I refill my wine glass and curl up on the sofa, listening to the soft soothing sounds of Tchaikovsky as they fill the room. After a hectic day at the hospital, I like to sit down and dissect the day piece by piece, as if by doing so I can remove any mistakes I may have made. Today was an exceptionally tough day; there seemed to have been at least a hundred near-fatal accidents all of which happened within blocks of my hospital. Working for Denver General Hospital is gratifying at times but also very demanding. Today, for example, a young boy came in, a victim of a drunk-driving accident at Speer and Colfax. The truck was seen barreling through the intersection and plowing into the child like he was nothing more than a dream. The poor kid never saw the truck coming and now at the age of twelve his life is essentially over . True, I was able to save his life, but at what cost? Never again will he be seen playing on a jungle gym or running through the park. Steven, that was his name. Not that it matters any more. Nothing matters anymore to Steven. Amazing how alcohol can irrevocably change someone's life. I think I'm a prime example. Not only do I like to drink a little too much, but hell, after what I've gone through who can blame me? Mom liked her booze. Oh boy did she like her booze. Reflecting on my childhood I remember the dream. The dream that's been haunting me for the last couple of years. The same dream over and over. Avoiding this enigma is a constant battle, a battle which I never seem to win. Sure, I might gain a brief respite, but in the end the dream always returns--like a disease refusing to be treated. Getting up to get another glass of wine, I stop and lose myself in the music and the rich aroma of the wine. Swan Lake is on, a beautiful love story, a story in which everything turns out all right in the end. Too bad real life isn't like that, instead it's filled with grief and heartache, struggles and sadness. Finishing off my wine, I walk through my spotless living room and head for bed. Getting undressed and slipping into my knee-length nightgown, I slip under the covers and turn off the light. Tonight, I will not dream, I will beg that a blissful darkness overtake me, and wash away all the concerns and memories of the day. Closing my eyes I whisper, "Not again. Not tonight."
Mother was drunk again. It seemed that mother was always drunk, or hungover. Dad never seemed to notice, or if he did, he never said anything. Like he was afraid or guilty of something, he came in late at night, went straight to bed, woke up the next morning, and left for work. Although I never got to spend much time with him, the times we did spend together were the happiest times of my childhood. Then it became a routine in our family: Dad would go to work, Mom would wake up, start drinking, get drunk and stay drunk throughout most of the day. Later Dad would come home and they would go to bed. The only difference was the kind of hell my mother would put me through. I can remember the times, before Dad got his new job and wasn't around so much, when the three of us were inseparable. Mom and Dad acted like high schoolers, holding hands and giggling. Often they would just sit in silence, looking into each other's eyes, oblivious of the world around them. Those are the times I remember the best, when I thought my heart would burst from the love and caring that was an every day occurrence. But that day was like every other one, she sat there at the breakfast table with her scotch and soda and I ate my breakfast, praying she would go back to bed.
"I'm s--sorry about yeshterday, Susan, but if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times to clean up after yourshelf," Mom said. She was referring to yesterday when I forgot to bring my plate in from the living room after eating lunch. She decided that was worth 'five minutes of intense therapy' as she put it. "That's O.K., Mom, it was my fault. I won't ever let it happen again," I said. Reaching for the cereal box and watching Mom refill her scotch glass, I decided it was good day to go outside. All day. Finishing my breakfast and assiduously cleaning up after myself, I timidly asked," Can I go outside and play for awhile, Mom?" "Yesh, gest don' make any noise, goddamit!" "I won't." Going outside and playing was my favorite thing to do. I liked to climb "Old Wilbur" and sit up there in his peaceful branches and wonder what it would be like to live with a normal family. That day, I just sat up there and listened to the birds and insects until I fell asleep. Waking up a little later, I was terrified of what time it was. Scrambling down the branches and rushing into the house, I accidentally let the screen door slam behind me. Tiptoeing into the living room, I hoped that I hadn't aroused her. I noticed she was not on the couch sleeping off her morning drunk as usual. "SUSAN, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" Mom bellowed from the staircase. Mom was a good bellower, in fact, she once won a drunken bellowing contest down at the Sippin' Suds. She was still dressed in her green terry-cloth bathrobe, holding a tall glass of whiskey in her hand. "Sorry, Mom, I just fell asleep in 'Old Wilbur' for awhile, that's all." "I've been looking fer you fer the lasht hour, you little shit." Coming down off the staircase she gave me a slap in the face hard enough to make my eyes water and ears ring. "Mom, don't hit me please, it was an accident." "Achident my ass, now stop crying and do your time, TEN MINUTES, and if I catch you slipping so swear me I'll fuchin' kill ya."
