Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Disclaimer: See part 1
07/26/03
-
The Last Notebook
By Phenyx
-
I have lost two days.
When I went to bed Monday night, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. The last pages of this journal had been difficult to write, but not traumatic or emotionally stressful in any way. As a matter of fact, I remember feeling a bit pleased with myself at the accomplishment. I had said my goodbyes to those most important to me. I experienced a sense of closure with those relationships.
I woke at dusk on Wednesday, strapped to a hospital bed in the neurology ward. Evidently I've been spouting wiggy for the past couple of days, as Argyle would say. Dr. Carsdayle tells me that Bonnie came to the beach house as usual to clean on Tuesday morning. She found me sitting on the kitchen counter talking gibberish. I seemed responsive when someone spoke, but the language I was using was incomprehensible by anyone around me.
Bonnie is aware that I am ill. She called Carsdayle when she found his phone number posted on the refrigerator door. Her actions saved me a trip to the psych ward for sure. When the paramedics arrived, I was babbling away and bumping into walls. Carsdayle says that the words I was using sounded like some strange cross between Italian and Dutch. He doubts that it was any real language. But then, he is not aware of the number of languages available to me in my fluent repertoire.
It is frightening. I have absolutely no recollection of anything for the past thirty-seven hours.
It could easily have been the end of me. If the synapses of my brain had fired a fraction of a millisecond faster, it could have stopped more than just my sense of consciousness. My heart could have ceased to beat or my lungs failed to take in air. My life could have ended and I would not even have realized it.
I could die at any moment, without warning. That thought scares the hell out of me.
Of course, the alternative is to feel it coming. The head-splitting pounding pain shooting through my temples, the blinding strobe-like flashes, could signal the final shutdown of my mind. If so, I will spend the last minutes of my life curled in a ball, weeping in agony.
I can't decide which possibility frightens me more.
Pain has been such an integral aspect of my life, that the idea of pain doesn't really bother me. So I suppose I could deal with that. Then again, simply slipping away sounds kind of nice, peaceful almost. Of course, I don't really have a choice in the matter so this type of speculation is really a colossal waste of time.
There is an old man in the bed next to me. He is in the final stages of Alzheimer's disease. His days are as numbered as mine. According to the nurses who stop in to check our vitals every fifteen minutes, the poor guy has had no visitors at all in the two months he has been here. Apparently, he has a son and a daughter, both of whom were present on the day he was admitted. But neither has so much as called to check on the guy since. The nurses tell me that the old man was once an affluent and successful businessman on Wall Street. Now, he is a shriveled, pitifully confused shadow of a man. He is short tempered and nasty to the nurses who care for him. As a result, they ignore him, tuning out his comments and irrational demands. They treat him like another piece of medical equipment.
If that is how a successful life ends, I'm glad I never achieved affluence.
I made an attempt to talk with him, at least learn his name. My overture was tossed back at me with a cruel snarl. He is bitter and obnoxious. Too stubborn to feel sorry for himself, his constant derision is getting on my nerves. He reminds me of Mr. Raines, and that spurs my desire to leave this place.
Yet he is so very alone and isolated. I can't help but feel pity for the man. No one should have to die alone.
I felt almost guilty when Bonnie and Cory showed up this morning to check in on me. My dear housekeeper brought my journal and some magazines. Cory brought some flowers, though I think he probably picked them from our neighbor's garden. The boy will be leaving in a few days, heading home to New Hampshire to be with his mother. He wanted to postpone his departure because of my health, sweet kid. But I told him that a son should never, ever neglect his duty to his mother. She misses him. It is time for him to go home.
Besides, I won't be here much longer. Dr Carsdayle will be by within the hour. If he doesn't agree to release me, I'm going to leave A.M.A. There is no reason to waste my time sitting in the hospital when I could be doing the same thing on the beach.
-
Yes, this is definitely much better.
I'm back on the beach with my deck chair propped in the sand. In deference to the medication I am on, I can't have any beer. But a carton of fudge ripple ice cream is equally intoxicating. The tide is rolling in and the waves are just beginning to tickle at my toes.
