Entry Fifty-Nine

I could fall asleep to spring peepers.

Some deep inside part of me yearns to.

A smoky cloud passes across a crescent moon and the moment is lost.

Time to get back to work.

It is still time to worry and be unhappy. Shortly that time will be over and ease will be what is written on my heart. Not this black scrawl.

All I want to do is sleep. It dulls the worry and the anxiety. It puts it off until morning. Then is returns in full force.

I am the queen of procrastination.

This queen bids you farewell.

Entry Fifty-Eight BUS STORIES ENTRY

Oh jeez. This makes two entries in one day. And two BUS STORIES entries at that! Also, I am close to the 60 landmark. Who wants to get me a diamond? Ha. Just kidding.

SO here goes. I'm pretty sure it's going to be another short one. I need to sleep.


Time to put on a little Muse/Coldplay/Keane (etc.) and let 'er rip!


STARTING RIGHT AFTER THE LAST ENTRY (just after she pushed 7)

Not much stuck out in my mind after that. The cold, realistic part of me was weeping. My disgusted and terribly pessimistic sense of being scoffed and took over. First, call in. No work today.

I'm not sure who I talked to or what was said. I'm sure I made my excuses and the co-worker receiving the information was rolling their eyes. Most of them did that behind my back. They thought I was a crazy, lazy, anti-socialite suffering from depression. They were right.

Next thing I knew, I was in my car. My noisy, old Saturn. The tires needed rotating. The whole car shook if I got over 60 mph on the highway.

No breakfast with Josh and Susan.

No time for ANY kind of pleasantness this morning.

I'm not sure if the horrid consciousness leading my actions really had intentions of my death. Death always sounded like a good idea at times like this. But today? Today was different. I'd tried death on this day. Several times. Last year in fact. It never worked. October 24th was not may day to die in any year. Yet it was the death day reserved for a man and an unborn baby boy.

Desperate for something to take the anguish that was threatening to explode in me, I made my down the highway. Go somewhere. Anywhere. The car shook in protest as I pushed 85. That should have warned me. But I just wanted to forget.

I could never forget.

It had been dark then. But not too dark. The stars and moon painted the road with silver. The windows were down and the air smelled of dead leaves and spices. We were driving home from a week early Halloween party. Me and Will. It had been outside the city. A friend owned some land. There had been a bonfire, marshmallows, hot dogs, soda. I'd held Will's hand and snuggled with him on a soft fleece blanket. He grabbed a white hot tipped branch and wrote my name in smoke. He rested his free hand on my gently swelling belly.

Mikey kicked for the very first time.

We had been so excited. We made everyone come over and try to feel it. No one did, of course. Once Will's hand had left, the kicking stopped. It didn't matter. We both felt it. We knew it was real. There were no words in existence that could describe the happiness and contentment that I felt.

No words will be invented that can express how I felt when all that was taken from me. How I feel now, sill existing without them.

I wasn't watching the road. I just barreled down. There was a split second when I saw it coming at me. This horribly battered and sad looking truck. In that second, all this flooded in...

...Better to die remembering something wonderful than something awful. Better to have reality wrench you back just before memory lane took you into a terrifying dark tunnel. What was the color? Why was it going the wrong way on the highway? It didn't matter because it was there and nothing could stop what was going to happen. Did I brace myself? Did I make any attempt to avoid it? No. Here was my chance. Here was this truck, here was me. The distance between us closing impossibly fast. And at the last second...would I make it through this?

Okay, for real. Time to get to sleep.

Tomorrow I will definitely have more. Can't stop a good flow while it's coming.

Entry Fifty-Seven BUS STORIES ENTRY

This is my attempt at getting at the middle stuff that I decided to skip in that last entry.


STARTING JUST BEFORE I TYPED "LATER" ON THE LAST BLOG ENTRY.

Then it had all been noise and pain..and death.

Yet I was still here. Left to remember the happiness I had and would never have again. Part of me wanted to blame God and THAT part of me did. The other part, the one that tried to force me into reality, that corner reigning half of me blamed myself. It had been my fault.

