Close Call

I never wanted this to become my diary.   Blogging is so ten years ago.  I just like classifying this as writing.  That's all it is... it's a stage for failed poets, it's the written version of selfies... it's a crayon drawing by a kindergartener...

This, what I do, always after midnight, is me talking.  I can't be interrupted here.  You can't start throwing cliches at me.  You can't stop me mid-sentence and start talking about you.  You can call this emotional manipulation because sometimes it is.   You can call this awkward because sometimes I am.

I'm sitting here biting my nails.  I stand up to pace back and forth.  Then, I decide to just write.  To kill time.  To be vague.  To be heard.   Because no one is around to listen.

I like to solve everyone's problem.  Except my own.   Sometimes, we can't fix things or people.  Right now, it's futile for me to try.  So, I wait.  I chew my nails.  I drink coffee.  I consider learning how to smoke.   I pray.

Every cliche I have ever used to comfort those I love who lost a mom or a father or a child, they sure feel empty now. 

I'm hesitant to call anything a close call.  An almost.   Glass half empty.  Glass half full.  Chicken or the egg.

It shouldn't take two minutes to tell the 911 operator, mom is having chest pains.   I'm not a crier.  Well, except at those god damned ASPCA commericals, the St. Jude commercials, corny tv shows and girl movies.  It took two minutes to compose myself and calmy state six words.

I had a lot of thoughts going through my head as the paramedics were putting her in the ambulance.  I really wish you were here.  God, I want to call you.   I wish I had more family than just her.   Self-awareness sets in as I realize all my thoughts are about me as she is clutching her chest and breathing heavily.

I forgot about the argument we had two hours prior about her showing up here uninvited today and then spent the day nagging at me.  I forgot about all the times I was angry at just the sound of her voice.   I forgot everything except that's the woman who gave birth to me and did her best raising me alone. 

She'll be fine.  It was a close call says the doctor.  Appointment with the cardiologist on monday.  New meds.  Less stress.  Eat better.   Lose weight. 

I'm still biting my nails.  My stomach still aches. I'm still struggling to complete a sentence.  Every cliche and word of comfort I've prescribed to others still feel empty. 

Mom says Alls well that ends well now that her chest pains have subsided.   And I start getting irritated again.  I don't even know what the fuck that means.  But I laugh and nod in agreement.

It's been a good day. 

For a close call.