so I'm glad I gave it to him.

He almost didn't make it through the night, but he rallied. Alex's manumission arrives today at noon. And then I shall have to take care of BB, because Alex became BB's cat, and he is being torn apart by this. Me, I've cried, and will cry again, but I can get through it.

(In an echo of the story of your Alex; long ago, we had a cat named Finnegan, who had cancer. We had a vet come in, and give her the initial sedative. She got up and walked around, spooking the vet until we had to calm him down, so that he could administer another shot. She was beautiful - spiky in her affections, fiercely independent, and we thought it was the best way for her to go out, on her own terms, and discomfiting a human.)

[shanghaied]

I didn't mention, but I am sure you knew, that I cried as I typed the story of my Alex's death. And I've cried several times since then, even though he never leaves my day-to-day memories; there's something about seeing a piece of one's personal history as text that has that power. Forty years, and yet that power is undiminished. As your memories of your Alex's death - the best possible death, from your description in your most recent post where I also commented - will remain undiminished.

I also didn't mention, over in the other post, that my Alex was an Alexander too. But of course we only used his full name when he'd done something naughty :-)