Inevitable

Funny how death really gets you thinking about life.  Well, only funny in a sick twisted way.  Even though I’ve always been a fan of sick and twisted.  Okay, not always a fan.  I was a watcher of horror films and I was the kid with the scary mask on Halloween, freaking out the little ones, and sometimes big ones.  I was a strange child.  For the longest time I refused to wear white, and pink was simply out of the question.  I remember asking my parents to paint my room black, get me black lights, and blot out the sun.  Mom thought I was crazy.  Dad thought I was cool.  Yes, a Goth preschooler probably made him giddy.

But then the sick and twisted ruined my life.

Father.  God is Father, but Dad, you’re on the other end of the spectrum.  You tried to destroy our family.  What about unity was so revolting you needed to squash it into the floor boards?  What was it about the woman you married that suddenly made you think her a demon?  That sweet woman, always smiling, even with gold strands sticking out of a bun as she bent over a sudsy sink full of your mess.  She’d help me with my schoolwork when you never would.  She hid everything you did from me.  And now look where we’ve all ended up because of her shield, her goal of protection.

                Wife beater.  Child abuser.  Psychopath.  Killer.  Murderer.  Dad.

                I hope they give you what you deserve in prison.  Rot in that hell on earth.

                It’s been six months since I saw felt your blows for the first time.  Mom always stopped you before you came too close.  But she wasn’t there.  I thought she was home.  I’d heard you fighting.  I didn’t expect you to come in my room, throw papers around, swept into a whirlwind by the ceiling fan.  I didn’t expect the hands of a work man pulling the hair along with the skin from my scalp.  I didn’t expect the knuckles on my cheeks or the boot toes in my guts.  I didn’t expect your anger.  Your rage.  Your uncontrollability.  You were hate.  You were fire.  You were insanity.

                I didn’t expect to crawl to the living room and find Mother’s body on the floor.  Limp.  Unmoving.  Dead.

                They took you away that night and I’ve only seen you once: at Grand Jury.  I will not visit you.  I never want to see you again.  You don’t deserve the woman whose heart you stole nineteen years ago.  You don’t deserve the daughter who you played a part in bringing into the world seventeen years ago. 

You don’t deserve life, but I plead you off the death penalty.

I don’t need two dead parents, even though I already feel as though I am an orphan with only one.

I still refuse to wear white, but I also refuse to watch horror films anymore.  The fake blood and guts on screen seemed too real anymore.

I was in the hospital the night of Mother’s passing because of you.  But I am in the hospital tonight because of me.

My heart stopped twice on the table.

One more pill, the doctors say, and I wouldn’t have come back after the first time.  I shouldn’t be alive, they say.  I’ve been given a blessing from God, a miracle, they say.

Perhaps I was wrong last night when I chugged half a pill bottle down with two sips of water.  Life isn’t about what is going to happen.  It isn’t about the inevitable.  It isn’t about the ‘maybes’ and ‘what if’s’.  Life is about enjoying what is happening right now.  Living life as if it is fragile is a mistake.  You only have one.  Live it as if each moment is precious.  Because they are.

It is true that there are inevitable things in this world.  Life’s opposite would be one.  It’s always the ‘when’ and the ‘how’ that get people.  We become so wrapped up in the details of the inevitable.  But it’s going to happen at some point, in some way.  So, get over it.

I probably sound harsh, maybe even morbid.  Go ahead and call me those, but don’t you dare call me hypocritical.  I have experienced death first-hand; you cannot tell me that I don’t know what I’m talking about.  Death is a part of life that we have to live through.  You cannot avoid death.  It will always be looming right around the corner, biding its time and waiting for the moment when it can take someone home.

Of all people I should know this.  And I must live with it, as well.  Because we are all in the process of dying.  I am just reaching those final steps.

Yet I find myself quaking in my boots.

I keep telling myself that it’s not my fault that the hospital bed is white.  But maybe it’s a sign that heaven’s laying out the white, puffy stairs upwards for me to start climbing from here.  Now.

The only reason I can come up with as to why I wasn’t afraid last night was the alcohol already in me.  The drugs seemed like a good idea.  Like they would ease the pain of being parentless.

But now I know one thing for sure: I won’t be leaving this hospital with a white sheet over my head.  I’ve been given a new life.  I don’t have to go down Dad’s road.  I can pave my own way.  I can live for today and let God worry about tomorrow.

-Suzanne