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Description
7.11

I woke up on what had to be the hottest day of the summer and it was only the beginning of July. I remember grinning as I realized that I didn’t have to go to church that day. I was raised in a very religious household, my mom and dad apparently had found god when I was around 4 or 5. So, ever since then I was dragged to church every Sunday and force-fed theological misconceptions and other biblical nonsense. Is my resentment of organized religion apparent? I apologize; we’ll look at that later.

My first order of business that day was laundry. It had been about two weeks since my last load and I was down to white t-shirts and ratty old jeans. I rolled out of bed and made my way to the kitchen making as much noise as possible. I wanted to make sure I had awoken my brother and sister. I’m sure you’ll inquire as to why I would disturb their Sunday morning slumber. Well I’d be more than happy to inform you of my reason for this action. Since I had declared my abstinence from church, they had attempted to hijack my flagship. When I was their age I wasn’t afforded the luxury of a choice; why should they get one now? If I was forced to accept these unwanted passengers on my ship of independence I would make it the most uncomfortable ride ever. That laundry basket was quite heavy as I recall, filled with weeks of clothing.

Someone had turned off the air conditioner. It may have been my mother. Thinking about it now, I guess that may have been one of the reasons for her allowing me to welsh on my church attendance. She had been quite preoccupied as of late. Her friend was in remission from brain cancer when it came back suddenly. You know, I hadn’t really thought about that before; I just thought it was cool that I got to stay home. My father still attended church regularly and was an usher. He was all into the spirituality of it and everything. I was happy that he found something that gave him joy; besides his family of course! I just would have like for him to find something else. Does that seem selfish? I guess you could consider it to be selfish. I’ll let you decide for yourself.

I finished separating my clothes and put a load in the washing machine. This is going to take all day, I thought as my agitation grew. This was supposed to be a day of relaxation wasn’t it? Didn’t someone write that in some book? Isn’t it funny how these things don’t work out how we want them to? Whatever. Let’s just get this done, I thought, as I poured a bowl of cereal. (I think it was Captain Crunch. It’s not true what they say by the way, it does not cut the roof of your mouth.) The door bell rang as I shoveled another spoonful of the wonderful crunchiness into my mouth. God damn it, I shouted. Why can’t people just leave me alone? Wow, I used to get angry at the drop of a hat. I must have been really annoying to be around. Maybe that’s why I didn’t have a large group of friends, and still don’t.

I opened the door and there were two women standing outside. They were from the church and according to the clock on the wall; the service still had another hour to go. I smiled and asked if I could help them and joked that I hoped they weren’t here to drag me to church. Neither woman liked that last comment. They seemed to be anxious and the woman on the right spoke first. She told me there was an incident during the church service and my father had passed out in the aisle. They had come to take me, my brother and sister to the hospital so we could see him. I shook my head as I felt a small twinge of fear begin to well up inside me. Perhaps it had got too hot in the building causing him to pass out. His side of the family has a history of heart problems; hell I probably have some of them too. When I was five years old he had quadruple bypass surgery, but was living a very healthy life. Which is why I say only a small inkling of fear resided in me at the moment – he wasn’t in dire straits. I asked them to come inside, and have a seat as I went to wake my brother and sister. Immediately my sister started crying. I looked at her confused and reassured her that everything was alright. I wasn’t lying; this is what I was told. I’m just relaying the message. Why is she attacking the messenger? I shook my head and went to my brother’s room to wake him up. The three of us go dressed and headed to the hospital with the women from church.

The hospital is only about 10 minutes from my house, but the ride seemed to last forever. Not a word was spoken between the five occupants of the vehicle. I remember thinking what the hell is going on? Why is everyone so morose? He just passed out, take it easy. Am I being insensitive? We weren’t able to contact our mother as of yet, she was in the city at a hospital as well. “Perhaps that’s why they are uneasy; our mother isn’t nearby.” We were let out into the emergency room. My brother and sister sat down and the women gave each of them a can of soda. That’s when I took a step back from the situation. Why was he taken to the emergency room for fainting? Is there something going on that they’re not telling us? I was scared and angry. Not a good combination. I knew I had to restrain both my fear and my anger because I did not want to upset my brother and sister further. We waited for hours – at least 2 hours – before someone came out to us. They had finally contacted my mother and she had got in a cab and was on her way to the hospital, but a cab ride from lower Manhattan to the northeast Bronx takes a while.

One of the doors to the patient area in the emergency room swung open and a man, one of the deacons from the church, came out and walked towards me. I was standing near a window on the other side of the waiting room contemplating the situation. He approached me and spoke softly, asking me to walk with him into the back. At this point I was certain they were going to tell me that my father had suffered a minor heart attack or that he was still unconscious. My blood pressure rose with each step we took together. I was furious that they would keep this from me for so long, make us wait while they kept this knowledge hidden. Yet, I still don’t know exactly what was going on. My mind was racing and I didn’t even stop to think that perhaps there was a reason for all of this. We finally reached a small examination room and as he opened the door I saw a room full of people. It looked to be entire body of church elders, sitting in one room, waiting for me to come. I was stunned. What could they possibly want? This was getting ridiculous. Was my presence in church needed so much that all of this had to happen? I shook their hands and sat down, wondering what was going on. Was I being naïve? Did I just keep the truth from myself? To this day I’m still uncertain if I was aware of the gravity of the situation.

