I must admit, I’ve had a difficult time of things this year. I guess everyone has or will go through this, so it feels a bit selfish to even speak about it. I have to admit that some of the painful things in life I’ve been very fortunate to postpone. If you will forgive me, I’d like to come to this a bit through the back door….
Today while mowing my lawn, I unwillingly began to think on my friend. Perhaps I wasn’t such a good friend because right now I can’t see his face or remember his name. How horrible is that? In fairness it was almost 40 years ago. But, I remember him. I remember how he laughed. I remember how he was so very smart, how easily it seemed to me that things came for him.
I remember that day he was wearing brown corduroy pants and an odd shirt, was very thin and standing strangely, he who once was so athletic and only wore Nike, Izod, the best fashion. His hair was long, unkempt. He looked dirty, greasy. Seeing him so shabby had such an impact on me, such a devastation to thoughts and feelings. Shock, I guess. Without words from him I realized that was likely the last time I would see him and I didn’t know what to do. I was angry. I couldn’t have told you why I was angry at the time, but now so many years later I see it a bit better. I was angry that he started using again, and I was angry that he could even get it and I was so fucking angry that I couldn’t stop it from happening! It was not fair!! My friend was dying in front of me and all I had was this numbness and rage. Over the years I’ve agonized over that moment, wondering what I could have done differently or what I could have said that would have made everything ok again. But, I know, ok was gone for him and all I had was acceptance of the seeming inevitable: my friend was back on heroin and I had the mixed fortune to see him, even like this, one more time and say goodbye. The pollen must have been potent today as my allergies were really making my eyes run.
So, why am I telling you this 40-year old story to back door my point? I guess because I’m having difficulty facing the inescapable proof that my parents do indeed have feet of clay, that they are vulnerable, that I will lose them.
We strike out on our own when we feel all big and grown up, but that little boy does somehow remain on the inside, doesn’t he? And, though I built castle walls and thought myself secure in my adulthood, damn if the foundation slips right out from underneath. I am running head on into this – that the two people in my life who I fought with, argued with, even felt that juvenile selfish hatred, that I shared with, modeled, admired, who could and did handle anything are now facing the inevitable…
… and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. It’s not fair, dammit. The people who always fixed everything can’t. And I can’t fix this, I can’t make it ok. The best I can do is try to help, try to do something that they then don’t have to do, don’t have to worry about, and it seems so very insignificant.
And I’m so fucking angry! I’m angry that cancer and heart disease are still words to fear in modern America! My government is more concerned with killing people than helping our citizens live longer! Live better! My government is spending billions on inflicting pain on people who look different, love different, while I see the pain on my loved ones faces and their actions and know I can’t do anything to make it stop! My government is more concerned with lining their own pockets and fluffing the bank accounts of the super-wealthy while I’m struggling to afford to go see my parents and help them with their needs.
I am grieving the unfairness of it all, and I am so very angry. And there just doesn’t really seem to be a damn thing I can do about it. -randy
Scottie's Playtime 