I am surprised at how easily I have adapted to my beach bum lifestyle. I had thought I would be bored. But there are just too many things to enjoy here, so many sensations. I am savoring every one of them.
Seagulls soar lazily above. Occasionally one of them finds the courage to come closer to inspect my goodies. The sun is hidden by dark clouds this afternoon. A storm is threatening. The smell of rain hangs heavily in the air. But I don't mind. When the drops start to fall, I need only to tuck away my journal. Nothing else will be harmed by a little water.
I find myself urging the clouds to burst. I want to feel the warm water falling on my upturned face. I want to remind myself of that first rainstorm after I escaped. The awe and wonder of that moment was so precious to me. It was almost magical. Not quite as miraculous as my first snowfall, but still incredible.
I wish I had someone to share these thoughts with. I have a deep need to talk to another person. Writing down these musings helps, but it just isn't the same.
Here comes the rain. I must put away my pen for now.
--
It is a new day. The rain has gone, leaving behind only a few clouds. As a result, the sunrise is magnificent.
As I watch the colors morph across the sky, I find myself thinking of my unfortunate roommate at the hospital. Regardless of the money he may have accumulated over the years, I think his life was a pitiful failure. The more I think of him the more I realize what a gift my own life has been.
I am a lucky man, luckier than some. Luckier than Kyle or Angelo or even Parker and Lyle. I am free. They are not and never really were. I wish I could have found some way to make her see the prison she is in. Escape is as real as she wants it to be.
I have loved and been loved. Of this, I have no doubt. My heart has been touched by caring and beautiful souls. I know that I have touched the hearts of others as well. No man could ever ask for more than that.
There is so little time. No time for miniscule regrets. Today will be a good day. There is no headache. There are no flashing lights this morning. The sunrise seems to have been painted across the heavens just for me to enjoy. I'll head to the beach now to walk along the surf before the dunes get too hot. I'll find little starfish stranded by the tide and help them back into the sea.
Perhaps I'll build a sand castle.
--
07/26/03
-
The Last Notebook
By Phenyx
-
I have lost two days.
When I went to bed Monday night, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. The last pages of this journal had been difficult to write, but not traumatic or emotionally stressful in any way. As a matter of fact, I remember feeling a bit pleased with myself at the accomplishment. I had said my goodbyes to those most important to me. I experienced a sense of closure with those relationships.
I woke at dusk on Wednesday, strapped to a hospital bed in the neurology ward. Evidently I've been spouting wiggy for the past couple of days, as Argyle would say. Dr. Carsdayle tells me that Bonnie came to the beach house as usual to clean on Tuesday morning. She found me sitting on the kitchen counter talking gibberish. I seemed responsive when someone spoke, but the language I was using was incomprehensible by anyone around me.
Bonnie is aware that I am ill. She called Carsdayle when she found his phone number posted on the refrigerator door. Her actions saved me a trip to the psych ward for sure. When the paramedics arrived, I was babbling away and bumping into walls. Carsdayle says that the words I was using sounded like some strange cross between Italian and Dutch. He doubts that it was any real language. But then, he is not aware of the number of languages available to me in my fluent repertoire.
It is frightening. I have absolutely no recollection of anything for the past thirty-seven hours.
It could easily have been the end of me. If the synapses of my brain had fired a fraction of a millisecond faster, it could have stopped more than just my sense of consciousness. My heart could have ceased to beat or my lungs failed to take in air. My life could have ended and I would not even have realized it.
I could die at any moment, without warning. That thought scares the hell out of me.
Of course, the alternative is to feel it coming. The head-splitting pounding pain shooting through my temples, the blinding strobe-like flashes, could signal the final shutdown of my mind. If so, I will spend the last minutes of my life curled in a ball, weeping in agony.
I can't decide which possibility frightens me more.
Pain has been such an integral aspect of my life, that the idea of pain doesn't really bother me. So I suppose I could deal with that. Then again, simply slipping away sounds kind of nice, peaceful almost. Of course, I don't really have a choice in the matter so this type of speculation is really a colossal waste of time.
