June 10th is the two-year anniversary of my dad’s death. He battled pancreatic cancer for 10 months before he died. I quit my job to act as his hospice nurse during his last weeks. It was an honor to take care of him, and this challenge came at the perfect time. My dad’s pre-death flashback is a memory I’ll always treasure, and it’s nice to write about it this week.

Road Trippin’

Lydia was the professional hospice nurse who helped me take care of my dad during his last few weeks. She was an amazing, kind soul, and she prepared me for my dad’s death with sincerity and honesty.

She told me, “When the human body is dying and your dad’s organs are failing, strange and scary things might happen. His body is poisoning itself, but his mind will protect him.”

Lydia explained how our mind and our brains are still medical mysteries. There’s so much we don’t understand, but we know our brain protects us from pain. It puts our body into shock so we don’t feel physical pain. It blocks and distorts painful emotional memories, and there’s countless testimonies of people flashing back to their most peaceful and happy moments right before they die.

My dad lost his ability to speak a couple days before he passed away. His hospice bed was in the living room, and my mom and I were mindlessly watching TV in silence with him. Dad couldn’t control his body anymore so his head, arms, hands, and legs jerked around seemingly aimlessly. I’m not sure what caught my attention, but I keyed into the rhythm of his body’s movements and noticed a pattern.

Left foot pressed down.

Right hand made a fist at his hip, and moved left to right.

Right foot pressed down.

Left hand made a circular motion.

Right hand grabbed something and came up to his face.

Left hand made a peace sign and came to his lips.

Repeat.

Over and over.

He was smiling. His lips were mouthing something.

I laughed out loud when I realized what was happening.

“Holy shit, MOM! Dad is drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette in the car right now.”

My mom said, “You can’t let him smoke, Bridgette.”

“No Mom! LOOK! He’s shifting gears, rolling down the window, drinking a beer, and smoking a cigarette. I think he’s singing too.”

And he was.

My dad was flashing back to his happiest moments. He was driving his family to the beach, visiting his construction worksites, singing in his truck, enjoying the sunshine, and blasting the oldies with the windows down.

I got to see my dad smile and sing one last time. He was enjoying a cold beer and a smoke. He was happy, doing something he loved. I’ll never forget that moment. I’m happy to share it with all of you today. Thank you for the prompt :)

It is the fires of hell that call the names of the wicked and lost.

Tormented cries from the lives that denied what happened on the cross.

His blood was shed for the forgiveness of their sins, and yet they said it was a lie.

Tortured by the decisions of their choices and lasting impressions of their lives.

The disposition of grace is like the sand in a hourglass that is quickly dissolving on its own.

The white throne judgment awaits at the gates of his throne.

Heaven or Hell where will you call home?

The sound of thunder calls me to fear.

Awakened, with the desire to find mother nature’s voice.

I stare.

Into the sky until a bolt of lightning leaves no more choice.

Instant peace.

I can hear cries, as I rise.

Staring back at my reflection, paralyzed.

Flashes of light, draw my attention to memories of the past.

Some of them good some of them bad, but only one that lasts.

I’m standing in the darkness with tears on my face as he enters in.

He’s laughing at the site of my tears, as if only evil lives within.

I remember fear as he approached me with hate.

It was my innocence that he was there to take.

As my vision begins to fade and my tears begin to dry.

I can hear a river of innocence whispering that’s a lie.

For your innocence will be restored my son and all that pain is finally done.

I swallowed thirteen pills. One for every year that I’d been alive. It seemed like a lucky number.

My mom made me shove my finger down my throat, which I did. She went back to sleep. I took thirteen more and added one of her muscle relaxers– for luck.

I woke her up. Off to Conway Medical Center we went.

It’s a blur between now and then. There are flashes of my mom lifting my legs into our 2001 Pontiac Montana, a blip of me stumbling through the emergency room parking lot, and fluorescent lights rail-roading above my head as scrubs-clad bodies moved frantically around the hospital bed.

