When I Was 8...

They say that sometimes, when someone goes through a traumitizing event, the mind will force itself to black out that memory as a defense mechinism to keep itself sane. I have realized that all through out my life, this rings true. Sections of my life are missing due to heavy drug use, other sections are missing due to my mind porposley blocking them out. But, I guess, those blanked out memories aren't as far behind me as I'd like to believe they are.

First of all, let me say this. My father's death wasn't an accident or something unexpected. He was a 67 year old man who had lived a full life consisting of three marriages - the final one to my mother, three children - one from each marriage. He had watched 2 of his 3 wives die. He watched his parents die. He even watched his oldest daughter die. He was retired from the steel mill, and a beef farmer. He was also a heavy alcoholic and had smoked for almost 50 years before putting his last cigerrette out the day my mom told him she was pregnant with me. He hated doctor's and the only time he saw one was when he was in the ER after each of his 3 heart attacks and a stroke. As long as I can remember my father slept downstairs in the living room because he couldn't get up the stairs. He had no feeling in his feet, which would often change colors and Mom had to check them everyday. I never understood why, but Mom told me it was called "Gangreen". It took me until High School to figure out what Gangreen was. Deep down, we knew he didn't have alot of time left. But, as a child, you see your dad as this mighty immortal super-hero.

Most of the events surrounding my father's death are either a blur or just aren't there at all. I was only 8 years old at the time, so alot of things I just didn't understand. But, somehow, I think I understood more than everyone thought I did.

Last night I fell asleep on my bed, between my fiance and our dog. It was a normal night, except when I feel asleep I wasn't fully asleep. I was aware of every thought and every dream. The things I saw in my head were so vivid that I woke up sobbing. It wasn't a nightmare. No. Not a nightmare at all. Instead, I relived being 8 years old and realizing that nobody lives forever.

It was August. The leaves on the trees were a bright array of colors, including the green that hadn't completley turned. The weather was still warm but the crisp smell of cold lingered in the air. It had been two weeks since I started back at school, proud to be in the fourth grade. My school was a three room schoolhouse, two classes in each room from first to sixth grade. The Kindergarten class was in a double wide trailer off to the side of the school house with the tiny library and principal's office. I was in the second year of bieng in Mrs. Cole's class and had a sudden feeling of maturity since half the class was a grade lower. I loved school. I loved my home. I loved my life.

Mom was waiting at the bus stop in the old tan S10 like she did everyday. I ran to the truck, briefly turning to Goldie, my bus driver, and waving bye. That morning before I had gone to school I knew something was wrong, but being a kid you don't focus on it and it let the feeling of foreboding pass over you like wind. I had gotten dressed for school and ran down the stairs to the bathroom to fix my hair. Dad wasn't on the bottom steps like he ussually is. I looked in his room, and there he laid still in bed. Dad never stayed in bed past 5am. He was always awake before the sun, and back in bed for the night right after he watched the sunset. I walked over to him and shook him awake.

"You okay, Daddy?"
"Yeah, baby, I'm okay. Just a little under the weather."
"You need anything?"
"No, baby, just get ready for school..."

Getting into the truck after school, Mom told me we were going to take a trip to the mall. I don't remember why, and I probally didn't care. Going out to the mall was a big deal when you were small and living in the middle of nowhere on a farm. Our mall was a few towns over, so the trip would be an all day event.

Mom drove back to the house so I could drop of my backpack and grab a jacket in case the evening got chilly. Dad was still in bed when I ran in and once again I asked him if he was alright.

"You okay, Daddy?"
"Yes."
"You need anything?"
"No, hurry along now before it gets to late."

Dad's responses were rushed, like he wanted me out of the house immediatly. I obeyed and didn't think much of it, running back out to the truck ready to go. At the end of our two-mile lane, I realized I had forgotten to grab my jacket. Mom immediatly turned around and we went back to get it.

