Attempt (Currently being edited)

Bruce Moore

Bruce Moore: 44 years old: Widowed husband of 3 years: Hobbies include watching sports, dad jokes, and spending time with the kids.

Everything was still. The house was clean, and neat, try to find a spec of dust because you won't be able to. Everything was how it was supposed to be as he arrived home from work at 1:00. "Adelaide? Did you come home early?" he called out. He had seen my car in the driveway. There was no response. Obviously. "Adelaide? Honey where are you?" he cleared his throat. His eyebrows scrunched in confusion, he probably figured I was taking a nap. So he set down his brief case and hung up his jacket, kicking of his shoes at the mat. He made his way into the kitchen, peering down the hall. I mentally cursed myself for not closing my door.

I'd use the metaphor "white as a ghost" but that is used too often. The blood had drained from his face leaving him white, as a cotton ball. The bathroom light was still on. A few stray pills that had managed to escape from my trembling hand lay free on the floor amidst my vomit.

There are not many times in a child's life that they see their father cry. Well how about completely break down? It's hard to explain it exactly, you picture it like in the movies where they collapse on the floor bawling, or run into the room and fall to their knees beside their child but that's not what happens. It seemed to happen in steps almost.

1. He froze, face paling. 2. His eyes dilated some, a riptide of emotions coursing through them, like rapid fire. As soon as one emotion was there it was gone and replaced by another. 3. Breathing staggers, hand is placed over chest creating a loud Smack! 4. "Oh god, Adelaide baby no," 5. He is in my room, rolling me onto my back. 6. Tears cloud his vision, his heart is racing. 7. The ambulance is on its way. 8. He is shaking; the hair is out of my face. 9. "Oh Adelaide, Daddy is here, I'm right here. Please stay with me, don't die I cant loose you too," his voice is but a whisper. 10. His hands are wrapped around mine; he reaches under the bed for my baby blanket. 11. "I know you miss mom. Just please don't visit her yet,"

He watched as the paramedics began checking my pulse, looking into my eyes, strapping me onto the stretcher. "Can't find a pulse! Her eyes are dilated! Sir can you meet us at the hospital?" They were all speaking so loud and so fast and before he knew it I was in the ambulance. He didn't even buckle his seat belt, and that was always his main priority. It never mattered how slow or how long the trip was, we always had to be buckled. The ambulance sped in front of him, and he was right at their back, stretching his neck in hopes of seeing my through the back window. Although the lights were flashing, and it was making the obnoxious sound that ambulances do, he couldn't hear it. He couldn't hear anything except, "See you later Dad! Love ya!" over and over. Had he missed something in the way I had said it? He began to analyze those six words, did I say it sadly? Oddly perky? He couldn't remember. The only thing he could remember was the image of my lifeless body, in a pile of my own fluids, cold and lifeless on the ground.

He had to sit in the waiting room while they ran some tests on me. Trying to revive me and the whole shebang. It's too bad I couldn't have gotten a DNR, because I didn't want them to revive me. Hence the reason for suicide. He hated hospitals, I remember from when my mother was sick. He always told us, "They make me nervous and anxious, and they smell too clean. But that's only to cover up the smell of the dying, oh and the germs lurking around. They make you sit and ponder all the possible outcomes of the situation. They should learn what heating is too," he would ramble on. I liked to think that it was his way of distracting himself.

I felt bad. Now I had forced him to be somewhere that he was clearly so uncomfortable. I felt like I had given him an anxiety attack just by being the reason he had to come here. Anxiety attacks sucked, they drained you in so many ways, and here I was sucking all the life from my fathers' tired soul. I am still glad I did it. I hope one day he understands. I know he can pull through on this, I saw him do it with mom. It was a slow journey but he did it, he really is a strong guy. I believe in him.

But this time it wasn't only the hospital making him anxious (forget about me), it was the memories from my mother. All the times we had to come here, for surgery which was supposedly helping her cancer, or when she relapsed, or when she lost her battle were now forever embedded in his mind. It made the hospital even worse because now there was a history to it, and not a pleasant one.

The doctor came out, her lips pursed, carrying a manila envelope with my files or some shit in it. My dad stood up immediately, his face was soaked in tears. She shook her head, "I am so sorry Mr. Moore, we tried everything, from pumping her stomach, to injecting her with something to reverse the effects, but she must have taken so many, and each pill was such a high dosage. I'm so sorry for your loss. You can see her now," she said somberly.

Rigid. Stiff as a board. But at the same time he managed to be broken. Bent. He did not rush to whatever room I was in. He was not capable of doing so. It was as though all his limbs had forgotten how to function properly, and I believe that to be very possible. I remember feeling the same way with my mothers' death. He was breathing heavy, the doctor never left his side, and she was worried about him passing out. He made it to my bed side. The doctor left after making sure he was seated. His head fell to my stomach and he cried. He cried for a long time, his entire body shaking violently, his breathing jagged. There was no one there to see him cry, so he cried until there were no more tears left to cry. Slowly his crying calmed into short hiccups. His eyes were swollen and red from tears, which had stained the thin sheet over my stomach. He clasped his hands together and rested his face on them as he stared at me, my skin already beginning to turn blue from de-oxygenation. He took both my hands and cracked each knuckle. He used to do this for me when I couldn't sleep at night; he told me each pop was a little fairy bopping away all things keeping me from slumber.

"I love you, so much..." he struggled, "Now you have to promise to watch over us, and tell mom we said hello and we miss her very much," he couldn't even force a smile. He took a shaky breath and continued, "What did I miss? Was I not there for you when you needed me? Did I miss a sign that you gave me? Is it because of that party?" he shook his head. "I've failed as a father," he sobbed.

An hour passed before the nurse came back into the room. And in that half hour we had managed to have the best conversation we have ever had. "Sir we are going to have to move her to the bottom floor," she said softly. My dad looked up and shook his head.

"No you can't do that, you can't take her away from me," he protested.

"Sir it is our policy, I'm very sorry. We need room for our other patients," she insisted. I had to give her credit she was very patient with him. But grief does strange things to people, and sometimes it brings out the worst in you, like it does my father.

"I... am not...you can't... take my daughter away from me!" he burst, his face was turning red. "You... you should have saved her! You just... let her die!" he yelled, spitting a little, but let's keep that between me and you. She took a deep breath, clearly agitated but nodded. "I'll give you until three, but she needs to be moved downstairs. I am sorry for your loss, but we did everything we could,"

"It's not fair!" he exclaimed kicking the chair, sending it tumbling down across the floor. I had never seen my father act like this, not even when mom had died. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat at the foreignness of my fathers actions.