A tube forces its way into my throat. I thought I felt it. But maybe not. The objects in the room melt into one another and the doctors and nurses became a singular entity barking orders and confirmations. Black sludge pushes itself into my body.

As my blinking slows, the images swirled into a void familiar, a listless dreamscape, the somber knowledge of the improvements to be found in my absence, that a loss is not truly a loss, that time heals all wounds– of all this, I am convinced. Across my vision comes a flurry of juvenile faces offering nothing more than bitter accusation, memories of the cuts along my arms, legs, and back made with the knife my mother had been trying to find for weeks, a lonely walk home, a move I never wanted to make, and a box in a little girl's closet filled with presents for when her hero returns.

The scene shifts, unnatural choreography formed within my lulling eye. I see my mother, first fresh faced and young, then weary, then worried, crying in a lonely waiting room, biting the brittle nails she’d worked so hard to grow. I remember, five years prior, when her cousin placed a barrel between his teeth, discovered later by his teenage son. My great-aunt threw herself across the closed coffin, wailing for her baby boy. There was a shrine of him in her home, an aging picture set atop a piano that would never be played again. Was this my fate– a picture hung in a living room, stared at often but discussed little, a too-taut heartstring never to be released?

Slingshot visions pulled me from maternal lamentations and propel me into a place I’d never seen, a place that feels like home, where tiny voices call for me and a calloused hand grazes the length of my cheekbone. I saw my mother’s wrinkled face wash over with peace, and one of the few smiles life allowed her creeping across her cracking lips.

Bright lights come into gentle focus. The medical staff is moving less frantically though the seriousness in their steps remains. The tube is pulled from my throat. I gag, cough, and drift off.

When I wake, my mother is by my side whispering a notion of unconditional love. The doctor comes, informs me of my stability. As discussed, he says, if you tried to do this again, we’d have to watch you for a few days.

Three hours later, two officers appear at my bedside. They clasp my hands and my wrists and escort me to a nearby elevator. As I walk, the metal twists around my ankles. One of the officers takes pity and releases the lower set of cuffs, warning me not to run off. The elevator reaches the bottom floor and the doors open. It is twilight, and there is a police car waiting on the other side of the glass entryway. I’m told to watch my head as I awkwardly shift my body into the backseat.

As the car pulls out of the lot, I think of what I’ve seen and wonder- am I truly to be fixed?

Dear God, what have I done?

This question, above all others, is the one echoing inside my heart, or soul, or whatever this is. I can see myself lying in the road, but worse, I can see Janice. She is half on the sidewalk, half in the roadway, and her neck is bent at an impossibly strange angle. I can only pray that she dies soon. I thought maybe she was dead already, until I saw a tear fall from her eye, and watch her drag in a strangled and tortured breath.

Sweet Jesus.

I follow her gaze, and realize she is staring at my body. I have no doubt I am dead, since the blood and brains that are leaking around my crushed skull are spreading out into the rain-wet street as the first sirens cry in the distance.

I'm suddenly transported backward through time to earlier this evening, like some twisted and cruel version of that Christmas story with the ghosts. I can't remember the fucking name now, but I remember every detail of the scene I am being forced to witness.

Worse than knowing what is going to happen at the end of the night, is my utter impotency to prevent any of it.

The office Christmas party was supposed to be a fun evening, to let our proverbial hair down. I see Janice, looking gorgeous in her red gown, and I watch myself pour a third vodka tonic. This was all my fault. I watch as I toss the drink back, without even batting an eye. I was always so proud of my ability to handle my liquor.

I watch as I weave slightly on my trip to the bathroom. Asshole!

In the bathroom, I take a piss, then turn and look at myself in the mirror. I pull out the small vial, and use the little spoon on my key ring to snort just enough coke to straighten my gait and put me back in control. I even winked at myself. I so wish I could stop what happens next, but I am stuck as an observer.

I leave the bathroom, and head back to the open bar. Janice scowls at me. No, I thought so then, but now I can see the look of concern in her eyes. That look is followed by pity, and then reluctant acceptance. At the bar, I was just pissed that she didn't trust me to know my own limit, so I poured a fourth drink, and when I catch her eye, I even take a swig from the bottle, before replacing the stopper.