Soon the spot of tears on my pillow swelled to something unmanageable. Time to get up. I wiped my eyes with the back of my pajama sleeve. Snotty nose. Never a pleasant thing. Sitting up, I looked at the alarm clock. It read 6:42. I had to be to work at 9:00. That gave me plenty of time for a nice hot shower. Something to scald away the dream that still had a strangling hold on my thoughts.

Why go to work?

There was that voice again. The one that blamed God. The one that thought life was pointless. I must admit that I gave into that part of me often enough. She led me to poor decisions and unhappy days. The fitter side of me tried hard to fight back. But she often lost. I was determined to listen to the half of me that believed life still had meaning today.

I grabbed my cell phone. I had two messages. I had slept right through the vibrations. Hold down 1 and listen.

"You have two unheard messages. First unheard message:"

"Hey Becca, it's Susan. Look, I know that today is going to be really rough for you...so, um...lets not have a repeat of last year...okay? I love you. Give me a call when you get this and we'll talk...okay, hope to hear from you! Bye!"

My sister Susan. Always looking out for me. Looking out for everyone. The oldest, you know. What was she talking about, last year? Hard for me?

"End of message. To delete this message, press 7, to save it in the archives, press 9..."

I pressed 9. Something about deleting messages immediately bothered me. Like I would forget what they were about and never get back to the person if I deleted it.

"Message will be save for 14 days. Next message."

"Becca, hey. It's Josh. Look, it being October 24th and all, I, uh, thought you could use a pick me up...So um....I know it's early and you have to work today, but me and Susan are gonna come over and bring you some breakfast, okay? We'll be there at around...uh, probably around 7:30ish, or something like that. Just, uh, give me a call if you would rather not...so uh, I'll see you then! Okay, bye."

"End of message. To delete this message press 7, to...."

All the other automated words were drowned out by a rushing in my ears. October 24th. Was that today? How could I not remember? Why? No. I felt a rush of something much more than grief. It was despair.

"...Are you still there? To delete this message, press 7..."

I pressed 7.


********

I know that this was short, but I am doing so many other things right now. Maybe it's good to get it out in short little spurts.

Entry Fifty-Six BUS STORIES ENTRY

Time to get this posted like I said I would months ago.

I really with I had more time to work on this.

"Bus Stories"


I jolted awake. Like I had been plummeting from some height and landed with a fwump on my own mattress. I remembered nothing of the dream. I could have been falling, or perhaps drowning. I was out of breath. And afraid. The fear was tangible and foreboding. It came from somewhere deep inside. I lay there with my eyes shut tight. Bright sunlight tried with minimal success to break through their barrier. When I finally cracked my lids, the light was blinding. I gasped, groaned and rolled over, trying to avoid it. In my attempts, I met something soft and warm. Blinking several times I took in my surroundings. There was a man in the bed next to me. The pristine white sheets clashed against his modestly tan skin. His face was turned slightly so that I could see every feature. His small nose that seemed so ill-proportioned to the rest of him. His square jaw off-setting his lips. And dark eyebrows. Just like his hair. It was inky black and splashed against his forehead. It made feathery patterns on the ivory pillow upon which his head rested. I knew every contour and line of his face and body. I felt the cool reassurance of the ring on my finger reminding me of the eternal bond I had forged with this man.

“William.”

I spoke his name aloud. A murmur…a prayer even. I reached out my hand to trace his jaw. My fingers trembled, stopping millimeters from his face. I didn’t want to wake him. I didn’t want to break the spell. He looked so peaceful, so perfect.
As if he could feel my nearness, he stirred, inhaling deeply. First he squeezed his eyelids tight. Then one peeked open, peering up at me. Once it assessed the situation, the other one followed suite. Both eyes were open now and staring into mine, clouded with sleep. As gray and deep as always. Those eyes reminded me of winter. Not the blinding white, but cold slate December days that were fuzzy around the edges. Warm quilts and steaming mugs of coco. Hickory fires crackling. I could easily get lost in those eyes. Then William spoke, breaking the spell.

