Entry Ninety-Six

Second entry in the story "The Wicker Chair from Downstairs". Enjoy!

Sunday January 4, 2009

Have I mentioned that I'm still in the hospital? Yeah. They want to keep me here and see how well I progress physically. They think that if I make enough progress, that shows I'm strong enough for surgery. They say that they might be able to reverse everything. They are promising my parents a miracle. I know they are lying and the only reason they want to keep me here is so they can suck more money out of my family.

Mom and Dad are in a hotel just down the road, even though they only live 10 minutes from the hospital anyway. More money. They are paying for this ridiculous shrink. More money. The are also paying for Mr. "positive reinforcement will heal anything". More money.

Why don't they just let me be? Let me sit in some darkened room with a telescope by my window. Like that one Hitchcock movie. Whatever it was called. I could become the worlds creepiest peeping Tom and witness a murder or something. Watch the married woman across the street undress. That kind of thing.

It sure beats spending everything you own on things that aren't going to make a difference. Maybe they are spending the rest of my college fund. I find that acceptable. What am I going to do with my life in a wheelchair anyway? Certainly not anything I was planning on doing before.

I don't know you well enough, PhD, to trust you with what my dreams used to be. So don't even ask.

You want something honest? I don't want to be here anymore in this place of crushed hope. How many people praying for a miracle actually get it?

My parents go to a Christian church. I used to go when I was a kid, enchanted by the idea of God and his wish granting power. Convinced that he was this all powerful being like a super hero. Then, like finding out Santa Clause wasn't real, I found out that God wasn't much more than the dream of the hopeful. So when I was 14 and crafty enough to get away with it I started skipping out on Sunday School. When I was 16 I stopped going to church all together except for Christmas and Easter where it was easier to attend than to endure the death stares of my mother.

So imagine my surprise and displeasure when this young guy in a suite and tie comes in and announces that he is Pastor Franks and he has come to pray for me.

I less than politely declined, using some choice words that no doubt sullied my already darkened soul.

The guy only smiled.

He's one of those young pastors. Like an assistant pastor or something. He takes over when the crinkly dude, the guy I remember being old when I was a kid- Pastor…Old Guy, or whatever his name is-finally kicks it. I bet my parents asked for him hoping he could "identify" with me. Reach me because he still has some semblance of youth. He looks maybe in his early 30's.

And he just smiled.

He says that he is here at the request of my parents. They care about me very much.

"So what?" I say. "Are they expecting God to grant them a wish then? Is he going to give them their miracle just because you came here and said hallelujah?"

Then he goes into this speech about how just because I don't believe God can't help me doesn't mean that my parents don't. It also doesn't mean that he WONT help. Whatever.

I try to ignore him and hope that he goes away but he keeps asking me questions. You would think he was a shrink!

Why does everyone want to help me? What do they think they can do? Cure me? Make things better? Say a magic word and make it all disappear?

I tell you what, you show me a time machine that can help me change the past and MAYBE I'll consider changing my attitude.