The events after that are a little blurry, until we are getting ready to leave the party. I take a last trip to the bathroom, and finish off the stash in the vial. My eyes are a little red in my reflection, but I am once more in control, and the edges come back into focus. I grin at myself, never realizing the next time I would see my own face, it would be oddly squished from being run over by a car.

I must have pulled off the sober routine well, because no one tried to make sure she drove us home. How I wish someone had.

In the car, we started arguing. I was trying to convince her I was fine to drive, and she kept messing with her purse, and whining at me that she needed to talk to me. I yelled at her to shut up, that we would talk at home. I didn't notice the tears I am watching course down her cheeks, or see what she had taken out of her purse.

Oh God, no!

She is holding a pregnancy test stick, and I can see two pink lines.

I feel sick to my stomach, but I don't have an actual body, so I can only suffer through more pain and regret than humans were designed to endure.

I watch the bridge come into view, and Janice turns her face away from mine. I see myself looking at her, and I remember I was pissed that she was crying, and ruining my Christmas Eve. We start across the bridge doing 52. The limit is 55, so I am good in the old speed department.

I scream silently at myself not to look away from the road, but instead I see myself look over at Janice one last time. A small hiccup and a muscle spasm at just the wrong time, and the wheel jumps in my hand.

Time slows to a crawl, and I watch in slow motion as we careen headfirst into a semi coming the other way. I see us both fly through the windshield, which shatters into thousands of small fragments. I watch as Janice flips end over end, and hear the snap as she lands on the edge of the sidewalk, and I watch her head assume that strange, almost alien angle, bending in a place that was never meant to bend. I see myself land in the road, just as the car that was following the truck swerves around it, both of its passenger side tires lifting and bouncing as they run over my head. The popping noise sounds like a champagne bottle releasing its cork, and I suddenly find myself back above the scene watching it all.

The emergency vehicles are pulling up and blocking the road as the rain begins to fall in earnest.

Dear God, what have I done?

This question, above all others, is the one echoing inside my heart, or soul, or whatever this is. I can see myself lying in the road, but worse, I can see Janice, again, half on the sidewalk, half in the roadway, her neck still bent at that impossibly strange angle. I pray once again that she dies soon, and I once more watch a tear fall from her eye as she takes a strangled and tortured breath.

Sweet Jesus.

As I follow her gaze to where my body lay, broken, bleeding and all together dead, I once more hear the sirens crying in the distance.

No, God! Please, not again!

I'm suddenly transported backward through time to earlier this evening, like some twisted version of that fucking Christmas story with the ghosts, whatever it is called. I can't remember that, but I do remember I have done this before. Many times.

Maybe this is my punishment. Experiencing every second of the evening, over and over. I hope that mercy is also part of God's plan, even for assholes like me. These thoughts become fainter, as I watch myself weave slightly, on my trip to the bathroom, with the coke vial calling my name from my pocket...

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© 2023 dustygrein

A Jewish fable:

Once upon a time, a weary traveler named Isaac was granted a special opportunity to see heaven and hell. An angel guided Isaac through a magical doorway, and they found themselves in a magnificent room with a long table in the center. The table was filled with the most delicious food imaginable, a feast beyond compare.

Curious, Isaac looked around and noticed that the people seated at the table seemed sad and famished. He soon realized why: each person had long, unwieldy spoons for arms. The spoons were so long that they couldn’t reach their own mouths, and despite the tantalizing food before them, they were unable to eat.

Feeling puzzled, Isaac asked the angel about the strange scene. The angel explained, “These are the people in hell. They have been given the same feast as those in heaven, but they cannot eat because their spoons are too long to feed themselves.”

Intrigued, Isaac asked the angel to show him heaven. They passed through another doorway and arrived in a similar room with a long table filled with delectable food. To Isaac’s surprise, the people in heaven also had long spoons for arms.