“How long have you been up?” He stretched, his arms muscles going taut. His feet extend out of the comforter and his toes curled.

“Not long,” was my answer. Though I could have been watching hi for hours. “I’ve been watching you sleep.”

He smiled. Teeth showing. A rare site-He hated his smile.

“You know I hate it when you do that,” he teased.

Something went off in my mind. A stab of pain accompanied by the brief flash of an image across my vision. William dead and bloodied. It was enough to make me pull in a breath sharply through my teeth.

“Hey, what is it? Becca?” Williams voice resonated with concern. He reached out and put a hand to my face. When I looked at him, I saw that his eyes had lost all the fogginess. They were alert. Searching.

“Nothing.” Only a dream. Nothing to worry about. As always, he was a mind reader.

“You’ve had another nightmare, haven’t you?” I did not meet his gaze which never left my face. Had I? What had I been dreaming? I suppose it must have been frightening to produce such a grim image. A horrible alternate world where things weren’t as they should be. I looked out the window. The sun shone in. Too bright. I squinted against the garishness of it. The light reflected off my hand. Off my wedding ring. It threw rainbows on the wall. Rich color. Every single one on the spectrum was visible. ROY G BIV.

“Becca?” He said my name so tenderly that it sent a hollow ache through every single bone in my body. Why? What was this pain? Suddenly he was standing at the foot of the bed. All physical contact broken.

“Will? Don’t.” The words that escaped me were desperate.

“Don’t what, babe?” He smiled again. But this time it was not bright or reassuring. It seemed almost patronizing. Like I was overreacting.

“Don’t go. Please.” The hollow ache reached my throat and the words were almost a sob.

“I’m just going to check on Mikey,” he assured me. The name of our little boy sent a peculiar shock through me. As if I was surprised. What were these feelings? To confirm his task necessary, a soft cry reached my ears from what seemed to be a great distance…

…And then I was awake. All brightness gone. The cry still ringing in my ears and Williams face still imprinted on the inside of my eyelids. The ache I had felt seconds before became an overwhelming grief. I had been dreaming. Of course I had. Dreams were always too bright. Colors too vibrant. Real life was all gray, dark and cold. The complete opposite of the world I had just been in. I rolled over and squeezed my eyes tighter. Not against light this time but against reality. Maybe I could fall back into the dream. Maybe I could have a few more moments with Will and Mikey. Tears leaked out and dampened my pillow. I bit my lip against a sob.

Get a grip, Becca. You need to make it through this day. And the next, and the next. One day at a time.

This internal voice was both encouraging and reprimanding. I tried to listen. But another voice inside scoffed.

What’s the point?

Yes. What was the point? Why had I gone so long without them? Why hadn’t I ended this pain years ago?

I shook my head, trying to clear it. I shouldn’t think that way. Suicide was not the answer. Remnants of the dream rose to the forefront of my thoughts. The ring. Will’s face, his eyes. And the phrase, “You know I hate it when you do that.”. Those had been that last words my husband ever said to me.

(A section of writing is missing here. Part of it is written in a previous blog post. Entry seventeen (the car accident). I will get to this later. Writing is NOT linear.)


LATER
Awareness begins to descend upon you again. Slowly. Awareness has taken a sleeping pill. Thoughts begin to swirl in your mind in a garbled, haphazard way. You try to sort through them and focus on the important ones. You want to prod awareness with a hot poker to get it moving. Eventually you are able to wonder, “Where am I?” This is promptly followed by “what happened?” and “am I dead?” Once awareness of mind is achieved, awareness of body races to catch up. You wonder if the part of the body that distinguishes direction (somewhere in the ear maybe?) decided to sit this one out. You think you are lying down. That would make sense. Who is ever unconscious standing up? Soon you feel your eyes. Lids closed. At the same time, sound enters the equation. Eyes distinguish darkness with random intermittent scrolls of lighter darkness. Ears hear a constant rush/hum (a white noise sound) interrupted by an occasional rumble and clatter. Some part of you is aware of perpetual motion. The sounds touch a memory far in the recesses of your mind. It invites images of plastic lunchboxes, wooden pencils (specifically not the mechanical kind), and Lisa Frank notebooks. Grade school. School, movement, the smell (your nose joins the fray and lends a hand) of fake plastic leather…

