It has been nearly a year ago, that I walked into an isolated hospital room, a far distance from our home, vacated and alone, most likely enjoying the solitude. I walked to a bed centered in the middle of the room. Beside me stood Steve my brother-in law, Ellen my mother-in-law, and my 10 year old adopted daughter Jessica.
As I looked upon the bed, before me laid my once beautiful wife, lying motionless, shriveled up, a mere skeleton painted mid layers of mustard yellow. Her once large gorgeous blue-green eyes, now stigmas of saffron, appeared lifeless, full of unconcern or sense of direction. Beside the bed stood a rather stout form, dressed in a doctor’s gown.
My wife Laura, managing a smile, though slight, seemed lifeless with little emotion or awareness.
I moved closer to the doctor and asked him to be honest with me. We all needed to now exactly what Laura’s changes were and what we had to look forward to.
The doctor looked at me and spoke solidly, “her liver is dead, and she will be dead within a month!”
Suddenly the room turned cold, as I turned quickly toward the nearest corner, away from all eyes, though I could still feel there penetration within me. I lowered my head as my body briefly shuttered. My eyes swelled, but I refused to let them tear, for fear they would not dry. I felt I dared show no weakness, for that has always been my way.
I just stood there as if I had died for several moments. Behind me was nothing but silence. I finally turned back toward my beautiful daughter, and focused my eyes upon her. Her face was sober with no sign of emotion. Neither a tear nor sound. She had known this moment was coming, and she stood strong while deep within her eyes appeared loneliness. I was so proud of her native strength, yet I was concerned of her heart’s spirit.
There was not a lot said for the rest of the time we were there. No one knew of the proper words to say, or maybe no one knew how to say them!
We didn’t stay too long, for Laura needed her rest and could not stay awake. I had to get my mother-in-law home for it was a strain on her health being away from home for any length of time.
As we walked to the car, I stopped for a moment and turned to my daughter. I asked her if she really understood what was happening, and if she knew her mother was going to die. Her eyes swelled as did mine, with a single tear, and replied only one word. “Yes”
Nothing else was said as we drove home. As we arrived at home, my brother-in-law spoke to me saying, “You know it is ok to cry!” I shook my head yes, but I did not, for there are no tears within the dead. For that day I died, but since I have learned to live, hence I have cried!
Confused mid my wonderings why, I had many words to say, but my voice could not speak them.
End of part one
“Next and final chapter “To stay alive – I write”
The Day – A beginning (Chapter 2)
For most of my life, I was always one to say little, but said what I meant when I said it. There were times, during my youthful party days, I said and did many immature things, but when I met my wife, there seemed no longer a need for such childish things.
Being the type of person I was, it was best that I left a lot of my emotions bottled within. Although often, I would eventually explode and have my moments, many I have regretted and others were quite a relief. I was an artist when younger, but working and taking care of my family left little time for such luxuries, so art became another bottled up confusion. I always hated to read, just something that was not in me, unless it was something that challenged my mind, like an adventure to solve, or amazing facts of past, present or visions of future. While I was in high school, I was required to read a couple of books, and being me I choose to read the hardest to read and longest ones I could find. I read “Peace and War” and “Pride and Prejudice” For the very little that I had read, to me these just had to be the best books I ever read and never have I ever forgotten the levels of magnitude within them. I thought to myself, if would ever write, which I seem to have the desire to, this would be the way I would write. But again, writing was not something I had time to explore, so it did not happen. Besides, if I ever did write, I would write from within me and not of others, as I did with my drawings. I did not want to be influenced by other art styles or other famous people’s minds. If these things were to ever be, they would be of me, from within me, and by me, be they good or bad, for my mind is my role model, while my heart seemed always near.
Now that I was becoming of age, and with my whole world and the love within it collapsing, words within me seemed to stretch the limit of my boundaries. My mind needed a place to rest, but yet upon a place that I could see. I needed to write! But where would I write, and what would I write upon. Mere paper seems so fragile, and besides, could the pages withstand me. With all of the tears and sweat upon the pages, would they too suffer! Paper is of decaying wood, while I am of living blood.
And beyond that, not even I would be able to read my own scribbles, for I have had no patience in fine lettering, only for fine ladies.
Upon searching for days, I found such a place, an eternal place it seemed. One that I soon realized, that spoke of and from minds and hearts, such as I needed to be. Many spoke of friendship and offered guidance, things that I had very little use for in the past.
I not only found a place to rest, but I could now rest within legends, not of immortal kinds, but of heartfelt kinds.
A place called The Starlite Café!
Note: next FINALLY! The end of the story!
Or will it be the beginning of me
The Day – I Live
From the very moment that I had heard the doctor say that my love would die, my mind became so confused and lost and filled with a life time of unspoken words. They became overbearing, leaving me unfocused and lost. Upon arriving at home and finding the Starlite, I felt the need to write, seeming unending words.
Most were written in images of my state of mind. Misspelled, confused, beyond reason, and totally lost! A few people started to read them, and saw things that I had not, some criticized me for my total miss use of form, grammar, you name it! But I did not care at that time or was I concerned for my words were written blind, as was I.
I look back at my first writings now, and I say to myself, who was this person that wrote so carelessly. How could I have written so terribly and not seen what I was writing. Then I think back to what state I was in, and suddenly understand. But now the question arises, do I go back and rewrite the lost meanings and confusion to something worthwhile. Or do I let them live as I did in that time. These questions still haunt me.
Upon the welcome news, that my wife was not going to die, or at least had a chance to live, my writings became timid, and I feared my writes were useless, if I did not bow to others wishes and write the way they said I should. I tried to change my style many times, but the words never were mine in my eyes. So instead of speaking of me from within me, I became even more confused and lost while losing ground.
Even now though I try to write directly from my soul, I find myself falling into a trap occasionally trying to please others, destroying a part of me.
I want to write what comes from me and how it comes from me, no matter if it is improper or no one understands. Even I do not understand what comes out of me sometimes, but I still want to write it nevertheless.
I love to explore new words. Actually they are old words that no one seems to care about or maybe most people just would like to settle for simplicity. I myself feel that all words deserve the chance to live, not just die away in some old dusty book.
I guess the whole purpose of this story, is to explain how I got started writing, some of the stages I have gone through so far. And what my plans are for the future. Which are by the way, to do my best to stay within myself and write within my hearts quotes.
And also I might have to go back and read this myself now and then to remind me of who I am.
The one great thing that has come out of my wife’s near death is now I write. I can finally express my feeling and I do not have to fear that no one hears me.
Still remaining is the decision of my old poems, poorly written, misspelled and confused. Do I dare rewrite them, or should I let others see my time of weakness?
Thanks to all for listening and trying to understand…
© 2018, John (Rick) Boyle. All rights reserved.