We all have one. For some it is worse than others. But everyone has a struggle within. This is mine. I feel the need to get some things off my chest. I hope in doing so, it may help you to deal with your's.
I will not bore you by going back to the very beginning of my struggle within. I will jump to August 10, 1994. On this day, things changed drastically for my future. I was working for Sears, Roebuck & Co. as a dock worker. I had just finished unloading a 150,000 piece truck for Christmas. When the truck was finished, I was faced with a choice. To take a break, as everyone else was doing, or to take the initiative to finish some stockroom sorting that needed to be done. I chose the latter. At 09:30, I was on top of a 9-foot shelving unit, precariously balanced on the edge. I lost that balance due to mitigating circumstances. I fell, landing on my tailbone on a concrete floor. I crushed my L1 vertebrae to a 19-degree angle on impact. 6 more degrees and I would've been paralyzed. Or not here to type this. After my release from the hospital with a 4 level fusion from my T11-L2, it took me 5 years to learn how to do basic things. Like fucking.
Fast forward to January 8, 1999. The day my father found my brother dead in the basement of my childhood home. He was 29. I was working when it happened. My father called me that evening at work. I knew something was wrong. He never calls me. Allow me to give a brief backstory. My brother started a long, uphill battle against drugs and alcohol at the age of 13. In and out of prison. I knew before I got to my parents' house that they had found Greg dead, in the bathroom in the basement. Doubt the veracity if you wish. After my parents telling me of this, I insisted on going downstairs to look. I had to have my reality check. My closure. Upon looking, I saw what was left of my brother's life. A blood stain on the floor and a puddle of blood in the toilet. I was the lead pall bearer. I refused to leave the grave side until they had lowered his casket into the ground. There had to be absolution in my head. My brother, who would kick the ass of any neighborhood bully who fucked with me...was gone.
Fast forward to August of 2000. My third grandson was born. Fast forward 13 months, to August 24, 2001. He had been diagnosed with an atypical teratoid rhebdoid tumor on the brain stem. He was the 6th known case in the world. That cancer is typically only found in the pancreas or liver. I sat at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland and held his hand as I watched his heart monitor drop to zero. I watched my grandson die. I sang an accapella solo at his funeral. I still have a Mickey Mouse tie...THE Mickey Mouse tie...I wore at his funeral. I've never worn it since.
Fast forward to August 4, 2004. My youngest granddaughter was born. A beautiful little girl. Grandaddy's little girl. The only person in the world who could drag me to the floor to watch the Teletubbies. I hate the fucking Teletubbies. But for her...in a heartbeat. At the age of 18 months, only days after recieving her MMR shot, she was diagnosed with Autism. High functioning/borderline Asperger's. She no longer communicated with us. She no longer smiled her beautiful little smile. By the age of 5, the only words she knew were a selection of Spanish words. That she learned from Dora The Explorer.
I will not bore you by going back to the very beginning of my struggle within. I will jump to August 10, 1994. On this day, things changed drastically for my future. I was working for Sears, Roebuck & Co. as a dock worker. I had just finished unloading a 150,000 piece truck for Christmas. When the truck was finished, I was faced with a choice. To take a break, as everyone else was doing, or to take the initiative to finish some stockroom sorting that needed to be done. I chose the latter. At 09:30, I was on top of a 9-foot shelving unit, precariously balanced on the edge. I lost that balance due to mitigating circumstances. I fell, landing on my tailbone on a concrete floor. I crushed my L1 vertebrae to a 19-degree angle on impact. 6 more degrees and I would've been paralyzed. Or not here to type this. After my release from the hospital with a 4 level fusion from my T11-L2, it took me 5 years to learn how to do basic things. Like fucking.
Fast forward to January 8, 1999. The day my father found my brother dead in the basement of my childhood home. He was 29. I was working when it happened. My father called me that evening at work. I knew something was wrong. He never calls me. Allow me to give a brief backstory. My brother started a long, uphill battle against drugs and alcohol at the age of 13. In and out of prison. I knew before I got to my parents' house that they had found Greg dead, in the bathroom in the basement. Doubt the veracity if you wish. After my parents telling me of this, I insisted on going downstairs to look. I had to have my reality check. My closure. Upon looking, I saw what was left of my brother's life. A blood stain on the floor and a puddle of blood in the toilet. I was the lead pall bearer. I refused to leave the grave side until they had lowered his casket into the ground. There had to be absolution in my head. My brother, who would kick the ass of any neighborhood bully who fucked with me...was gone.
Fast forward to August of 2000. My third grandson was born. Fast forward 13 months, to August 24, 2001. He had been diagnosed with an atypical teratoid rhebdoid tumor on the brain stem. He was the 6th known case in the world. That cancer is typically only found in the pancreas or liver. I sat at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland and held his hand as I watched his heart monitor drop to zero. I watched my grandson die. I sang an accapella solo at his funeral. I still have a Mickey Mouse tie...THE Mickey Mouse tie...I wore at his funeral. I've never worn it since.
Fast forward to August 4, 2004. My youngest granddaughter was born. A beautiful little girl. Grandaddy's little girl. The only person in the world who could drag me to the floor to watch the Teletubbies. I hate the fucking Teletubbies. But for her...in a heartbeat. At the age of 18 months, only days after recieving her MMR shot, she was diagnosed with Autism. High functioning/borderline Asperger's. She no longer communicated with us. She no longer smiled her beautiful little smile. By the age of 5, the only words she knew were a selection of Spanish words. That she learned from Dora The Explorer.
Fast forward to the past 5 years of my life. I was in Texas. I left my family behind. My grandchildren, my son, my parents.
Everyone. Did it hurt? Yes. Horribly. I saw my son twice in the time I was in Texas. I've since reconnected with my son, my oldest grandson and my oldest granddaughter. I've seen my youngest granddaughter at a distance. Her mother and grandmother and I agreed that it was best that way. It breaks my heart, but I will ALWAYS do what's best for that little girl. All of the latter is possible because I'm back in Maryland again. They say all roads lead to home. Mine just happened to take a 5 year, 1600+ mile detour through Texas.
How do I hope that by sharing this I have helped you? By allowing you to see that there are others with personal demons that bother them everyday. I live with the permanent mental images of my brother's blood stains and my grandson's heart monitor hitting zero. They never go away. I have suffered with suicidal tendencies since the age of 16. That's 24 years at this point. I made myself a deal, lo those many years ago. If my reasons to die ever became longer than my reasons to live, then I would end my existence. More recently, I made a promise to a special certain someone. A promise that I wouldn't leave this planet before my time was up.
Every day, I find another reason to live.
What doesn't kill you truly makes you stronger. Remember that always and keep conquering. Thank you for sharing, this couldn't have been easy to write.
ReplyDeleteAgreed. Thank you, sweetheart. It wasn't. It brought on a flood of repressed emotions.
DeleteSo your not coming back to Texas
ReplyDeleteNo, I'm not.
Delete