When It All ends

That night Seth dreamed.

It nearly killed him.

He was in a normal place at first. A place with sunshine and green leaves, a blue cloudless sky and a breeze that gently wafted the aromas of honeysuckle, lilac and cedar in perfect combination.

Outwardly idyllic, the effect this scene had on him emotionally was one of longing and poignancy that caught his breath. Somehow and in someway, while in this dream setting he was not part of it, like it was enveloped in some kind of crystal clear shrink-wrap that he could not penetrate no matter how hard he tried.

The feeling of loss this engendered seemed to go on forever, and sink whatever hope may have lain dormant in his heart.

He wanted with all his will to awake from sleep and have this fade into memory, but it stubbornly remained and entrapped him on the outside.

After some timeless and excruciating interval, he began to move away from the warmth and sunlight. He could still see it sharply, the image cutting open his heart even as it became smaller in perspective.

He began to bleed copiously from his chest, at first brightly red, but then becoming dark and sluggish; thick like the sludge that sometimes comes from a long disused water faucet.

As his blood spread, it blocked out the rapidly dwindling panorama of sunlit forest still receding from him. It became like a pitch-black curtain admitting not even the smallest photon of light.

In turn, the curtain began to enfold him in greasy, smothering folds of lead-heavy and coarse cloth.

And then it drew tighter, like a cocoon, or a mummy wrap.

Now all was fathomless darkness, intolerably close and hot.

His breathing became more labored, each laborious inhalation taking minutes to satisfy his imperious need for air.

He could not move arms or legs.

The terror of suffocating intensified. His entire existence focused on the next unsatisfying breath.

Until an even greater fear engulfed him.

At first it commenced as an unnoticed rumble of thunder on the very edge of perception.

It sounded like a cataract of water roaring over the edge of some great cliff.

Then it became much louder very quickly as he seemed to be falling toward it.

As he descended the heat became unbearable.

The blackness around him began to deteriorate. Bright orange writhing worms of flame seemed to be consuming it, replacing it with a deeper, more pervasive red glow.

Now the heat became so intense it felt like icy fingers slicing away his skin and scorching his very bones with acid tongues of flame.

The agony nearly overwhelmed him. Never in all his years had he felt such physical pain.

He opened his mouth to scream and the worms of fire leapt down his throat, searing his lungs and burning him literally from the inside out.

And still he fell into increasing heat and crushing depth.

Now the far memory of sunlight and leaves seemed only to exacerbate the torture as he uncomprehendingly longed for the pain to cease, yet it did not.

It maintained itself unabated, feeding endlessly on his flesh, but never consuming it.

Always the same indescribable torment, not for a second abating...

Finally, mercifully Seth awoke.

His body and the bedclothes around him were drenched in sweat.

His heart was racing almost to the point of bursting, and he was gasping for air.

He suspected he was near death, and that thought for the very first time in his self-centered life brought not a hint of relief from the cares of this world, as it had done in the past.

Instead, it filled him with a dread that made the darkened bedroom spin in a sickening spiral.

When he awoke again, he found himself on the floor, having lost consciousness and having slipped noiselessly from the bed in a tangle of drenched sheets.

He was shaking as he extricated himself and walked unsteadily into the bathroom.

He reached the toilet just as an unstoppable wave of nausea engulfed him.

He remained kneeling in front of the bowl in the dim illumination of the hall night light, too weak to move.

Seth tried to dismiss the nightmare and chalk it up to the deleterious effects of all the pressure about Jill's incident he was feeling.

But a very small voice in the back of his mind kept asking himself inconveniently, "Is that what death is really like?"

It's Not What You Think

Life returned to normal once Jill returned home from the hospital.

Except Seth became obsessed with keeping her safe and stress free so that her weakened cerebral arteries would never again be overburdened. And when he was not overzealously pursuing her preservation to the point of his own physical and emotional exhaustion, he expended whatever was left of his obsessional energies on ensuring that all the memorabilia of his wife - photos, letters, videos, artwork, crafts, everything that had her imprint upon it - was categorized and in safekeeping. It was absolute torture for him, the more so because to not do it was completely unbearable.

Seth was almost a person in that his love for Jill sometimes approached the border beyond the sphere of himself and ventured into the realm of actually caring for her, for her sake alone. Those times, infantile and clumsy, were nonetheless what endeared him the most to his wife and daughters. They were what gave Jill the most hope that perhaps it was not too late for his heart to soften and his his eyes to open to how things really were in the world.

