Face Down ✓ | Patrick Stump

Prologue Part Two

November 21, 2013

The blanket had been ripped, no, shredded.

They found not one, not two, but five tumors.

His leg, his arm, his lungs, his head, his heart.

Three out of the five were life threatening.

I bet you can guess which ones they were.

The doctors tried everything they could. It began with surgery, which did little to help. They stuck with chemo, which again, did almost nothing.

I feared that he wouldn't make it.

How is it that just one year ago, they found his first tumor? Just one year. A lot can happen in a year.

Over 131 million people are born. 55 million people die. 7.6 million are from cancer.

Just over 13%. 13.6432188065099% to be exact. Out of everyone who died each year, almost 14% of those are from cancer. 140 out of 1,000. 14 out of 100. 1.4 out of 10. 

If you are in a class of 20 people, 2 or 3 of those people will die from cancer, if the rates continue by the time we all have to face death.

Fearing that he wouldn't make it is foolish. Everyone is going to die. Death is inevitable. No matter what we do to try to stop it, we simply cannot.

Most of us want to live until we're 100. Until we're old enough to see our children, grandchildren, perhaps even great-grandchildren and great great grandchildren be born and grow up. We hope to live as long as possible, live a full life with no regrets, to die peacefully in our sleep.

But that is foolish too.

Nobody's tomorrows are guaranteed. To live in the future is impossible. To live in the past is foolish. To live in the present is sensible. You can't control your future; you can't erase your past. However, you are always in control of the present. Every move you make you will never make again. As the teens may say, you only live once. But if you live it right, once is enough.

December 24, 2013

Christmas Eve.

A time of joy, the peak of the Holiday season.

" 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; the stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads... "

'Twas the night before Christmas.

'Twas the night my father passed.

I locked myself in my room and didn't sleep that night. I had never slept on Christmas Eve. Normally it was due to the fact that I was bouncing off the walls, waiting for 'Santa' to put our presents under the tree and fill our stockings with candy.

But now Santa was gone.

I must have cried non-stop for at least 12 hours. At first, they were the cries that shake through your body, that leave you hyperventilating and gasping for air. After I felt like I would pass out from lack of oxygen, I began sobbing until I had no tears left. Yet they kept coming. 

I was nearly dry heaving. My breath would escape my body in rasps that threatened to tear apart my lungs. My eyes were no longer producing any tears, no snot came from my nose, and my saliva wasn't everywhere. Yet I continued to cry. And cry. And cry.  For the remainder of the night, I did stupid shit i an attempt to make me feel better, including looking up crappy inspirational quotes on tumblr. But they were pointless and stupid. And I kept coming across this one quote that I absolutely hated.

"Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass. It's about learning to dance in the rain."

Well, it's pretty hard to dance when you're dancing alone.

January 26, 2014

Psychologists say that there are 5 stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I'd like to say that I had moved on to stage 3. To the what if s and if only s.

But my mother was stuck on stage 2.

One month after my father passed.

The day my mother became violent.

As usual, my mother was drunk as ever. Sometimes she would take beer bottles and smash them against the kitchen counter, all whilst screaming. This would be the point where I would try to get my siblings to be quiet, to relax and take a nap. But they didn't want to. They simply weren't tired.

The wouldn't stop asking about our father.

"Where's Daddy?"

"When will Daddy wake up?"

"Why did Daddy leave us?"

By this time, they were almost three years old. Still not old enough to have gone through this.

They shouldn't have to worry about losing their blanket and their toy.

I wasn't answering any questions. I would just talk to them in a soothing voice, and get them to go to sleep. But they wanted answers. And they were going to get them. If not from me then from Mommy.

Before I could stop them, they were running down the stairs.

"Mommy, where's Daddy?"

"When will Daddy wake up?"

"Mommy, why did Daddy leave us?"

My mother turned around, half a shattered beer bottle in her hands.

"He's not coming back! He's dead and gone, and it's your fault, you ungrateful little bastards!" She screamed. Her voice could be heard from down the street.

And with that, she slapped my brother so hard he flew across the floor, and she kicked my sister in the gut while she joined my brother on the cold kitchen tile.

"How dare you! They're two years old! They had nothing to do with Dad's cancer and you know that! They're concerned and confused and the only thing you ever are is pissed drunk! You don't give a damn about anyone but yourself anymore! Do you know what he said to me about you in the hosp-"

And that was when she brought back her beer bottle and smashed it into my skull.