![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreSince I need to do some actual work on Monday, I may as well finish my encounter from last weekend here. Besides, I've been thinking of other things on my drive into work that I want to relate, so it's time to bring this topic to a close.
Jim and I danced, drank and talked for hours. Well, after a few hours I stopped drinking beer and switched to water. I needed to sober up for the ride home, since I was the one with the driver's license and the car. I'm a responsible person in this way.
There's no way to cover our entire evening in just three posts, so I'll just finish with the gist of it all. We discussed philosophy (he's literally had an eternity to think things over, making him very philosophical), religion (he wouldn't give anything away, and told me my spiritual path is up to me to figure out and follow), and pari-mutual betting (he follows horseracing, but wouldn't admit that being a supernatural being gives him an edge when he places bets; he claims he doesn't cheat and acted offended when I suggested otherwise). We kept coming back to the concept of fair, until he said he was bored with the topic and could we please discuss something else? He agrees with me that most people should stay away from Karaoke machines, because nobody really wants to hear drunken renditions of songs by Journey, no matter what your equally drunk friends tell you.
I did bring up one topic that was bothering me, that had bothered me for years. It was after midnight, an hour and a half after my last beer and my buzz was fading fast.
"What about my mother..." I began.
Jim shook his head. "That goes back to the whole 'fair' thing. Closed topic, remember?"
"No, I wasn't going to ask about the fair thing. I know about that. It has nothing to do with fair. I'm way past expecting fair out of life. I don't have to like it, but I can accept it."
Which is true. The night my mother died, when my father and oldest brother came home from the hospital and told my other two brothers and me that she was gone, the first thing I said after a guttural cry of, "No!" was, "It's not fair." My oldest brother, on leave from the Army to come home for this family emergency, wrapped his arms around me and reminded me that life's not fair. He whispered it softly to me as I sobbed against his chest. He was 23 and I was 15. At least she got to see him finish growing up, I thought. The inherent truth of life not being fair was very apparent to me at that moment.
"When I they took my mother back to the hospital that last time, and her eyes and skin were yellow with jaundice and she couldn't breath without that oxygen mask, I tried to make a deal with God. I asked him to take me instead," I said. For some reason in my memory, I am not the one laying face down on the floor crying. In my memory, I am standing behind me watching that shy, awkward teen-aged girl laying prostrate, begging to bargain and getting no response from the empty air. It was Thursday, October 4th, 1984. I had just come home from school as they were loading my mother into the car, leaving me alone in the house to ponder the implications of my mother, who hated the hospital and who had only recently begged to come home, to ask that they take her back. I was terrified.
"Did anybody hear me? Did anybody care?"
Jim gave a slight smile. The crows feet in the corners of his sunset-in-the desert colored eyes deepened. "The universe heard you. It wasn't a conversation with me, but I was eavesdropping. I remember the last thing you asked for, even if you don't."
I remembered, too. We were a pragmatic, Methodist family, and we were taught to pray for pragmatic things. We were taught to accept that everything happens for a reason, that death is a part of life, and the way that God designed thing. In the end, I prayed what I had always been taught to pray.
"Your will, not mine, be done." I did not say "Amen" at the end. I only screamed, clenching my fists and curling into a fetal position on the cold linoleum floor. I knew what was coming, but I wasn't ready to accept it. I don't remember how long I lay there, screaming and weeping, but I only stopped when I heard the doorbell ring. There was a couple there, asking to see my mother. I told them that she had gone back to the hospital.
"I though she was back home," the woman said.
"They took her in again today," I replied. To this day, I don't know who they were. My face and eyes red and swollen from crying. They looked embarrassed for me, like they didn't know what to say and couldn't wait to get away from my tears and what they represented.
The woman forced a smile. "Tell her we dropped by, will you?" She must have told me their names to pass along. I don't believe that I ever delivered the message. My mother would die two days later, and I never got the chance. The next time I saw her, the last time I would see her, she was too doped up on morphine to talk.
"You got what you asked for," Jim said.
"But that's not what I really wanted," I said, "I'd just been taught to accept what came. I meant the first part of the prayer, I only said the last part because..." I trailed off. I wasn’t sure why I said it, if I didn't mean it.
"You said it because that's the real purpose of religion, any religion," Jim said, "Not to make the universe bend to your will, but to make sense of it when it doesn't. No matter what the creed, what the belief system, that's it's purpose. You were taught well. You were working it out, figuring it out. You were coming to terms with what was coming."