For his part, Seth desperately avoided facing the reality that everything he depended upon to cope with life could be ripped from him in an instant. The fragility of his  wife, his girls, his job, his health, his security - all these fundamentally essential things - he could not afford to look at honestly because if he did, his sanity would run screaming into a black hole never to reemerge. It had come close in the back of that ambulance, and he must avoid at all costs a repeat of that glance over the abysmal event horizon.

"You can't keep this up," Jill told him gently two weeks after the hospital. "You are trying to control the universe. It won't work."

He looked at her, exhaustion evident in his face and eyes.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, trying, and failing, not to be annoyed.

"You are worried about things you can't control. My life is not in your hands."

He looked at her, his red-rimmed eyes like a lost little boy.

"Look, I'm just trying to minimize the risks."

"Seth," she said, "life is not what you think. It's not what you think at all. You and I don't control anything. We can either submit completely to the One who does, trusting that He knows best and loves us. Or we can engage in a hopeless and purposeless battle that cannot be won unless we surrender."

"I don't know what that means." It was almost, but not quite, a plaintive whine.

"It's like Jacob wrestling with God. He was losing as long as he continued to struggle. It was only when he gave up the fight and asked for a blessing that he began to understand. And then the Lord graciously gave him a limp for the rest of his life as a reminder of how things really work."

"Bible stuff again," he said. "You know I don't get it. You know I don't get how you can believe it."

She sighed. For a smart man he was incredibly thick.

"Seth, you are holding onto the wrong things. You are striving against forces over which you cannot prevail; like a solitary man trying to hold his ground against a tidal wave. It's not possible. It's not even sensible."

"I get the tidal wave bit," he said. "I do. I'm just trying to get away from the shore."

"But I like the shore," she said with a smile. "Some of the best times, the times most worth living are right on the beach. Despite the dangers. Maybe even because of them."

"So what are you saying? Just give up and let you die without a fight?"

There was a fierce anger just underneath his voice. Anger at her for being mortal. Anger at himself for being so dependent and weak. Anger at life itself.

"It's not up to you, Seth. It's not up to me either. And I'm not saying 'give up and die'. I'm saying give up and live!"

"I don't know what that means!"

She growled.

"You are blind to how gracious God has been to us. To you. You are so afraid of things getting worse that you have no clue how good they have been! How many families out there in the world suffer loss every day! How many moms and dads weep over the graves of their children? How many watch as loved ones go through unmitigated agony helpless to do anything? I love you, Seth but you are an incredible idiot!"

"I don't care about all that other stuff. It doesn't mean anything to me. They're just words!"

"Bingo!" she said, an expression of equal parts of love, pity and exasperation. "And until they're more than that, your life is going to be a living Hell!"

"I'll try," he said to mollify her, to keep her calm so her brain wouldn't die.

Photographs and Memories (2)

"Transient Ischemic Attack," was the diagnosis received from the physician in charge after he and Jill spent more than four hours in the Emergency Room at the local hospital.

"Does she have a history of circulatory problems?" the doctor asked.

Seth nodded his head in the affirmative.

"Numbness sometimes in her extremities. Cold feet. And it runs in her family. Mother, siblings, all suffer from a variety of symptoms."

"Migraines?"

"Not her, but others in the family. And hers seems to be more frequent lately, particularly in the last year or so."

"Has she been under any particular stress over that time? Has she lost anyone close to her?" he asked.

Seth thought about the past twelve months, and all that was going on. "Yes," he said.

"Not surprising, then," the doctor concluded. "These things tend to be genetic and prone to be exacerbated by stress. Especially long-term stress."

"So this was a precursor to a stroke?" Seth asked, battling ferociously against a growing feeling of helplessness.

"It could very well be," he replied. "Technically, a typical stroke is caused by lack of oxygen and blood to the brain. Your wife suffered a brief overabundance, causing her to lose consciousness this morning for a time."

Seth felt a chill descend across his chest. Images of Jill being stricken at any moment by a massive stroke filled his mind. Paralysis, even death could be the at-any-time result. Each morning, each moment could be her last. He would never hold her or speak to her again. Their children could be without their mother at the tick of the clock.