Each of them spoke to me, giving me ‘a word of wisdom’ and little tidbits of advice. More than once I corrected them on a quote they mangled or a bible verse they misinterpreted. Finally it became too much to bear, I needed to know what was going on. Just as I started getting restless, a doctor entered the room. I was relieved. I remember standing up to shake his hand and he just looked at me with the most severe, stern, somber eyes I have ever seen and then walked off. Here I am waiting to hear news that is vital to my life and the doctor, the sole person who possesses this knowledge can’t vocalize it. I felt my heart explode in terror, rage and sorrow. I must have looked liked a mania. I heard a scream, I don’t know if it was a nurse or if it was someone else. Was it me? Where am I? I heard glass shattering and then it was quiet. I blinked and saw blood. The mirror behind me was shattered, my hand was gushing blood and I was sobbing uncontrollably.

I still don’t know what really happened in that room. Why did they let me hit the mirror? There were five full grown men in that room. I looked around through tears and sweat and saw each of them looking back at me, reflecting my sadness and echoing cries of pain. I never realized how vivid this memory is. A memory is the most important link we can have to our past; a snapshot of the past taken by the camera of our mind’s eye. It reminds us who we are, defines our development and can teach us a lesson. However, over the years those snapshots can deteriorate or become clouded with the dust of time. Sometimes, it is important to revisit our memories and reflect on them, to clear the dust and hold on to the ones that mean the most. For years I’ve struggled with the memory of this day. As I’m writing I can feel my head spinning and my knuckles throbbing, remembering the blow. I’m drawing on that pain, that memory, using it as fuel to power my hand through this process. Unlike that doctor, I have not held back any knowledge, whatever I have dredged from the depths of my mind I have shared with you; shared with myself.

I looked up at the wall and saw a calendar. I remember it being odd because it was a desktop calendar, but it was mounted on the wall. The date was clearly visible; perhaps it’s even more visible now that the sweat and tears have cleared. July 11, 2001. The day my father died. This is the first time in five years that I’m able to reflect on that day in so much detail. I have had to draw the energy from the depths of my soul to complete this piece. I realize the power I have, the power any writer has, to reflect and reconstruct a moment, to allow others to share an experience and to allow all those involved to grow.

Description
7.11

I woke up on what had to be the hottest day of the summer and it was only the beginning of July. I remember grinning as I realized that I didn’t have to go to church that day. I was raised in a very religious household, my mom and dad apparently had found god when I was around 4 or 5. So, ever since then I was dragged to church every Sunday and force-fed theological misconceptions and other biblical nonsense. Is my resentment of organized religion apparent? I apologize; we’ll look at that later.

My first order of business that day was laundry. It had been about two weeks since my last load and I was down to white t-shirts and ratty old jeans. I rolled out of bed and made my way to the kitchen making as much noise as possible. I wanted to make sure I had awoken my brother and sister. I’m sure you’ll inquire as to why I would disturb their Sunday morning slumber. Well I’d be more than happy to inform you of my reason for this action. Since I had declared my abstinence from church, they had attempted to hijack my flagship. When I was their age I wasn’t afforded the luxury of a choice; why should they get one now? If I was forced to accept these unwanted passengers on my ship of independence I would make it the most uncomfortable ride ever. That laundry basket was quite heavy as I recall, filled with weeks of clothing.

Someone had turned off the air conditioner. It may have been my mother. Thinking about it now, I guess that may have been one of the reasons for her allowing me to welsh on my church attendance. She had been quite preoccupied as of late. Her friend was in remission from brain cancer when it came back suddenly. You know, I hadn’t really thought about that before; I just thought it was cool that I got to stay home. My father still attended church regularly and was an usher. He was all into the spirituality of it and everything. I was happy that he found something that gave him joy; besides his family of course! I just would have like for him to find something else. Does that seem selfish? I guess you could consider it to be selfish. I’ll let you decide for yourself.

I finished separating my clothes and put a load in the washing machine. This is going to take all day, I thought as my agitation grew. This was supposed to be a day of relaxation wasn’t it? Didn’t someone write that in some book? Isn’t it funny how these things don’t work out how we want them to? Whatever. Let’s just get this done, I thought, as I poured a bowl of cereal. (I think it was Captain Crunch. It’s not true what they say by the way, it does not cut the roof of your mouth.) The door bell rang as I shoveled another spoonful of the wonderful crunchiness into my mouth. God damn it, I shouted. Why can’t people just leave me alone? Wow, I used to get angry at the drop of a hat. I must have been really annoying to be around. Maybe that’s why I didn’t have a large group of friends, and still don’t.