But here was the difference: the people in heaven were nourished and joyful. They, too, had spoons they couldn’t manipulate to feed themselves, but instead of wallowing in despair, they were using their spoons to feed each other. Each person picked up food with their long spoon and reached across the table to feed their neighbor.

Isaac marveled at the scene, realizing that the people in heaven had discovered the secret to true fulfillment. By selflessly helping one another, they not only satisfied their own hunger but also built a community based on compassion and cooperation.

As the story goes, the fable of “The Long Spoons” teaches us the importance of kindness, empathy, and mutual support. It reminds us that when we extend a helping hand to others, we create a better world for everyone, not just ourselves.

Once upon a time, there was a little pond.

There, in the muddy water beneath the lily pads, lived a happy community of water beetles. They lived a simple and comfortable life in their pond, with few disturbances and interruptions.

Occasionally, a great sadness would come to this community, when one of their fellow beetles would, without explanation, climb the stem of a lily pad and would never be seen again. They all knew when this happened, that their friend was dead, gone forever. They grieved for these lost companions, and missed them terribly, as they continued their water beetle activities, living their water beetle lives.

One day, a little water beetle felt an irresistible urge to climb up one of the stems. He really loved his family, but was determined that he would climb to the other side of the lily pad. He would not leave forever . . . he would simply have a look around, then come back and tell everyone what he had found.

The little beetle set out in curiosity and wonder, and even a little fear. When he reached the top of the stem, he climbed out of the water onto the surface of the lily pad. Here was a whole new world of sunshine and blue skies!

The trip had been a long one. He was very tired, and the amazing warmth from the sun felt so good, he decided he must take a nap before heading back to tell his loved ones how wonderful it was up here.

As he slept, his little body underwent a miraculous change.

He woke to find he was no longer a water beetle, but had turned into the most beautiful blue-tailed dragonfly, with glorious broad wings and a slender new body designed for flying. This was amazing!

He flexed his new wings and was suddenly airborne. He had always been content in the muddy little pond, but now as he soared into the blue sky, he found a completely new world. This new life was so much more wonderful than his old one; he was free, and happier than ever.

Then, he remembered his beetle friends. By now, they must think he had died. He really needed to go back and tell them that he wasn’t gone, only changed; he was more alive now than he had ever been! His life hadn’t ended, but had finally been fulfilled.

Unfortunately, he discovered that his new wonderful body couldn’t go back down under the water. He wouldn’t be able to get back there and tell them all the good news. As he pondered this sad revelation, he looked down and watched as another water beetle fell asleep on a lily pad.

He now understood.

Eventually his family and friends would join him in this new life, and they would all be together again. With joy in his heart, he flew off into the clear sky, ready for the happiness, freedom and new adventures that awaited him in this fresh and glorious existence.

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© 2018 Dusty Grein

* This fable is based on a story I heard once, that stuck with me. It’s lesson may not be as deep for everyone, but hopefully, if you are reading this, it has touched you half as much as writing it touched me.

He was screaming he was bleeding,

Injuries that need treating,

Shot point blank,

Ripped open his right flank,

Moving and working to get him care,

I pinched my finger it's just not fair!

Throbbing and aching it hurts real bad,

A blister has formed and it looks real mad,

His crying is not helping my pain,

I wish people were not so vain.

The world around me comes into view, but I must still be dreaming. My floral print comforter replaced by…hay? That can’t be right. Except it is. I close my eyes shut and open them again slowly, still here. I can remember strong hands wrapping around me and throwing me, hard. A piece of cloth covering my eyes and a pinch in my arm, they must have injected me with something. But who’s they. Regardless, I seem to be alone now so time to get my bearings. Mental check, my arms and legs are very bruised and there’s a crick in my neck, but nothing seems broken. Ok, good. Then the panic sets in…my mom.