He tried to bury these mental images but they would not stay covered, bubbling horribly to the surface of his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to suppress them.

As an intellectual possibility, the sudden loss of a loved one was always in the back of his anxiety-ridden mind, but this was an immediate, and clear and present danger. This was real. And there was very little he could do about it. Whatever medications or therapy regimen recommended would never really mitigate the risks in his mind. 

This woman with whom his life was inextricably intertwined could suddenly cease to be. For real. Today. Tomorrow. Any moment.

The prospect was unbearable. It made every single second with her intolerably poignant. How could he live with this hanging over his head?

And his girls, could he, should he, tell them? He knew Jill would want them to know the truth and then just get on with their lives. Of all of them, Seth knew that Jill and their daughters would be the stronger. He was the one who would undoubtedly collapse, and his weakness would, in effect, leave his children orphans.

"I am in the Lord's hands," she had told him as he grasped her hand in the back of the ambulance he had finally had the sense to summons. "He knows the number of my days, and will work all things together for good, even this," she assured him.

He was buying none of it, and yet - and yet - what else could he do?

"You cannot die before me," he told her. "You cannot leave us," he begged.

"It is not up to me," she said with a weak smile. "Or you. He knows what's best."

A desire to scream his frustration at her swept over him almost uncontrollably. Almost. He clamped down on it with all the will power he could muster. How could he possibly ever be angry at her again given that she could die at any second?

But how could she believe such nonsense, really? If there was a God, and this God loved her, why would He do this to her, or, at the least, allow it to happen to her?

Of all the people he knew in the world, his wife deserved this fate the least.

"I know what you're thinking," she had said to him. "I always know what you're thinking, husband. And you're wrong. It's not nonsense. It's the truth. And all of us deserve death."

"Not you," he choked out.

"And I am not worried about our girls. Not really. They know the Lord, and He will take care of them. I am worried about you, though. You are so very thick-headed and stubborn."

"You cannot leave me," he said through tears. "It is too soon. You are too young. The girls are not all grown."

"When I die, Seth, I will be with the Lord in Heaven. If He takes me home now, or 20 years from now, I know where I will be. But you…"

She did not finish the thought, and for the first time since this all began, he saw fear and unutterable regret in her eyes. Her sudden tears were not for herself, but for him. It broke his heart even further.

And it made him want to throw himself out the ambulance onto the highway.

The anticipated grief and pain of loss was simply too great. He wished with all his heart he had never been born.

Photographs and Memories (1)

He awoke, as he always did during the week, just before 5:00 AM, walked stiffly down the steps and gingerly endeavored to complete his morning workout. It got harder as the years rolled by, but he gritted his teeth and 45 minutes later ambled less stiffly back upstairs to take a shower and get dressed for the office.

His wife had not moved in their bed which was unusual. Normally, she made her way to his side, once vacated, to put her head on his pillow and hug the covers to herself. She did it, she always said, to keep the memory of his presence next to her for as long as possible before she started her day homeschooling their girls, and taking care of the thousand little details necessary for the efficient running of a large and busy household.

"I miss you when you leave," she said in the same explanation over the last quarter century of their lives together. "It helps to lay on your side of the bed."

It was too endearing to him for words, especially after all this time, so he always said nothing and kept his face expressionless lest something, he didn't know what, break.

This morning was different, and a secret stab of deep panic knifed into him. She lay absolutely still, not having moved from when he'd first awoke.

She was breathing, he discovered quickly, but just in odd, shallow and silent inhales that barely moved her chest.

"Jill!" he called her name close to her ear in an intense whisper, his own heart beating wildly.

No response.

"Jill! Wake up! I'm going!"

She would never let him leave the house without saying goodbye and telling him she loved him.

Nothing.

It was inexpressibly odd how quickly the chasm of unbridled terror opened up inside him. She would not wake up. What if she never woke up again?

She was the anchor of his soul. She was why he did nearly everything he did; the background engine of his life; the thing that kept him going despite the ever-growing and unavoidable conviction of the poignant futility of life.

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, desperate for some response.

She lay like a warm and lifeless doll, her hair askew, her consciousness far away and unreachable.

"Jill!" he called again louder, more evident panic in his voice, like a lost little boy in a huge shopping mall.