"Damn," I said, "Here we are back to religion and philosophy. We've been talking in circles all night."
"I've enjoyed it," Jim said.
"The universe sucks," I said, "I'd have designed things different if it were up to me."
"But it's not, so that's kind of moot."
"To hell with you, I like moot. A good exercise in moot now and then is good for you. Keeps you on your toes."
Jim leaned back and exhaled his smoke into a ring. In the bar, unlike when he is outside operating his ride, it was just an ordinary smoke ring. He doesn't show off in public.
"Whatever," he said.
We agreed it was time to get out of there. I was sober and good to drive. I dropped him off at the Ferris Wheel. He got out the car and walked around to the drivers side door. I rolled down my window.
"Don't I get a hug?" he asked. I was reluctant. I hadn't intended on getting out of the car.
"I don't know," I said, stalling, "you did kill my mom."
"I never killed nobody," he said, "I just let them off when their ride is over. It's my job. It's not ever personal. She had a good ride. She didn't regret the time she spent on it. Don't be like that."
I unfastened my seatbelt and got out of the car. I let him hug me, but didn't really hug him back. As a poet, the symbolism of embracing death seemed too dangerous to me. But I could accept his embrace if I had to.
"You take care of yourself," he said.
"You, too."
He laughed, "I always have, honey."
I don't remember the drive home. I woke up as Jeff was coming to bed, finally settling in after coming home late from his shift at the airport.
"Go back to sleep," Jeff said.
"'kay." I don't argue with good advice.
"You fell asleep on the couch. Do you remember me bringing you in here?"
"Nuh-uh," I said, "Sorry."
He asked for a kiss, so I rolled over to face him. He sniffed my hair.
"You smell like cigarettes. Did you go somewhere tonight?" he asked. For a smoker, he's got a sensitive nose.
"Not really. Not far," I said. "Mostly, I just stayed on the couch." Which was true and not true, but I didn't want to discuss it. I was just too tired.
* * * * * *
Jim and I danced, drank and talked for hours. Well, after a few hours I stopped drinking beer and switched to water. I needed to sober up for the ride home, since I was the one with the driver's license and the car. I'm a responsible person in this way.
There's no way to cover our entire evening in just three posts, so I'll just finish with the gist of it all. We discussed philosophy (he's literally had an eternity to think things over, making him very philosophical), religion (he wouldn't give anything away, and told me my spiritual path is up to me to figure out and follow), and pari-mutual betting (he follows horseracing, but wouldn't admit that being a supernatural being gives him an edge when he places bets; he claims he doesn't cheat and acted offended when I suggested otherwise). We kept coming back to the concept of fair, until he said he was bored with the topic and could we please discuss something else? He agrees with me that most people should stay away from Karaoke machines, because nobody really wants to hear drunken renditions of songs by Journey, no matter what your equally drunk friends tell you.
I did bring up one topic that was bothering me, that had bothered me for years. It was after midnight, an hour and a half after my last beer and my buzz was fading fast.
"What about my mother..." I began.
Jim shook his head. "That goes back to the whole 'fair' thing. Closed topic, remember?"
"No, I wasn't going to ask about the fair thing. I know about that. It has nothing to do with fair. I'm way past expecting fair out of life. I don't have to like it, but I can accept it."
Which is true. The night my mother died, when my father and oldest brother came home from the hospital and told my other two brothers and me that she was gone, the first thing I said after a guttural cry of, "No!" was, "It's not fair." My oldest brother, on leave from the Army to come home for this family emergency, wrapped his arms around me and reminded me that life's not fair. He whispered it softly to me as I sobbed against his chest. He was 23 and I was 15. At least she got to see him finish growing up, I thought. The inherent truth of life not being fair was very apparent to me at that moment.
"When I they took my mother back to the hospital that last time, and her eyes and skin were yellow with jaundice and she couldn't breath without that oxygen mask, I tried to make a deal with God. I asked him to take me instead," I said. For some reason in my memory, I am not the one laying face down on the floor crying. In my memory, I am standing behind me watching that shy, awkward teen-aged girl laying prostrate, begging to bargain and getting no response from the empty air. It was Thursday, October 4th, 1984. I had just come home from school as they were loading my mother into the car, leaving me alone in the house to ponder the implications of my mother, who hated the hospital and who had only recently begged to come home, to ask that they take her back. I was terrified.