I opened the door and there were two women standing outside. They were from the church and according to the clock on the wall; the service still had another hour to go. I smiled and asked if I could help them and joked that I hoped they weren’t here to drag me to church. Neither woman liked that last comment. They seemed to be anxious and the woman on the right spoke first. She told me there was an incident during the church service and my father had passed out in the aisle. They had come to take me, my brother and sister to the hospital so we could see him. I shook my head as I felt a small twinge of fear begin to well up inside me. Perhaps it had got too hot in the building causing him to pass out. His side of the family has a history of heart problems; hell I probably have some of them too. When I was five years old he had quadruple bypass surgery, but was living a very healthy life. Which is why I say only a small inkling of fear resided in me at the moment – he wasn’t in dire straits. I asked them to come inside, and have a seat as I went to wake my brother and sister. Immediately my sister started crying. I looked at her confused and reassured her that everything was alright. I wasn’t lying; this is what I was told. I’m just relaying the message. Why is she attacking the messenger? I shook my head and went to my brother’s room to wake him up. The three of us go dressed and headed to the hospital with the women from church.

The hospital is only about 10 minutes from my house, but the ride seemed to last forever. Not a word was spoken between the five occupants of the vehicle. I remember thinking what the hell is going on? Why is everyone so morose? He just passed out, take it easy. Am I being insensitive? We weren’t able to contact our mother as of yet, she was in the city at a hospital as well. “Perhaps that’s why they are uneasy; our mother isn’t nearby.” We were let out into the emergency room. My brother and sister sat down and the women gave each of them a can of soda. That’s when I took a step back from the situation. Why was he taken to the emergency room for fainting? Is there something going on that they’re not telling us? I was scared and angry. Not a good combination. I knew I had to restrain both my fear and my anger because I did not want to upset my brother and sister further. We waited for hours – at least 2 hours – before someone came out to us. They had finally contacted my mother and she had got in a cab and was on her way to the hospital, but a cab ride from lower Manhattan to the northeast Bronx takes a while.

One of the doors to the patient area in the emergency room swung open and a man, one of the deacons from the church, came out and walked towards me. I was standing near a window on the other side of the waiting room contemplating the situation. He approached me and spoke softly, asking me to walk with him into the back. At this point I was certain they were going to tell me that my father had suffered a minor heart attack or that he was still unconscious. My blood pressure rose with each step we took together. I was furious that they would keep this from me for so long, make us wait while they kept this knowledge hidden. Yet, I still don’t know exactly what was going on. My mind was racing and I didn’t even stop to think that perhaps there was a reason for all of this. We finally reached a small examination room and as he opened the door I saw a room full of people. It looked to be entire body of church elders, sitting in one room, waiting for me to come. I was stunned. What could they possibly want? This was getting ridiculous. Was my presence in church needed so much that all of this had to happen? I shook their hands and sat down, wondering what was going on. Was I being naïve? Did I just keep the truth from myself? To this day I’m still uncertain if I was aware of the gravity of the situation.

Each of them spoke to me, giving me ‘a word of wisdom’ and little tidbits of advice. More than once I corrected them on a quote they mangled or a bible verse they misinterpreted. Finally it became too much to bear, I needed to know what was going on. Just as I started getting restless, a doctor entered the room. I was relieved. I remember standing up to shake his hand and he just looked at me with the most severe, stern, somber eyes I have ever seen and then walked off. Here I am waiting to hear news that is vital to my life and the doctor, the sole person who possesses this knowledge can’t vocalize it. I felt my heart explode in terror, rage and sorrow. I must have looked liked a mania. I heard a scream, I don’t know if it was a nurse or if it was someone else. Was it me? Where am I? I heard glass shattering and then it was quiet. I blinked and saw blood. The mirror behind me was shattered, my hand was gushing blood and I was sobbing uncontrollably.

I still don’t know what really happened in that room. Why did they let me hit the mirror? There were five full grown men in that room. I looked around through tears and sweat and saw each of them looking back at me, reflecting my sadness and echoing cries of pain. I never realized how vivid this memory is. A memory is the most important link we can have to our past; a snapshot of the past taken by the camera of our mind’s eye. It reminds us who we are, defines our development and can teach us a lesson. However, over the years those snapshots can deteriorate or become clouded with the dust of time. Sometimes, it is important to revisit our memories and reflect on them, to clear the dust and hold on to the ones that mean the most. For years I’ve struggled with the memory of this day. As I’m writing I can feel my head spinning and my knuckles throbbing, remembering the blow. I’m drawing on that pain, that memory, using it as fuel to power my hand through this process. Unlike that doctor, I have not held back any knowledge, whatever I have dredged from the depths of my mind I have shared with you; shared with myself.

I looked up at the wall and saw a calendar. I remember it being odd because it was a desktop calendar, but it was mounted on the wall. The date was clearly visible; perhaps it’s even more visible now that the sweat and tears have cleared. July 11, 2001. The day my father died. This is the first time in five years that I’m able to reflect on that day in so much detail. I have had to draw the energy from the depths of my soul to complete this piece. I realize the power I have, the power any writer has, to reflect and reconstruct a moment, to allow others to share an experience and to allow all those involved to grow.