Walking upstairs trying not to cry, I thought, Ten minutes my ass. If she forgets about me again, I'll just leave. I'll run away. Mom's idea of 'doing my time' was to have me stand in the back room and keep my arms out straight for however long she decided. Usually she forgot I was back there and ten minutes could last two hours. One time I remembered being back there for at least two hours. The pain in my arms went all the way across my back. I cried hysterically because I knew she forgot about me again. When the pain became unbearable,I let my arms drop limply to my sides. At that moment Mom walked in. Seeing me standing there crying WITH MY ARMS DOWN, she flew into a rage and started slapping and kicking me until I blacked out. That was a bad one. So I went upstairs to the back room and stood straight up, because Mom didn't like it when I slouched. I stuck my arms out in front of me and looked straight ahead. " Now you jest stay there till I come back."
Counting the seconds was the only way I knew how to pass the time and avoid concentrating on the pain in my arms, which started within seconds. "One-onethousand, two-onethousand, three-onethousand," the pain started, "four-onethousand, five- onethousand . . ." until finally when the pain was at the point of making me scream, I reach ten minutes. Not that It mattered, Mom would never be back within ten minutes, but just the same, it made me feel a little better. I had to keep my arms up, no matter what. There's a dull throb in my shoulders and I could no longer feel my arms, my body swayed back and forth. I was barely able to stand at all. "Start over," I tell myself, "It'll end soon. Just count. One-onethousand, two-onethousand. Three-onethousand . . ."
"I thought I told you to BE QUIET!" Mom screamed. Standing in the doorway, face red from booze and rage, " If you can't keep yer filthy trap shut, maybe ten more minutes will do the trick." "No mom please, please I c--can't stand it a--anymore." I stammered.
"SHUT UP!" she said as she angrily strode forward, giving me another vicious slap that sent me sprawling. "GET UP AND FINISH YOUR TEN MINUTES."
Standing up and trying to raise my arms was agony. Somehow I managed. Seeing Mom turn around, almost falling but saving herself by frantically grabbing at the doorjamb, made me angry. That drunk, I'll show her, I thought. Letting my arms drop and following her as silently as possible, I watched as she stumbled to the top of the stairs and grabbed the banister for dear life. "Little bitch, she'll do what I say or she'll stay there for the rest of her miserable little life," she mumbled, starting precariously down the steps.
One little push was all it took. It didn't even seem like I did it. I watched as my hand reached out, connecting with her back just for a second and then she was gone. It seemed to take forever for her to reach the bottom, tumbling and screaming. I saw her eyes searching for me. I saw her head connect with the wall leaving a red stain. Then, right before she hit bottom, I heard a CRAACK. I looked at the bleeding twisted hump on the floor, noticing that her head was facing the wrong way as if no matter what position she landed in she still wanted to stare up at me with those hate-filled, accusatory eyes. I walked slowly down the stairs, stepping over Mom. I went to the phone and dialed Dad's work number. "Daddy, I think you need to come home now," I said it with a smile.
Waking up is always the hardest part, clenching the sheets into a tight little ball, my heart pounded so hard it seemed it might break through my chest at any time. Standing up and trying to get my bearing, I head into the living room for a drink. The room is dark, the shadows deep and impenetrable, whispering to me of deeds past. Lately, this dream comes to me almost nightly, invariably the same. Well, I'll just have a couple drinks, swallow a couple aspirin and go to work. That's usually the best way to rid myself of the lingering feeling of dread and guilt that the dream always leaves me with.
Head pleasantly spinning I enter the hospital and check in with the head nurse Margaret. "Good morning Margaret, what's up?" "Busy already Susan, we've got a stabbing in the ER now, a overdose in ICU and Steiner wants to talk to ya." Margaret said. Joseph Steiner, the hospitals resident Head Physician, was an overbearing, overweight, pompous hypocrite with almost god-like skills on the operating
"Come in Susan, no need to knock," he said as I sat down and glare at him with ice in my eyes. "This is Mr. Bonds, he's with the board of directors and will be sitting in on our discussion." "What do you want?"
"We need to talk about yesterday Susan," as he talked I grabbed a pencil of his desk and slowly started to tap the end of it against the arm on the chair, " there's a problem." "What kind of problem?" I said. Tap tap tap "That boy, what was his name, Steven, that was in the car accident." tap tap tap "there was a mistake in his treatment, a rather serious one. Some of the other doctors claimed they thought you had been drinking before duty, what can you tell me about this?"
"You know me Joe, I wouldn't drink before work, how can you even say that? The boy was on his death bed, I did everything I possibly could to save his life. I did save it, in fact, if it wasn't for me he would be in the ground now instead of upstairs comatose."
Tap tap tap tap.
"Well your fellow surgeons and the anesthesiologist don't agree. I'm going to have to ask you to take some time off, with reinstatement pending investigation."
His face seemed to melt, to take on a new form with deep brown eyes, a sad face and big gentle hands. Dad? The memories came flooding back, unable to stop them I put my hands over my face and let them go.
The police arrived first, then the ambulance then my father. They all clustered around the crumpled form that used to be my mother, taking pictures, talking in low whispers as if to save me from the pain of what they were saying. Dad came up to me, reached out with those big loving hands and picked me up, crushing me against his chest. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry, so sorry you had to be here to see this. I know how much you loved your Mother." Then he started crying on my shoulder, the first and last time he ever did this. When his sobbing subsided, he took me outside and set me down on the porch. "Please stay out here honey, I'm going to go talk to the police for awhile." With that he left.