A school bus. It had to be. Where else in the world could you find that smell. The scent of 11 years of cramped, negative nostalgia. Wow. Kudos to your five senses for working that out. Why though? How did you end up on a school bus? Suddenly, your pain senses flare. Sharp stabbing pains assail your head. Only your head. The left side. Each time the lighter darkness occurs it intensifies. You move your head, trying to escape to agony. The pain is causing your stomach o protest. You really don't want your sense of taste to be agonized by vomiting. Close by someone gasps.

“I think she’s awake!” is the excited whisper that follows. You feel a hand gently rest on your forehead. The fingers are cool and feel good on your noticeably hot skin. The hand is small. There is a brief scuffling, the sound of hurried movement. Many voices join the one. Your confused senses don’t distinguish any specific phrases. Only muttering like the babbling of a water fountain. You open your eyes at the risk of increasing your pain. Half a dozen blurry faces are bent over you. You try, but can’t really bring any one of them into focus. You groan as another wave of nausea ripples through you.

“C’mon everyone, give her some air,” says a voice. It’s fuzzy. Like you’re ears are filled with water. You decide that the pain in your head must be the cause of your senses garbled reception. The pain and nausea reach a peak and your body decides to, rather than deal with it, pass out again. Everything goes dark.






Hours, possibly days later I was aware of a steady beeping sound. One that I knew well. The first time I’d hear it the man in white told me I’d lost the two most important things in my life. The second time, I had overdosed on an antidepressant. I guess I must have hurt myself again to be in the hospital. When I opened my eyes, everything came into sharp focus. A relief from the fuzziness of the bus. The room was dimly lit. The sheets white. I had one of those nasal oxygen tubes jammed up my nostrils. First instinct? Rip it out. Reason told me that might not be the best idea. Instead, I took in more of my surroundings. Typical hospital room. One that you might see in movies or soap operas. There were monitoring devices to my left where the beeping originated from. There was a TV attached to the wall in one corner. There was a window on the right wall. The blinds were closed. What time of day was it? I was covered in sheer white sheets.

Alright. I knew where I was now. What was my physical status? I began to move each individual part of my body. Checking for pain. Except for a little stiffness, there was nothing out of place. I remembered the pain on the bus and I reached my hand up to touch my head (I became aware of the needle inserted into my skin sending fluids throughout my body and shudder. I hated IV's). My fingers traveled from the left to the right side of my scalp. I applied pressure.

There was the pain. I winced and sucked breath through me teeth in a cobra-like hiss. My hand dropped. The pain didn’t though. The intensity of it was nothing close to what it had been on the bus, but it was there. So I had been injured. Finally, something tied these two experiences together.

From the shadowy right corner of the room, something stirred. There was a chair, and in the chair sat a figure. How had I missed that in my previous inventory seconds before? I squinted in an attempt to ascertain who it was that accompanied me. The poor lighting made that almost impossible. I could see it was a man. He was slouched over. I listened closely and I could hear his slow breathing. I cleared my throat. Nothing happened. I tried again. Louder.

Ouch. That was a bad idea. The pain worsened. And my throat was so dry.

Still nothing happened. Perhaps he was a statue. I contented myself with listening to his breathing. I matched his breathing with my own. Some strange internal urge to be in unison, like my head would explode if we were out of rhythm. At first it was uncomfortable. He was breathing so slow. Eventually it became easy and natural. We breathed a little chorus together, and at times, the ECG took up a descant. Beeping in to match our pace. I could have laid like that for hours. Or days. Time decided to render itself unnecessary. But at some point, we were rudely interrupted.

