I have found myself in the clutches of Death three times now. That’s not something I am proud of, but it is something I am completely aware of. My father has also stood on that very doormat three times, but upon his third knock, Death allowed passage through its threshold.
Isn’t it odd, though? How Death leaves its stench when you stand in the same room?
My recent car accident left my leg dislocated and disgusting. The hospital said they sedated me to put it back in place, but strange things happened. I awoke in a dark room, gasping for air, and yelling that someone was chasing me. The only woman left in the room (from a crowd that was there) calmed me and had me taking deep breaths. Later, someone informed me that I’d stopped breathing for 2-3 minutes. I just stopped. Not held my breath. I stopped. Everyone behaved as if it were normal, so at the time, so did I. The first night, I was on so many machines, I was hoping to become bionic. Sore, bruised, and confused I didn’t think much of the heart monitor and the overnight stays.
Now that I have recovered greatly, a couple of things were on mind: I remember what happened when I was “under,” and at least I would’ve been wearing nice clothes and clean underwear like mom always warned me to do. When I had to identify my dad’s body, he was wearing what he always wore–white, coffee stained shirt with the collar cut so it wouldn’t feel like it choked him. His hair was still long and a mess, although the last time I saw him, I fussed at him to get it cleaned up. That was a hard day. The hardest so far.
There really isn’t a point to this blog. No soulful inspiration. Just my slightly morbid thinking while I am folding laundry. Which shirt would I not mind relinquishing to my demise? Why does it matter? Dark days for me lately. And to think, it’s almost my birthday.