Once again, back to my roots. A little short story to tickle your brain. Enjoy.
The air felt of heaviness, leaving me breathless again. The mountain I faced was but a step in my goal toward finishing my bucket list. No better time, no better place - this was important. My arms quivered, my legs ached and I knew it would be easy just to quit. I wanted to walk away and crawl back to my self-imposed exile, but time was of the essence. I decided I had something to prove.
My best friend had tried to talk me out of this. "What if you fall and no one is there? What then?"
My reply was a bit curt. "We are all born to die someday. At least this way I will die knowing I believed in something. Die having an adventure. I can't think of a more appropriate way to go. I could die walking across the street, falling in my bathtub, or being murdered by a random stranger. There are much worse ways to leave this world."
She looked at me with those eyes, the ones that bore into my soul. She replied, "You're afraid. You just won't admit it."
I wasn't having that justification. Yes, she knows me well. That's like saying peanut butter and jelly might taste good in a sandwich together. We've been best friends since first grade. We'd been through divorce of her parents, death of my father at age 13 to the Monster, first love, losing our virginities (hers to Steve McIntyre, mine to a random 19 year old at a drunken party), high school, college, my marriage, her rape, my divorce from an abusive drunk, my miscarriage after the divorce - we have run the full gamut. This time was different.
The peak loomed so far above me that I got dizzy staring at it. Maybe she was right. Maybe I can't do this. Yet, a little voice nagged inside. "You can." I took a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs and my brain. I took out a power bar and slowly ate it, feeling the sugar and protein give my body a bit of much needed fuel. My brain, robbed of some of its oxygen, went into its own direction as my elevation increased. Memories tiptoed in on kitten feet, and grew to the size of elephants.
My dad was my hero. There wasn't anything he could not do. We played baseball, flew kites, drove for hours on end, and had that relationship of a Daddy's girl with her dad. I was a tomboy, through and through. My mom wasn't part of the club. She had her friends, her social engagements, and her criticism of me and the way my dad treated me. We had nothing in common. It was if there was absolutely no way she was truly my mother. My dad took her verbal abuse because he had me. At age 11, something changed.
He came home in the middle of the afternoon. I had just come home from school, and my mother was playing bridge with her cronies. His face was ashen, his countenance different than I had ever seen. My mother barely glanced up from her game. I knew something was wrong. My dad walked into their bedroom, and sat on the bed staring at the wall. "Daddy? Are you ok?" I asked with trepidation. He continued to stare at the wall. I ran to my mother. "You need to come," I stated, no question in my voice. My mother started to protest, and out of my mouth came "Now, dammit! He needs you." Once the words burst forth, I thought I would get the belt for sure. To her credit, I must have shocked her enough to make her move. My mother walked into the bedroom and shut the door. Her friends stared at me like I had two heads. I didn't give a damn what they thought - those ladies with the sticks up their butts. Stuck up snobby bitches.
I heard mumbling, then what sounded like my mother bursting into tears. That can't be right. My mother never cries. Honestly, her emotions are not something Dad or I ever see. I inched closer to the door. I heard snippets of what was said. "Doctor" "Cancer" "Tumor" "Inoperable". My brain began to spin. No! That can't be right. My dad can't be sick. He's invincible. Unfortunately, being invincible is merely a fairy tale. It isn't real. I sunk down to the floor and curled into a tiny ball. I wept until I thought I could not weep more. Once again, I was wrong.
Days grew to weeks, weeks to months. Seasons came and went, and my dad was beating the odds. The doctor had told him 6 months to a year. No one told my dad's heart this. He struggled daily as his tumor grew, but he refused to give up. Chemo to try to shrink it, a bit of radiation...whatever it took to kill the tumor. I named the tumor the "Monster". I needed there to be something to fight, some foe to conquer. His spirit was hard pressed to break. Dad continued to be my hero. We still played baseball, until he could no longer find the strength to get out of bed.
Once Dad was bedridden, I read to him every day. He would smile, tousle my hair and kiss my cheek. Behind his eyes, I could sense the Monster growing. It devoured the smile until all I saw was pain. It robbed Dad of sight in his left eye as it marched through his brain, laying waste to all it touched. Dad became weaker, but I continued to hope. Six months was coming up on two years. My hero, my savior, my best friend - he couldn't die.
It was a beautiful fall morning. The pain seemed to be bearable that day, as Dad looked at me and smiled. I was reading his favorite book - The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. It always reminded my dad of his youth and the shenanigans he had. We laughed for hours. The laughter began, but the Monster swallowed it whole. The Monster won the battle that day. It was to be the final battle. My dad passed away -no fan fare, no funeral pyre - just a man.
Some say that grief can bring two people closer together. I wish I could tell you that was the case with Mom and me. It was more an oil and vinegar mix. I wept continuously for a year. She did what she always did, shutting me out, and becoming even bigger of a bitch than I thought she could be. She told me I was a waste of life, and I did everything I could to prove her right. Ages 13-17 saw me spending the majority of my time with my best friend. Her mom worked three jobs and was never home.
Short of suicide, I exercised every other risky behavior to shorten my life. Drugs? Yes. Alcohol? Yes. Promiscuity? Yes. I jumped out of a moving car, leaped off a bridge, had a lot of unprotected sex, stole to support my drug habit - I was a huge train wreck. Somehow, I survived. I not only survived, but was holding a 4.0 average. This led to college, much to the surprise of my mother. After a bit of soul searching, I decided to do my dad proud.
My life changed. I became responsible, no longer lost in a drugged haze.
I continued to climb. My emotions were playing havoc with me. Too many memories. I wish they were all good. I wish my dad were here. He'd know what to do. Maybe I was afraid. Not everything in life is meant to be easy, but I think I have had more than my share of bad things. Nightmares. Breakdowns. My mother's constant criticism of how I handle my life. I'd say these are a few things I could do without.
The steep climb made my fingers ache, my toes cramp, and made me sweat profusely. I was relentless- I needed to reach the peak. I kept chanting in my head, "What you seek is at the top." I wanted so badly to believe that. Fighting the Monster was something I knew. It creeped in when I least expected it, and now I was waging war with my arch nemesis. The doctor said it was coincidence - the brain tumor my dad had was not hereditary. It should not have happened to me, but here the Monster was once more.
I was told mine may be operable, but the operation was risky. Mine was located in the frontal lobe - if something went wrong, my life's work of being a novelist would be over. My intellect could suffer, leaving me unable to comprehend the simplest of ideas. I was frightened. My best friend was right. Dad's tumor was on his brain stem, and removal would almost certainly have killed him. What a choice to make. Faced with a decision like this, my instinct told me to complete my bucket list. Here was the mountain to conquer. Here was the Monster that has plagued my lifetime. No better day.
Every fiber of muscle, every struggled gasp of breath - I kept up the fight. I held this thought, "I let you win before, Monster. Not today. You can take my life, you can make me lose my mind, but I will never surrender. " I reached the top mid afternoon. I won this round. The Monster would not win. I think I even saw my dad briefly at the top. He was smiling as he held out his hand.
"Mrs. Morgan? I'm afraid your daughter didn't make it. I am very sorry. The tumor was larger than we anticipated, and when we removed it, her heart stopped. We were unable to revive her."
The Monster had won. Heroes large and small were no match. Someday, somehow, a knight in a white coat will find a way to beat the Monster. Until then, my Dad and I watch and wait.
Until we meet again, my friends.
Angie