A man in white entered the room. He was complete with stethoscope and clipboard, which he was currently pouring over. In a moment, he looked up and our eyes met. His widened and his face went slack. I thought he was going to drop his clipboard. It seemed like the thing to do when you look that surprised.

Then he did. The clatter it made on the floor startled the figure in the corner who almost fell out of his chair. This short Rube Goldberg machine reaction was almost enough to make me laugh. Unfortunately, the doctors surprise was more than a little out of place.

He retrieved his clipboard, and the dark figure straightened up, moving his arm in a wiping motion across his shadow obscured face. Had he been drooling?

The doctor shook his head.

"Sorry, Mrs. Brighton. I just...I didn't. Well, you're awake! That's wonderful! It's good to see you again!"

Mrs. Brighton. As much as it shouldn't, the title stung. I observed the surprised man in front of me. He was tall and thin with a kind face and hair that reminded me of an English sheepdog. Shaggy, tousled, and of similar color. His washed denim eyes looked at me with nothing short of awe and amazement. He kept looking at his chart, then at me again. Then he would shake his head. It got to be bothersome.

"Um, Doc? Am I missing something?"

He looked at me again, this time slightly uncomfortable.

"Missing something? No. No not at all, I mean that is, well..."

He searched for the right words.

"We weren't expecting you to wake up."

He waited for my response. I have to admit, it wasn't all that spectacular. I sat there. Thought about his words. They weren't expecting me to wake up. Well I did, so, there was nothing to worry about, right?

"What happened?" It was the only question I could come up with.

Doc looked at the man in the shadows. For permission? I looked at shadow-man as well. Saw him shrug. doc looked back at me.

"You were in a motor vehicle accident. You don't remember?"

No. I didn't. Vehicle accident? I guess that would explain the head injury. How bad? Must have been bad for them to think that I wasn't going to wake up.

"You were driving a blue Saturn. You were hit by another driver. Out on route K."

Then I did remember. I regressed, actually. I closed my eyes and everything was bright flashes and loud noise. Screeching metal, explosions ripping into my ears. Pain, blood, memory...horrible memory. Because he had been there. Right there next to me. Alive and smiling...

..."You know I hate it when you do that." And then fire and pain. A pain that would never leave. The doctor had come in. Looking grave. And I had asked...

...The words came out before I could stop them. "Is Will okay?"

I opened my eyes and the man in white was just looking at me.

"Will? I'm sorry, who are you talking about?" He looked at shadow-man again, who shrugged. As uninformative as he was indistinguishable.

I shook my head. Stupid. The brain pain was there again. From the injury.

"Ow...No. I'm...I'm sorry. I was just confused..."

The doctor looked at me closely. Took several steps forward. "Miss Brighton, what day is it?"

I thought for a moment. For a second there I had been 7 years earlier. I thought some more and then responded with, "October 24th, 2009?" That was the day I had been driving. The day I had felt the pain again. The good kind. The kind that made every other inner pain go away.

Doc shook his head. "It's November 5th. You had your accident 12 days ago."


OKAY! I know this is a bad spot. But I have to stop somewhere or I am NEVER going to stop and post anything. It will just get longer and longer and thenget forgotten and no one will want to read it because it is so long.

See what I mean? I ramble.

Done now.

Entry Fifty-Five

Thank goodness for outlets.

I am a little annoyed at people who talk on their cell phones in the library. Especially one that has a no cell phone on policy.

"Oh, you don't always die from tobacco. Sometimes you just lose a lung. Oh, you don't always die from tobacco. Sometimes they just snip off your tongue. And you wont sing worth a heck with a big hole in your neck. oh, you don't always die from tobacco."

I really like that commercial.

Is that language really necessary? I don't think so. I cannot stand it.

Editing is hard work.

That is all I have to say.

Also, it is good to see old friends but weird when you had a dream about them recently.

What is my real life going to be like? How many times can I ask that question?