Then the thought that she was dying descended upon him full force, a crushing, paralyzing weight that froze him in time and space.

Never, ever in his life had he felt… so abandoned and alone. 

What followed was an endless 20 minutes of frantic, and quietly desperate efforts to wake her. 

Adult rationality had fled. Rather than call 911, or yell for his daughters' to get help, or do anything remotely sensible, he was caught up in a mindless attempt to get his beloved wife back from wherever she had gone.

In retrospect, it was the stupidest, most irresponsible thing he could have done. He risked her life by not thinking. Rather than act as quickly as possible to get an EMT or an ambulance, he knelt on the bed over her, tears streaming unnoticed down his face, shaking and pleading wordlessly for her to wake up.

It worked.

In the muted daylight of the bedroom he saw the glint of her brown eyes as they slowly opened.

She tried to speak, and couldn't at first, but then, "Something's wrong..." she slurred.

© aqvik 2011

It'll Take a Miracle!

He was a decent enough guy; a faithful husband, a good provider for his wife and children. He was even lovingly tolerant of their rather fanatical (to him) religious beliefs. Or so he thought, anyway.

He went with them to church multiple times a week, and even sometimes stayed to listen to the sermon, er, message, that the casually dressed pastor gave for an hour.

The worship beforehand was OK, too, mostly modern choruses with some modernized old-timey hymns. Some of the post-concert preaching afterwards wasn't horribly boring, either, but it was mostly stuff that didn't scratch where he was itching.

What he really tuned out was all this talk of prophecy and end-times. It sounded pretty much like all the crazy stuff he heard about on the news - this or that loser setting dates or claiming the world was coming to an end soon. Hadn't they been saying that, like, forever?

In truth, he held his wife in a little contempt for being so gullible, and propagandizing his daughters with the same silliness, but he loved her and his kids, and she was an otherwise stellar wife and mother, and his girls were the most delightful kids he knew. They seemed to be immune to the normal preadolescent and adolescent craziness and nastiness that seemed to plague his coworkers' children. 

Secretly, he credited his own parenting skills for their outstanding character and sociability, and found the complaints of the men and women he worked with about their own children to be more than a little disloyal.

Obviously, they were doing something wrong.

The craziest notion by far taught at their little fundamentalist church was the whole bizarre idea about being raptured up into heaven before things really fell apart here on the planet. The concept just made him want to laugh. How could anybody take it seriously?

He had discussed it once with his wife on the ride to church in what turned out to be a very unsatisfying dialog.

"You mean to tell me," he asked as kindly as he could, "that Jesus will come down and take all his favorite followers into heaven before 'pouring out His wrath on the rest of the world'?" He thought he was being respectful, but the others in the car would have said he was obviously condescending.

"It has nothing to with favoritism," his wife replied gently. "It has to do with faith."

"Don't you know, Daddy?" his nine year old chimed in worriedly. "All we have to do is believe in Jesus, and He forgives us our sins, and we get into heaven? Can't you just believe, Daddy? That's all it takes! You don't have to be perfect or anything!"

She was really concerned , and that bothered him a lot. It was almost like she couldn't love him as much unless he went along with her mother's crazy beliefs.

"Don't worry, honey," he reassured her. "Your daddy's a pretty good guy, all in all, even if I do say so myself. I'm sure God will take that into account."

"That's really not how it works, Daddy," his middle daughter said. "Nobody can be good enough to get into heaven on their own."

"We're all stinkin', rotten sinners, Dad," his 17 year-old declared emphatically. She never said or believed anything halfway, he had to say that for her. He admired her passionate conviction, but wished she would develop a more nuanced world view. She was clearly headed for a life of unpopularity. That was a shame for someone as pretty as she was, but what could you do? 

Maybe her looks would allow her to get by. He hoped so. Loneliness was a terrible way to live.

"Wow!" he cried in mock surrender, deciding to end the conversation before they all ended up preaching their gospel to him. Again. "You guys are pretty convinced you've got everything wired, I see. Well good for you. Maybe I'll get there some day."

"We are praying for you, hon," his wife said, knowingly.

"Every day, Daddy," his youngest affirmed.

"Do you think it'll work?" he asked, quoting one of their favorite movie lines from a classic comedy.

"It'll take a miracle!" the middle daughter replied, in perfect imitation of the actor playing the scene.

© aqvik 2011