After the funeral Dad was never the same. He hardly ever went to work, just sat there on the couch watching T.V. and drinking coffee. Just wasting away. "This is my fault," I thought " all I needed to do was ten minutes. Ten lousy minutes and dad would never have turned into the wasted heap of a man he is today." Remembering back to the way he used to be, laughing, always busy and always having a happy thing to say, just riddled me with guilt. So, to lessen the guilt I felt inside I would go upstairs to the back room and stand there with my arms out, and see if I could do it for twenty minutes. It really wasn't all that hard. After a couple months of practice it was easy. Just had to concentrate. "Susan?"
I look up to see Joseph Steiner looking at me with pity in his eyes.
"Susan, are you O.K.?"
"Fine. Are we through?"
"Yes, we'll get back to you within a week with the results" he said. I stand up, fling the pencil in his direction and stomp out. Tears in my eyes, I decide to go visit Steven. Ignoring the inquiries from my CO-workers, I went to ICU, found Steven's room, went inside and closed the door.
The room is like any other hospital room, spotlessly clean, reeking of antiseptic spray and medicinal odors. The only way that this room differed from others was the size of the body laying in the bed. I walk to the bedside and look down at Steven's face, seeing the trauma still etched there, the shell of a boy who, in all probability, will never leave this hospital again. "They're saying this is my fault. Could they be right? Did I really do this to you?" Resting my head on Steven's chest I started weeping uncontrollably, the tears of rage and frustration freely flowing and seeming to have no end. When I am in control once again, I stand up, rearrange the sheets on his bed and step back to have one last look. "If I have the chance so swear me I will do everything in my power to rectify this situation, if I have a chance that is." With that I leave his room, and quietly shut the door behind me.
Getting in my car, I have one more place I needed to go, dreading to but at the same longing to see my Mother once again. This longing is what brought me to her graveside every week, just to sit and look and decide if I would have done anything different. I always come to the conclusion that I wouldn't, but it's always comforting to reassure myself of this. Driving down Colfax, I decide to stop at Liquor Mart and pick up a bottle of Chivas to sip on.
The headstone is labeled, "Janet Weatherford, Beloved Wife And Mother. 1920-1965." The beloved Mother part always brought a smile to my face, to later be replaced with anger. Anger at what she had done to me, anger at the person I've become due to her. Remembering my Mother for what she was, an alcoholic, abusive, forgetful, hateful bitch, I think, 'if I asked anyone on the hospital staff, and the few people I'm actually friends with, they would probably describe me in the same way.' Realizing the frightful resemblance, the hate, the drinking, the overall bitterness jolted me like a bolt of lightning, making my hands shake and head throb. "Oh Mother, what are you doing to me? Are you still here in some way, shaping and forming my life into the despicable one that it is now? Well fuck you Mom, I will not throw away everything that I have worked so hard to achieve, this life that I have etched out for myself will not be taken from me. You just watch, if I keep my job, things will be different. I'll quit drinking, I'll really become the person I want to be, not the person I've turned into." And with that I decide to leave, but not before I smash the bottle of Chivas against the headstone.
Driving home was tough, all I could think about was that awful meeting with my boss, just hoping against all hope that I will keep my job. I really need this job not only for the money but for my sanity. The job gives me a sense of self worth, a place in life that makes me happy. If I can keep my job I will try turning my life around. I'll start going to A.A. and clean up. Maybe find a man, settle down and raise a few kids. The right way. As I pulled into the driveway I couldn't see my condo, my vision went straight through the wall ahead of me to the liquor cabinet and release. The cold hard glass, the amber liquid inside whispering to me of happiness and sunshine if I would just pop the top and take a swig or seven. I walk up the steps, never realizing I left the car door open and the car running. Slowly, being that time had slowed down to almost nothing, I watch as my hand reaches out and (connecting with her back for just a second) slides the key into the lock, hearing the tumblers inside turn and catch, watching the door open.
I step inside, first looking at the cabinet, breathing a sigh of relief at knowing bliss was just a swallow away. Glancing at the message machine I notice the red light flashing and the sound of a message waiting to be received, I press the button and hear Joseph's voice fill the room. "Susan? This is Joe. Steven didn't make it. His family, being informed of the situation are pressing charges. As soon as you get this message you need to call me so we can discuss your options."
"Options?" I thought. Falling down on the floor in a heap, I was surprised to see a bottle of Chivas in my hand. Twisting off the cap and tilting the bottle back, I tasted the burning liquid work its way through my body with the single-mindedness of a disease. Resting my head against the wall I just let the tears rage, a flow of unbridled pain and regret washing over me, touching me with the hands of a lover. Suddenly I felt an anger come over me like none I've ever experienced before. Smashing the bottle on the floor I started screaming in rage and frustration, yelling until my voice was harsh and alien. Looking around me I noticed the shards of glass from the broken bottle lying on the floor by my head and thought, "options?"