Never Give Up

“...It's your doctor's office calling to confirm your 2:30pm appointment for tomorrow," the voicemail intoned dispassionately.  Wait, I thought it was next week.  Hmm...  Call now, and confirm, yup, it’s tomorrow, OK, let's do it then.

In my world, you grasp the simple pleasures, find the silver lining.  

Getting out of work at 2pm is generally a good thing, even if it means I have to talk to my doctor about all the crap that is wrong with me.  So, when I'm out and it's still early and I feel like I have the entire day ahead of me, I get a little *giddy*.  So, in a fit of passion, I go to Publix.  What?  Publix isn't a passionate activity for you?  Well, it is for me.  I assuage my culinary craving, and remembering my beloved Roy (<3), I buy a bottle of port to accompany the steak, mushrooms, and ravioli I plan for my repast.

Anything worth enjoying is better when shared with a friend, this is especially true for food and wine.  

I was blessed when dear Gary, my friend of many years came by at my invitation to enjoy the dinner I made.  It was a mutually reinforcing situation, and I enjoyed feeding him as much as he enjoyed my cooking.

And as we sat there at my table, sampling the wines he had brought, the delicious port I had, and the meal, he and I shared conversation and talked about the myriad goings on of life - catching up on missed events now that our lives had grown more distant than our past had been.

The interchange continued without any discernible hitch, and then he said: “you know about my dad, right?”

Stop... catch my breath... what?  

Is there something wrong?  What's going on?  

A hundred questions tumbled around in my head...  

What happened?  Is something wrong with your dad?  Did your dad die?  Don't tell me your dad died.  Gary... what?!!  

So many thoughts in my head, and all these fears, and memories, it's like when they say your life flashes before your eyes.  Well, it works for others also.

Gary was quiet, and the feeling in the pit in my stomach grew as each second passed.  He looked down, and I could feel the margin of my heart blur as it melted into my chest and I felt filled with compassion for him - and dread.

“Fathers Day...”, he said.

And I prompted, gently for more, though dreading each word... was he sick, oh Gosh, was he gone?

Gary began.

I was visiting, on Fathers' Day; and I brought him a card.  We were supposed to go to the car show later.  He changed his mind, and didn’t want to go.  So I, I went home.  

His words echoed with a weight that belied the simple scenario he described.  

He continued.

I just sat around the house, had some beers, watched nothing on TV, and a couple of hours later checked my phone.  I had it off, it doesn’t matter when I’m in the house anyway, I have no bars there.

So, I turned on the phone and I had three missed calls from Simone, and I called her back and she was hysterical.  She had the police and she didn’t exactly know where I lived, so I told her, and I didn’t know what in the hell was going on.  I thought for a minute, maybe he got drunk, did something stupid, I didn’t know.  I didn’t think so, but what could it be, you know?  

But, the police and all showed up, and they wouldn’t tell me what was going on, just asked if I had a girlfriend, and to have her drive and to follow them.  Like hell, I said, she can’t drive a stick, and I wanted to know what in the hell was going on.  I’m fine to drive, just tell me what the hell is going on.  They said, follow me to the hospital, your dad has had an accident.

I get there, and he’s in the ICU, and accident isn’t exactly what happened.  Simone tells me: they were sitting watching TV, and had watched the races in the afternoon.  He got up and went in the room after a bit, and said he didn’t want to watch anymore.  While she is out there watching her shows, she hears a pop.  When she goes into the room, he’s there, on the bed: blood everywhere.

He looks at me and says with a empty, pained look, “I went over there to help her clean it up, and it was a mess.”  

I’m just in shock.  I knew Lester very well: respected him.  I respected the friendship between Gary and his dad.  I never expected this.

Neither did Gary.

All of a sudden, I’m overwhelmed with emotion, and all the times I had been in Lester’s shoes.  After my car accident, at 30, I was unable to walk without assistance, had endured months of painful treatment that didn’t help, had a husband who just kept telling me to walk it off - no income, was unable to fully enjoy my kids, as I was confined to bed most of the time, and I had bottles and bottles of pills.  I began to cry.  He doesn’t understand why.  God love this man, because now, he tried to comfort me.

He says, “I never expected this.”  “My dad was always the biggest badass, you know, could do anything.”  (Which only makes the tears come with renewed vigor to my eyes and roll in hot streaks down my cheeks as I cry without sobs.)  “It was selfish, what he did,” he said.  “It wasn’t fair to me and Simone.”  I smile at him through my tears, and warn him, that I’m going to hug him, and I do.