I ran inside the house as quick as I could. As I shot into the door I was brought to a screaching halt by the sight of blood. Blood. Not just a puddle of blood, but a bloody footprint. My father's bloody foot print. As I looked I nopticed more bloody footprints over the hallway linoleum leading into the bathroom. The door was shut. There was no sound. I looked to the living room and there his blankets were mangled into a heap covered in blood. He wasn't there. I didn't get my jacket. I didn't get any farther then the doorway. I turned around and headed back to the truck.

"Mom."
"Hurry up! Get your jacket! We don't have all day!"
"Mom, something is wrong with Dad..."

I saw mom notice the look on my face. She knew it was serious. She turned the engine off and ran into the house. We didn't go to the mall that day.

I don't remember the rest of the day except for sitting on the top step in the darkness watching my mom scrub the bloody footprints off of the floor. I don't know what was wrong with dad, or why. I just knew it wasn't good. I remember being sad, but not worried. I remember the look on my mom's face.

The next morning I got up and got ready for school. Dad was sitting on the bottom step and he hugged me before I left. It was a strong, deep hug. I remember the feeling of his beard scratching me cheeks. I kissed him on his forehead, like I always did, and ran out the door to my mom waiting in the truck to drive me to the bus stop.

When I got to the bus stop at the end of the lane after school, no one was there. No Chevy purring waiting for me. No one. Goldie wouldn't let me get off the bus without someone being there, and after waiting for what seemed like an eternity, she decided to drive the bus into the lane to my house. The bus was big and the lane was small. Finally, she got to our old farm house. The lights were on, but the truck was gone.

"Is your Mom home?"
"Yeah, the lights are on."
"Okay. Be careful."

I knew I was lieing, but I didn't know what else to do. Goldie let me off the bus and I went inside. The house was quiet. All I felt was hungry.

Now, I realize that this was probally the begining of my "food addiction". It was definatly the first signs of my addictive personality. When I came home that day, for the first time being all alone, I ate. I ate everything I saw. I ate and never got full. I started with cold foods, poptarts and stashed junk food. Then I started on things I could easily heat in the microwave. Soon, the kitchen was littered with crumbs, dirty dishes, and wrappers. I even taught myself how to cook on the stove that day, boiling macaroni. It was in the midst of eating a huge plate of "mac and cheese" that my mom came into the house.

She didn't see the mess I had made. She barely noticed anything at all. She simply told me to get my homework and anything else I needed because we were going to the hospital to be with my dad.

The days of my father being in the hospital are another blur to me. I remember being there for what seemed like months, even though I'm not quite sure how long it really was. I remember leaving the hospital every night, long past when visiting hours were over, singing "Goodnight Sweetheart" at the top of our lungs. For me, It made me feel better and for my mom I think it did the same. I guess it was kind of a stress relief after the long hours we spent there. I think Mom knew Dad wasn't going to make it out. I still didn't have a clue.

The only day I really remember spending at the hospital was the last day I ever saw my father alive. His hospital room was ment for two people, but he was the only person there. So, I would lay on the empty bed next to him flicking through the television channels. I had a bad habit of picking my nose and eating boogars when I was young, a disqusting habit I know now. But at that time I didn't care who saw me, and sat on the empty bed beside my sleeping father just picking away. A nurse from our church was standing outside the door watchng me. I remember seeing her there, and simply not caring. She ran down to the waiting room to tell my mother what she had seen.

My mother was in the waiting room surrounded by all her friends from church. The waiting room was packed with people to support her in her time of need. I guess the nurse blurted things out right in front of everybody, and my mom stormed to the room to swoop me up in a rage. Instead of her speaking to me privatly about the matter, she made her speech public as well. It was the first time I ever recall feeling embarrasement, as well as depressed. She humiliated me in front of everyone. I remember standing there, knowing what I did was wrong, and for the first time in my life I not only felt shame but also worthlessness and depression. It was the first time in my life I was ever suicidal, and I was only 8 years old. After visiting hours were over and everyone had left, I faked being sick. The next day Mom left me at a friends house because she didn't want to spread whatever illness I had throughout the hospital.