There is an old man in the bed next to me. He is in the final stages of Alzheimer's disease. His days are as numbered as mine. According to the nurses who stop in to check our vitals every fifteen minutes, the poor guy has had no visitors at all in the two months he has been here. Apparently, he has a son and a daughter, both of whom were present on the day he was admitted. But neither has so much as called to check on the guy since. The nurses tell me that the old man was once an affluent and successful businessman on Wall Street. Now, he is a shriveled, pitifully confused shadow of a man. He is short tempered and nasty to the nurses who care for him. As a result, they ignore him, tuning out his comments and irrational demands. They treat him like another piece of medical equipment.
If that is how a successful life ends, I'm glad I never achieved affluence.
I made an attempt to talk with him, at least learn his name. My overture was tossed back at me with a cruel snarl. He is bitter and obnoxious. Too stubborn to feel sorry for himself, his constant derision is getting on my nerves. He reminds me of Mr. Raines, and that spurs my desire to leave this place.
Yet he is so very alone and isolated. I can't help but feel pity for the man. No one should have to die alone.
I felt almost guilty when Bonnie and Cory showed up this morning to check in on me. My dear housekeeper brought my journal and some magazines. Cory brought some flowers, though I think he probably picked them from our neighbor's garden. The boy will be leaving in a few days, heading home to New Hampshire to be with his mother. He wanted to postpone his departure because of my health, sweet kid. But I told him that a son should never, ever neglect his duty to his mother. She misses him. It is time for him to go home.
Besides, I won't be here much longer. Dr Carsdayle will be by within the hour. If he doesn't agree to release me, I'm going to leave A.M.A. There is no reason to waste my time sitting in the hospital when I could be doing the same thing on the beach.
-
Yes, this is definitely much better.
I'm back on the beach with my deck chair propped in the sand. In deference to the medication I am on, I can't have any beer. But a carton of fudge ripple ice cream is equally intoxicating. The tide is rolling in and the waves are just beginning to tickle at my toes.
I am surprised at how easily I have adapted to my beach bum lifestyle. I had thought I would be bored. But there are just too many things to enjoy here, so many sensations. I am savoring every one of them.
Seagulls soar lazily above. Occasionally one of them finds the courage to come closer to inspect my goodies. The sun is hidden by dark clouds this afternoon. A storm is threatening. The smell of rain hangs heavily in the air. But I don't mind. When the drops start to fall, I need only to tuck away my journal. Nothing else will be harmed by a little water.
I find myself urging the clouds to burst. I want to feel the warm water falling on my upturned face. I want to remind myself of that first rainstorm after I escaped. The awe and wonder of that moment was so precious to me. It was almost magical. Not quite as miraculous as my first snowfall, but still incredible.
I wish I had someone to share these thoughts with. I have a deep need to talk to another person. Writing down these musings helps, but it just isn't the same.
Here comes the rain. I must put away my pen for now.
--
It is a new day. The rain has gone, leaving behind only a few clouds. As a result, the sunrise is magnificent.
As I watch the colors morph across the sky, I find myself thinking of my unfortunate roommate at the hospital. Regardless of the money he may have accumulated over the years, I think his life was a pitiful failure. The more I think of him the more I realize what a gift my own life has been.
I am a lucky man, luckier than some. Luckier than Kyle or Angelo or even Parker and Lyle. I am free. They are not and never really were. I wish I could have found some way to make her see the prison she is in. Escape is as real as she wants it to be.
I have loved and been loved. Of this, I have no doubt. My heart has been touched by caring and beautiful souls. I know that I have touched the hearts of others as well. No man could ever ask for more than that.
There is so little time. No time for miniscule regrets. Today will be a good day. There is no headache. There are no flashing lights this morning. The sunrise seems to have been painted across the heavens just for me to enjoy. I'll head to the beach now to walk along the surf before the dunes get too hot. I'll find little starfish stranded by the tide and help them back into the sea.
Perhaps I'll build a sand castle.
--