We had just finished dinner at this small Italian restaurant near the house and were walking home. Me, my mom, and Richard, my stepdad. Stepdad seems odd since they’ve only been married about two weeks, but they had been dating about a year and it was expected. Just then, my stomach drops and the world around me feels blurry. I can recall Richard walking towards me when I was grabbed and thrown into a car. An SUV. A black SUV. I try to remember the little details keeping my mind on when I get home, hopeful that they can be used later to find the people responsible. I remember screaming help to him before one of the hands was covering my mouth, but he didn’t help. At first I was scared that he would also be grabbed, I mean who were these people? But he wasn’t grabbed. In fact, he was calm. If I’m not mistaken I think I remember a smirk.

But I must be remembering wrong. Richard works in finance, or insurance…or…banking, honestly I never paid too close attention, but he had a boring job. Definitely not someone that would have access to… thugs. It’s seriously the only word I can think of, and I know it sounds ridiculous, like I’m in some old-timey crime movie, but the point stands. Richard is a 9-5, suit wearing, family man with IBS. There’s no way he’s responsible for this. Whatever this is. Yet the image of him walking towards me with that creepy look on his face stays plastered in my mind.

I try to stand, slowly. Despite my many bruises, I manage to get to my feet and move around pretty easily. I think about the first time I tried to ski. I was with my friend Matt who had been going forever and I may have smudged the truth about my skiing knowledge. Long story short I rolled all the way down the mountain and was bruised from my chest down. When I hopped right up the instructor at the bottom had warned me that although it doesn’t hurt now, it will tomorrow. As I look down at my black and blue arms I know tomorrow will bring much more pain. It’s weird what you think about when you’re in traumatic situations.

I look around. There’s a rake-looking tool and some wooden stick up against the wall, and hay, lots of hay. A barn? I don’t know if I’ve ever actually been in a barn. Maybe when I was little and mom took me to some sort of pumpkin patch. Mom. I try to remember where she was when we walked outside, she must have been right next to me, right? Did someone grab her? I feel sick.

I’m on the verge of hyperventilating when I hear a moan coming from outside. A horse, or a pig? I truly know nothing about barn life. The moan again. This time it’s more distinct, a woman. Mom! I run outside. She’s lying on her side and there’s a nasty gash in her forehead. I drop down next to her. “He lied.” Suddenly I can’t find words, but apparently she can. “He said that we would never be involved, but he lied.” I swallow. “Richard? Involved in what?” There’s tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “I got us away. We should be safe here for now, but they’re going to come looking for us." Who, who is coming! I want to shout, but she is drifting back to sleep. I have no idea what's going on and my mom is in some sort of psychotic daze. There's a house next to the barn and I see a light on inside. On one hand I could be walking to doom, but on the other, if I don't get her a cold rag or some water soon...I walk up the porch steps and knock on the door.

I dig. It is well after midnight but only hours after the funeral and burial. My younger sister was a spiteful, hateful creature. And now she was dead. In a manner of speaking, looks like I won, sister.

My father long ago had promised me the ring his grandmother had commissioned, a sizeable emerald, perfect and clear, surrounded by diamonds just as perfect. The initials--his grandmother's--were the same as mine. It was meant for me. She had said so when my mother was pregnant for me, but Grandma died the day I was born, obviously on a due date for both her and me.

My sister lay in her casket, scheduled to be inserted into the freshly dug space in the family plot. She lay there serene, as antithesis to how she lived. I held my disgust just below skin-deep, lest others would see my avarice and my rage.

It was my ring! Mine! How dare she wear it. I considered slipping it off of her cold finger, but I knew I would be seen. Also, the missing ring would be noticed. The ring was a big deal. Everyone knew that. Everyone had taken sides between us sisters in this family melodrama. No one had said anything about the ring being buried with her, but everyone knew. They all regarded me queerly at the funeral.

No, the ring had to stay.

Besides, her finger had swollen around it.

I continue digging. I have an appointment, after all.

It had been quite the scene when my father had told me I wasn't ready for the ring on my 16th birthday; then again when I got engaged; then again with the birth of my first child who I named after him.

No, he gave it to her. I was too irresponsible. I'd lose it. Or hock it. Not her, though. She was the responsible sister. The smart one. The beautiful one. The hateful one. But she was the younger one. There are traditions in the birth order, and that tradition was violated. I was violated.

