My love/hate relationship with a television show

I was late getting on the Grey’s Anatomy train.  One May night a few years back, I caught the season finale when Denny Duquette dies.  I cried so hard my eyes were swollen the next morning.  I spent the rest of the summer catching up.

Now, I record every episode so I can enjoy it without commercials.  Because of the Broncos, I’m watching it in real time tonight, and I would never dare dream of blogging during the show.  If I didn’t tonight, I would have swollen eyes again tomorrow.

This show has a way of finding the most vulnerable parts of my tough-guy armor and pushing a knife right through the chinks.  Sometimes people die and I don’t care.  Sometimes people live and I don’t care.  Sometimes just seeing Meredith open her mother’s journal brings me to tears.  When Izzy cried on the bathroom floor in a prom dress, something in me crumpled like the silk of her gown.  Watching this old man push on his wife’s chest because he could not let her go reminded me that all I want in the world is to grow old with my husband and made me literally sob.  Looking at all the blood, fake as it may be, helps me to realize I made the right choice when I opted out of pre-med.

And when Izzy tells Denny he can’t be there, I want to reach through the screen and shake and scream at her to not let him go.  We can’t let those people go.  We can’t forget them.  We can’t discount the effect of their love on us.  We can’t turn our backs on their memory.  We can’t deny their existence.  We can’t let go.

I miss my mom.  I hate this show.

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