"Did anybody hear me? Did anybody care?"
Jim gave a slight smile. The crows feet in the corners of his sunset-in-the desert colored eyes deepened. "The universe heard you. It wasn't a conversation with me, but I was eavesdropping. I remember the last thing you asked for, even if you don't."
I remembered, too. We were a pragmatic, Methodist family, and we were taught to pray for pragmatic things. We were taught to accept that everything happens for a reason, that death is a part of life, and the way that God designed thing. In the end, I prayed what I had always been taught to pray.
"Your will, not mine, be done." I did not say "Amen" at the end. I only screamed, clenching my fists and curling into a fetal position on the cold linoleum floor. I knew what was coming, but I wasn't ready to accept it. I don't remember how long I lay there, screaming and weeping, but I only stopped when I heard the doorbell ring. There was a couple there, asking to see my mother. I told them that she had gone back to the hospital.
"I though she was back home," the woman said.
"They took her in again today," I replied. To this day, I don't know who they were. My face and eyes red and swollen from crying. They looked embarrassed for me, like they didn't know what to say and couldn't wait to get away from my tears and what they represented.
The woman forced a smile. "Tell her we dropped by, will you?" She must have told me their names to pass along. I don't believe that I ever delivered the message. My mother would die two days later, and I never got the chance. The next time I saw her, the last time I would see her, she was too doped up on morphine to talk.
"You got what you asked for," Jim said.
"But that's not what I really wanted," I said, "I'd just been taught to accept what came. I meant the first part of the prayer, I only said the last part because..." I trailed off. I wasn’t sure why I said it, if I didn't mean it.
"You said it because that's the real purpose of religion, any religion," Jim said, "Not to make the universe bend to your will, but to make sense of it when it doesn't. No matter what the creed, what the belief system, that's it's purpose. You were taught well. You were working it out, figuring it out. You were coming to terms with what was coming."
"Damn," I said, "Here we are back to religion and philosophy. We've been talking in circles all night."
"I've enjoyed it," Jim said.
"The universe sucks," I said, "I'd have designed things different if it were up to me."
"But it's not, so that's kind of moot."
"To hell with you, I like moot. A good exercise in moot now and then is good for you. Keeps you on your toes."
Jim leaned back and exhaled his smoke into a ring. In the bar, unlike when he is outside operating his ride, it was just an ordinary smoke ring. He doesn't show off in public.
"Whatever," he said.
We agreed it was time to get out of there. I was sober and good to drive. I dropped him off at the Ferris Wheel. He got out the car and walked around to the drivers side door. I rolled down my window.
"Don't I get a hug?" he asked. I was reluctant. I hadn't intended on getting out of the car.
"I don't know," I said, stalling, "you did kill my mom."
"I never killed nobody," he said, "I just let them off when their ride is over. It's my job. It's not ever personal. She had a good ride. She didn't regret the time she spent on it. Don't be like that."
I unfastened my seatbelt and got out of the car. I let him hug me, but didn't really hug him back. As a poet, the symbolism of embracing death seemed too dangerous to me. But I could accept his embrace if I had to.
"You take care of yourself," he said.
"You, too."
He laughed, "I always have, honey."
I don't remember the drive home. I woke up as Jeff was coming to bed, finally settling in after coming home late from his shift at the airport.
"Go back to sleep," Jeff said.
"'kay." I don't argue with good advice.
"You fell asleep on the couch. Do you remember me bringing you in here?"
"Nuh-uh," I said, "Sorry."
He asked for a kiss, so I rolled over to face him. He sniffed my hair.
"You smell like cigarettes. Did you go somewhere tonight?" he asked. For a smoker, he's got a sensitive nose.
"Not really. Not far," I said. "Mostly, I just stayed on the couch." Which was true and not true, but I didn't want to discuss it. I was just too tired.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 08:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 02:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 06:17 pm (UTC)I like reading your journal.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 06:35 pm (UTC)BTW, I love your icon. :D
we aren't born pragmatic,...
Date: 2006-05-21 08:09 pm (UTC)Re: we aren't born pragmatic,...
Date: 2006-05-22 02:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 03:00 pm (UTC)I promise you that I will look and sound nothing like you expect. At least, that's what I usually hear when people meet me. They never say if my reality is better or worse than than their mental image though... o.O
no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 03:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 10:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 03:07 pm (UTC)