Better Out Than In (Thank You Thursday)

I kissed the top of his head last night, the only spot above the neck where he doesn’t feel compelled to wipe my kisses away immediately. “I wanted to thank you for taking care of me when I was in so much pain.” He rolls his eyes, doesn’t believe me, continues to look at me as he waits for me to finish. “I know that I’ve been angry and mean these past few weeks, but I realize that you took care of me the best that you could.” He waits a second to see if I am finished, nods, turns the volume on the TV back on.

2002: We sat together on a bench on our back deck, silently smoking. I am crying because he is moving out, even though I asked him to go. We have lived together since 1988. “I don’t make you happy.” he states. I open my mouth to argue but it’s true. I exhale loudly. He continues “That other man that you are in love with, he is going to step forward once I am gone, and you two will be together, you’ll see.” I deny being in love with that other man and he forces me to meet his eyes, “I know you better than anyone and I can tell when you’re in love. It’s okay.” Being that transparent doesn’t feel okay. That other man I was in love with never stepped forward and so I tried unsuccessfully to forget him. I visit Alex at his new apartment where he seems so different, so happy. He mixes me a gin and tonic and he a martini and we fuck so hard on his couch that it flips over. Laughing, we realize it’s almost time to pick up our kids from school. We walk together. He loses his job months later and it makes no sense to try to support two households and have me paying for childcare when Alex can do it for free.

1987: Alex kisses me in the pouring rain downtown, my red lipstick smearing all over his face. He presents me with a ring that eventually turns my finger bright green. I wear it anyway. He and I snort crank and cocaine, smoke endless bowls of green bud, and he talks incessantly about how intrigued he is with me, how he can’t put it into words. He seems so earnest. He hasn’t had his heart broken yet.

1988: He has left me for someone else, someone better. She is older and prettier and has a car and a college education. He calls me every few months to see if I am dead yet. That’s what he says when I answer the phone and it makes me laugh. I miss him.

Fall 1988: He is homeless. I let him move into the basement I am living in. I have an old mattress on the floor and when it rains water flows from the cracks in the walls. I ignore the rain but study the mushrooms that grow from the cracks with genuine curiosity. He is still dating his girlfriend and as I watch from the mattress he irons his khakis, applies his favorite cologne and slicks back his hair. He pulls out part of the dope stash and divides it in half. We snort out lines off of an airplane window that I bought at a yard sale for a buck and a quarter and he instructs me on when to do the rest of my half if he doesn’t come home in time for the next dose.

February 1989: Alex’s relationship with that other girl is over and we share the mattress and blankets on the floor for warmth. Sometimes he holds my hand as we try to sleep. Having bonded over pharmaceuticals and a shared knowledge and subsequent secret keeping of various crimes we have committed to feed our habit we reach the fork in the road. We knew the jig was up. We make a pact to go all out with the rest of our money to do as many drugs as we can afford on Valentine’s Day and then go cold turkey. I watch him surveying the packets of white powder, the bags of weed; a case of Stroh’s beer sits against his leg. I picked out the case because it was a bonus pack, a steal with 27 cans instead of 24. The cigarette situation is in good shape. Chopping out the lines he looks up at me and says, “Sorry I didn’t have enough to get you any roses or something”, I shrug him off and reach for the tooter.

Years later he told me that the reason he always gave me the first line of anything we bought was in case I died or had some other reaction. That way he knew if I lived it was safe to snort Years later, I laughed about that: sick, twisted laughter ,but genuine nonetheless.

Last night he told me that the incense I’m always burning gives him a headache. I reached for another stick and held a lighter to the tip, making sure it catches before softly blowing, then placing it in my holder. He has headaches whether I burn incense or not. His doctor has referred to him as a stroke waiting to happen because he can’t get his blood pressure down. He holds his head as the incense fills the room and mentions something about an aneurism. I ask him about his life insurance and we both laugh.

I’ve had an idea of love, of what being loved should feel like, of this void inside of me that no one would fill. Alex explained to me once, only once, that he loved me very much, but he wasn’t in love with me. He apologized, but for what, really? Can we control our emotions?

After years of Alex asking me to marry him I finally gave in and did it a few years back. I needed health insurance and I married for it. I also wanted to make sure that my end of life plans would be carried out in the way that I wanted them to be. I shuddered to think of my mom Terry Shiavoing the hell out of me, and I knew Alex would pull the plugs himself if need be. I want to have the ability to deal with a terminal illness on my own terms. Doctor assisted suicide is legal here in Oregon. As much as I love walking through old cemeteries, I don’t feel entitled to take up so much land. There are too many people in the world already, living and dead.

If doctor assisted suicide isn’t available I have a plan to take matters into my own hands.

I don’t wonder about love much anymore. I focus on my kids. I try to do the best I can each day. I fail a lot. I get up and try again.

A few days ago I had been stretched out on my stomach for so many hours in pain such as I’ve never felt before. It takes about fifteen minutes to get out of bed, and that is with the assistance of either Alex or Nathan to help me up, and a cane to help me walk to the bathroom.  I called out for someone and my German Shepherd Maggie ran over and licked me. No one came.

I cried, finally, a long deep cry. Alex came home; he had been to the bank and to the store. He came face to face with me and smiled, “What’s up? The pain is that bad?” he asked, referring to my tear stained face. I made him shut the door before I whispered to him that it was time. I was ready to take matters into my own hands, the pills weren’t working, and I couldn’t go on another minute.

I was ready to act on my plan to end my own life, but it was more complicated than it had been in my head. I was stuck on my stomach upstairs in the house my children called home. Having gone over my father’s suicide a million or two times I wanted mine to be perfect. I didn’t want it to take place at home and I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t found by a loved one, because that picture follows you forever.

Babbling to Alex last minute changes in plan he said that it wasn’t my time. He recommended sleeping through the pain, and a shot of whiskey with my meds. Every solution he has seems to start with a shot of whiskey, and I’ve seen my mom nod her head gravely when she hears him, for that was the way my grandfather had taught her to deal with each and everything life sent her way.

I had to pee, and there were stairs. The trip down took a year or two and when my ass hit that seat I screamed out unexpectedly as the fire shot straight up my back. A bite of yogurt, pills, water, shot of J&B, sleeping pills, heating pad, pillows, blankets, cold washcloth and the rest came a long breathless time later. I continued this cycle over the days, vomit bucket beside my head, until I didn’t know the day month or year.

Now I can walk a bit.  And on I go.