He says, “don’t cry.”

I tell him the truth: that I am thinking about how many times I thought of  doing the same thing, and how I couldn’t do that to my kids.  Now he gets it, and he says simply: “well, I thank God that you didn’t.”  “I’m glad you’re in my life.”  I hug him again, a fresh batch of tears rolling down my face amidst some smiles and sighs of relief and the tacit acknowledgment of this mutual truth.

So, we talk.  

He was there.  Knew me from before, when I was a youngish mom of two boys, in my mid twenties, and I would come over from my house, two doors down and do backflips into his pool for hours.  He remembers me doing axles and leaps on rollerblades in the street in front of our houses.  He remembers the three years when I couldn’t walk, or work.  He saw me lose my grandmother, my sister, and my own life temporarily; saw me take care of boys, and house and family through all that to the best of my ability.  He has known me for twelve of the most eventful years of my life.  He didn’t know how close or how many times I thought of escaping from that troubling, seemingly endless reality of pain and loss.  It would have been so easy.  I had all these pills, just take them all.  Go to sleep.  Leave it behind.  Go on to whatever comes next.

I could not: would not.  I always imagined the boys.  Even if they didn’t find my body, and - what if they did? *shiver*  They would live with the knowledge that I had given up: gave up on them; that I couldn’t overcome, that I took the easy, selfish way.  Would that make it seem like that is a viable option when life gets difficult for them?  Suicide often turns into a family epidemic.  I didn’t want that to be.  Not for my boys.  I loved them too much.  I loved them more, apparently, than I loved myself, because the selfish little voice in my head urged me to put an end to the pain that never ended, nobody wanted to hear about, and nobody seemed to be able to mitigate.  That voice, spoke of a warm bed and soft sheets, and an end to tears.  My tears would end.  I would trade them for their tears.

It seemed like a poor exchange.

I kept my pain and tears for myself: owned them - overcame them.

I can and did overcome, and I’m glad I did.  I’m glad I didn’t do that to my children, am glad that I’m still here to enjoy the good days that followed.  I’m glad that this is still my life.

Gary says, “he taught me so much, taught me just about everything.”  “He isn’t going to teach me this,” he says with resolve through partially gritted teeth.  I feel his determination.  I feel his anger.  He affirms this.  “I was so angry!  I was so pissed!  For days and weeks: Father’s Day!  That selfish jerk!  Now every Father’s Day, I’m going to think about what he did.”

I lead him gently outside to my front garden: to the fire pit; I’m needing the soothing of a return to this primality.  He came over to my old house many times, and we all often sat outside around a fire.  It is a big reason why I rented this place over so many others (besides the rent and my lovely front neighbor).

I light the fire, and tease it to life and sit back, occasionally poking at it with my favorite tool: a perfect stick.  We continue drinking the bottles of wine we started over dinner and sitting under a newly reemerging sliver of moon and the bright Venus beside, we talk about life, God, the Universe and how we are just like 8 year olds to the eternal Creator.  It’s good stuff.

We’ve both been eight.  We’ve both raised eight year olds.

He gets my analogy when I talk about what jerks we could be when we were eight: what little know-it-all punks.  Understands how when our kids were like that we, as parents, said simply: ‘OK, you have it all figured out - knock yourself out.’  Of course, God does the same thing.  He also gets how it was to have that same child come back and say, Mom/Dad, I need your help.  He knows how all that past jerkiness vanished in a flash, and we stepped in, saved the day, taught our lessons, and hugged everything alright.  God does that too.  It’s the answer to the question he asked me about why would God take care of us, when we both know we’ve earned our tickets to hell.  It’s why we both can feel the peace we get from faith in Him right now, and we know it’s going to help us get through.

We stay outside for a long time; my friend E comes over after class, and the three of us stay outside in the semi-twilight of the urban night until after midnight.  The air is perfumed with the smoke from the fire and our hearts are warmed by more than this.  The night turns peaceful, and all the pain of earlier melts into the happiness of shared companionship and the enjoyment of simple pleasures.

I was right, everything worth enjoying is better shared.

A good friend makes all the good better, all the bad seem less so, and can give you strength to get through what you thought you never could.

To you Gary: hugs, I love you, never give up.