She wore the ring proudly whenever she saw me. She would even kiss it in front of me, whispering, "I love you, Daddy." I'm sure he felt each kiss in his own coffin.

I continue to dig.

I'll get that ring off of your cold, dead finger. You'll see. No need for it to adorn dust for the eons, is there? And why? Not because your rotting body wants to make a favorable first impression.

Ha! First impression for who? For the demons and devils who would be meeting you, you shriveled, bitter, toxic hag?

You wore it for me, didn't you? In life and in death. It was your will--and it was even in your will. You would be buried with it on. It was your last wish in your final will and testament. It was legal. Unchallengeable. You knew that I would stew for the rest of my life knowing that--now--I would never have that ring.

Before it was supposed to be mine, it was my father's and his grandmother's before that. But then it was hers. Daddy didn't wear it. He kept it under lock and key. Until her 16th birthday. I couldn't believe my eyes.

You two walked out together toward the limousine, you in your tuxedo and you at your debutante Sweet 16 best. Oh, and with you wearing it. It!

He just smiled at you, but you just smiled at me.

I wondered for so many years why she was special to him. It makes me dig faster and another layer of dirt has been removed. I hear some gravelly scratching with the tip of the shovel. I am close.

Once my horrid sister loaned it to her own daughter. For her Sweet 16 party. I could have died. Sixteen years old and already with tattoos. And the ring that was mine on that pubescent, hypersexed little trashy nymph. Where had that finger been? I wonder, and I dig even faster.

How did you get it away from her? You didn't even know you were going to die, you feckless bitch. Now neither she nor I will be able to wear it.

Ha! That's what you think.

My shovel strikes the casket. It's a good sound. It is the sound that will forever right the things that have wronged me. Oh, it goes way beyond just the ring, though. You could only imagine. My father and her!

They say each child, in reality, has different parents. So true, because my father was different--with her--and different with me. The former in a spoiling way--and the latter in a very bad way. And although there were a hundred million things, slights, insults, and unfathomable unfairness at every sisterly turn, it was that ring that symbolized it all. And that special relationship between him and her. How special one could ask? Very special. I guess some daughters are not pretty enough. She was. And he did.

Always in his lap. Always the one he'd take camping. And always the one with the ring. Maybe she earned it. I certainly didn't.

What will I do when I get finally get to it? When I pry it off of her swollen finger? Maybe I'll just melt it down. Or give it to a homeless person. No. I'll wear it.

Every minute of every day it shall be my answer to both of them. Told you it was mine. See? I didn't have to earn it. It was supposed to be mine.

The entire casket is uncovered now. I fall onto my stomach and dangle my arms to reach its latch. I had practiced this many times in my mind since the visitation at the funeral home.

My fingers' grasp finally gains purchase of the mechanism and the lid snaps into an unsecured state. I have a knife ready for her finger if need be. Or maybe I'll cut it off anyway, even it doesn't have to be. Or maybe all of them.

This little piggy is for the ring. This little piggy is for the new car. This little piggy is for the condo. This little piggy is for...I stopped.

Stay on task.

I hook my fingertips under the lid edge and slowly pry it open, my eyes closed: I want a big surprise. I would open them and there she'd be. And that ring. My ring! At last!

I open my eyes and there it is! There's the finger. But...it is only her finger. My ring on a solitary finger, cut off cleanly at the knuckle. I gasp. My sister, otherwise, is gone. Well, all of her but one finger. There is a string around the disembodied fingertip with a note.

For you, sweet sister.

In spinal reflex I slam the coffin lid down with a loud crash. I lose my mind. My thoughts race, but nothing makes sense. I consider re-opening the coffin and taking the ring anyway. Stay on task.

No! It's where it belongs. Right where it belongs. On my sister in pieces; but where the other pieces are I don't know. I laugh, because I also don't care.

I shove all the dirt back atop the coffin, but it's not a tidy job. Surely people will know someone was here. But they won't suspect me.

Because whoever did this to her left the ring.