copyright 2017 Chris Smith All rights reserved.
"I have no vision for the road ahead...without you."
How do you say goodbye?
I didn't know and I didn't know anyone who could tell me how to do it.
How does one let go?
Is letting go even possible?
The pain torments my heart with such infinite sadness and grief. I fear I will know nothing else. The new reality of it greets me each morn, sinking down deep, to places I cannot escape from. "It hurts", is the understatement of the fucking century.
I could feel her fading from our world with each hit of morphine. I couldn't stop crying. I was crying all the time. I'd sneak into the bathroom to talk with Dad and start crying.
"Jesus. Do you have to?" Dad asked.
I was too upset to even respond.
"Hey!" I yelled, stomping my foot on the floor with tears gushing down my face.
I wanted to knock him out. The only difference between us, I was expressing my pain in the open. He wasn't. But he felt it just the same. I didn't care what mask he put on. It was there, right below the surface. I could feel it.
Then I poked him in the arm. Hard. He was pissing me off. He was going to be supportive of me, if I had to beat him to get him to do it. This was the most I'd ever felt in my whole fucking life. By God, he was going to let me cry and he was going to be there to support me.
"I'm going to cry when I need to. And you're going to be sweet!" I told him.
I gave him the best defiant crying look I could, given the circumstances.
I knew he was tired of me crying. I was tired of me crying. But I could not contain it. The tears came, whenever it was too much. And right now, every fucking moment of this was too much. I'd be standing in the kitchen, or taking a walk, or in the shower and they'd overwhelm me. I was having the breath sucked out of my lungs at every fucking turn.
I was a non-stop waterworks machine. I wanted my body to shut it down. My eyes clearly had had enough. They looked bloodshot every moment of day now. I started putting redness eye drops in them to ease the bloodshot look. It helped for a few minutest at best. At least until the next breakdown.
Me to Bro: Mom got her first hit of morphine. And no juice or supplements this a.m. Just water. She's very alert and comfortable.
I walked back into the kitchen and looked at Mom's pill container. It was so wrong that it sat empty. I started crying again. I was going to be a basket case for days at this rate.
Dad stood there, trying to hide his own feelings. He wished I'd do my crying off in a corner somewhere that he didn't have to see it, feel it, or hear it. Yes, after all that what's he did. He sucked it up like a guy, like a good soldier, and focused on the mission. It was the mission that was important and missions don't have time for breakdowns or crybabies.
Well, "Fuck You", was my answer.
I couldn't stop it. I could not stop myself from falling apart. If a breeze had come through, I would have fallen over because there wasn't enough holding me up as it was.
All the battles we'd fought, all the ditches we'd dug together, and all our Dreams were still outside our grasp. The Dreams always included the three of us. We were a fucking tripod, my Parents and I.
How could we be a tripod if my Mom left us?
How could there be a future without her in it?
Bro: That's good. That she's comfortable that is. I'm coming up. Not today, too tired to handle the drive. But tomorrow. Maybe I'll fly in and rent a car. Leave Monday but I can change that if it seems appropriate.
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A HARD RUN INTO HELL Book 4 (EDITING) is the juice worth the squeeze seriesNon-Fiction
I was standing in Hell, burning. I looked over to see my Dad, standing right next to me. He was burning too. We had brought my Mom home from the hospital and care facility, after being diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer and decided not to do chemo, ag...