It's not about not giving a fuck, it's about giving the right fucks.
Did I say that? Or hear it somewhere? Don't know. Don't care too much either. On my shittiest days, I reckon I feel the same as this other dude I read about. I copied his words down and keep it well hidden from Mum and Dad. They'd only worry... even more, if that's possible. Mum'd turn away and try to hide her tears, and Dad would go all gruffy in his voice and clear his throat a lot. They're bombed out with this gig of mine.
Yair well, this dude knew he'd be dying before too long – there's this disease chewing his muscles up or paralysing them. I think that's the one, when the hardening gets up to a certain level of your lungs, you can't breathe any more. Shit of a way to go.
I'm really into his first line—
I need to know how to stop giving a fuck about things like dying wa-a-a-y sooner than most people,
and the last—
and finally, I'm going to die, dude... DIE!
In between, this kid raged about never having a partner, 'cos he's still a teenager, and I reckon he's like a sort of artist and already losing his touch with his paintings or drawings, whatever. And before too long, he'd have to have a trach in his neck – it's a tube thing so you can breathe - and even talk and be heard, he said. Already having trouble with his voice, he said.
On a good day I get really dirty on myself. What's one lousy leg compared to this sucker's luck ? I've still got my life... such as it is. Such as it will be... aarrgh, stop it already. Goddamn tears are gonna start again. Stop it... just STOP IT for fuck's sake. Positives is what I gotta think and do. It's what whats'ername said - the physio chick. Think-think-think her name - might help to distract me from all this pain. Huh... and I thought the freaking physical pain was something. This stinking thinking pain is bringing me right down, man. SHANI... that's what her name is! Knew it'd jump up and hit me right between the brain cells soon as I stopped searching for it.
Oh yair. Good old Shani. Like she'd know how it feels to be a one-legged kid. Not even a cripple I suppose. They'd have both legs. Maybe not working right, but still, they'd have two... wouldn't they?
"Just take it one day at a time," she says. Like there's a goddamn choice? "Don't waste your breath and energy on depression," she says. Yair, right lady - like I'm on top of the world, twirling on one set of toes. Ha! Screw it, I know, for god's sake, I KNOW. It wastes too much time you could be spending learning how to live again. It chews you up and spits you out in little useless pieces. I KNOW! There are days... oh man! Days when it's like I already bit the big one... or wished I had. Wished it was over, forever.
And how about my mates when they visited. Well meaning, but could NOT get their feet out of their mouths, could they? -ha! "Take it one step at a time," said one. Caught a bit of a blush there, didn't I? And later, when another said, "You have to put your best foot forward." A silence fell down... so thick you could've heard a hypo needle drop. Suddenly everyone got busy ogling their feet.
Mum says I ought to keep a journal sorta thing about the daily battle. She reckons it'd help me, especially when I look back on where I've been and how I've progressed. She reckons it'd help others, too... and I should think about anything outside myself... make something worthwhile come from this disaster, she says. It motivated me for a bit, then it kinda slipped away and the whole thing felt stupid.
On one of the endless hospital days, I could hear in my Mum's voice and see in her eyes how fed up she'd become, and after trying to reason with me for ages (and I admit to feeling SO shitty and broken that day, you know?), she finally said, "For all of our sakes, but mostly your own Jake, force a book out of your dumbed-down brain. Why not write it ALL about YOU! Don't worry about Dad and I and everyone else who's trying to help... just make it all about you, like you do every day, these days!" Her voice shook bad, along with her chin... and her hands. Then she burst into tears. Ohh shit. Bad. That's bad and a half. I mean, for her to sound-off like a weirdo school-teacher, or something. Phew... it freaking freaked me out, I can tell you.
Dad took her over to the canteen for a coffee and to calm her down, then came back by himself. He had more ideas on this writing game plan thing you know, like if you can find a special thing you can enjoy - even come to love - time will pass faster, and help the mental and emotional healing. He reminded me (though I didn't want to hear it) how good I'd been with my studies. He reckoned I'd enjoy writing my story a whole heap more, without all those study hours, and deadlines and exams and all the crap. He reckoned there are government agencies that might be interested in publishing - you know - those ones always on your ass about further education. He reckoned I might even create a classic (ha! As if!), saying whatever I produced, it would surely make my life abso-freaking-lutely better. Well he didn't put it in quite those words, still he meant I could win back a bit of pride in myself. That's what he said. And he hugged me... hard.
They're not too bad, the 'oldies'. Made me think outside the square as the brains-trust mob say. Sounded more sensible than those dodgy mates who reckoned I ought to do it all - drugs, grog, dope - 'live dangerously, dude. Wotcha got to lose?' Nah... sounds like a waste of space to me. Insane lame-asses.
Then I met this other old codger in rehab. He'd lost both legs to sugar problems - diabetes, he said. He told me about a young kid blown up by a bomb the other day, over in an Arab country - another one of many getting terribly maimed and killed over there. And he said, "And here you are son, still breathing, and SOON you'll be walking again... with help, I know - but walking, kid! Yer gotta live whatever life you can, the best you can, with the time you have," and he ruffled my hair in a kindly fashion. "It's the one thing we can all do... until we die. And we're all gonna shuffle off someday!"
One of the best bits of advice I reckon I've had came from the psycho-something-or-other guy, who suggested I choose a particular time in my week (say Sunday at 9pm) to wallow deeply in self-pity for an hour if I need it, then suck it up and get on with planning my week ahead and LIVE it, without any more sorry for yourself time, until the next week at the allocated moments. I've given it a couple of go's... and man, it works like all get-out. You know, it's still Hugh Mungus tough when things go wrong or I start to let the weakies and the weepies take a hold when I think about what I can't do anymore. Happens I'm learning and I'm promising myself I'm not taking anyone else down with me into the hellhole I've been in any more. I just didn't get it how much I'd been screwing with the feelings and stuff of the people who love me most.
I'm gonna do it better, right? Might even learn how to ditch the swearing, along with the self-pity! Might...
YOU ARE READING
Hobson's Choice
Ficțiune generalăSometimes Life starts handing us choices we are none too ready to make... and some choices should never have to be made at all. Here's a story originally written for a 500 word flash-fiction from a prompt that has taken on a life of its own, and n...
