Impatient Patient

Most people would agree that committing suicide is a cowardly act, but I disagree. I believe that you need a lot of guts to do it.

You are a coward if you kill yourself to avoid confronting any kind of personal problems, but you need a lot of courage to effectively carry it out and end it all, but why would you care if they think you are a coward if you are already dead? Of course I'm not an expert on the subject. First, I would have to kill myself to be an expert, but then I wouldn’t be an expert. I’d just be dead. 

I cry quietly when I’m alone. Solitude always brings pain to my soul. It reminds me of the cruel reality. That I am dying.

If only I could die before my life ends, that would be perfect.

I don’t want anyone to notice my pain and desperation because I don’t want anybody’s compassion. When I think about my hopeless situation I get depressed and suffer, even though I understand about the futility of it. It’s like throwing an anchor to someone who’s drowning. On the other hand, why would I ask God for a miracle when I know that He has already sealed my fate.

My doctor is a friend of my wife's family. I believe my wife and him dated briefly before she married me. His name is Eric. I put my complete trust in him. We've been friends for years. I’m sure he’s doing his best to save me, even though I'm beyond salvation. I also know he does his best for the rest of his patients too, so that removes the tag from me, of being a 'special case'. I feel his compassion and his desire to lessen my suffering.

Before I found out about my illness, my wife and I shared many happy years. Then, we imperceptibly started to disagree about our  desires, inclinations and beliefs. Our real selves began to emerge. We began to spend more time apart, even if we were in the same house. Our relationship survived mostly because of our kids. But our love didn't completely disappear, we still loved each other, we just became too reluctant to show it. It just became a stupid game of, "if you don't show your love I won't show mine either."

Then, the incompatibility began to grow and pushed us further apart. I began to think, ‘what if I’ve taken the other path. What if I had said yes to my other option, to the other candidate, before we met each other.’ My wife was probably having similar thoughts. I suffered being so distant from her. Deep inside, I wanted her to show me more love. But perhaps I was only getting what I deserved.

I knew my wife was a good person with a great heart. I knew it was my fault things didn’t work out. I contributed greatly to change her personality. I extinguished her ebullient love for life with my many flaws. I know she was a better person before she met me.

One day, I was killing time before a doctor’s appointment. Near the office, I noticed a little church, and I decided to have a talk with God. Even though I've never been a religious man, my recent health decline didn't change any of that. 

A non-believer shouldn't ask for miracles, but I did anyway.

“So here I am, asking you for an extension, you’re the landlord and you're asking me to vacate your property, but I renegade your decision, what are you going to do about it?” 

Wait a minute, I began too aggressively, let’s start again. 

“I've learned to love the life you gave me, please don’t take it away just yet. I know you can come up with a trick or two. I can even suggest a few. For example, tomorrow I’ll wake up from my sleep to find that my predicament was just a dream, or they can discover the nurse made a mistake and took a medical record from another patient. Oh, it’s useless, just do whatever you like. But I wish you could change your mind. Take care now, and don’t give yourself a terminal illness.”

The last part of my monologue was a little sarcastic, but I don’t regret it. I know I’m not good enough to influence his decisions, but at the same time I don’t believe I’m bad enough to deserve this fate. The only urgency I have is for God to postpone my death for another thirty years. 

I just wish I didn't know I was dying.

*****

We all have a special friend, one we can trust with our deepest secrets. A friend that you can call to bail you out from jail after a DUI at three A.M. One you can trust with your medical history,  one that will never betray you, even if you tell him you just killed somebody. A friend that will never laugh at you just to make you feel bad. He would never hurt your feelings.

Daniel is that kind of friend. He doesn’t belong to the normal group of friends I socialize with. We confide in each other and talk about our personal problems, things I wouldn't discuss with anybody. He knows I’m dying; he knows about my fears and my thoughts of death and suicide. He knows more about me than my mother. He knows how much I was enjoying life before the current events ravished my future. Of course, I know him well, and I would do anything for him too.

Once he was convinced how serious I was about committing suicide, he gave me a gun. Now, that's what I call a good friend. 

*****

The best thing my wife and I ever did was having kids. They were the glue that kept us together. I love their inner beauty, their peaceful serenity. Nothing can match the happiness they bring to me. I can never be thankful enough for such blessings. At the same time one of the worse regrets I have is knowing that I could have been a better father. If I had more time that's the first thing I would fix.

After I received the devastating news from the doctor I began to make appointments, and get disappointments in return. After bad news, worse news. I never heard of best-case scenarios.

After a while, I lost my patience for everything. I hated when I had to wait in line for whatever reason. At the bank, restaurant, or when I had to wait for my turn at the pool table. Waiting for the movie to begin was bad, but the worst was having to wait for my death to arrive.

One time, I received a call from the dentist office, they said they needed to cancel my appointment. What the hell?  It was like postponing an execution to the electric chair because the sentenced man had suffered a minor toothache (combining barbaric middle age actions with modern human ethics.) They could only put him to death if he was completely healthy. Can you find a worse contradiction? Anyway, why would I need perfect teeth now?

There was one thing I could be thankful for, my physical condition had not suffered any changes. My body was not showing any deterioration yet. At this point only my mind had taken a beating, but I knew I looked healthy overall.

Unnoticed by my family and friends, I occupied most of my time thinking about the short time I had left. I was worried about looking at watches, clocks and calendars. About birthdays and anniversaries, about holidays and vacations. I was worried about time passing by so fast. When you don't know you're dying you don't worry about death.

It’s been a few months since I found out about my prognosis. Perhaps, because of my imminent, gloomy fate, I began to feel an immense love for my wife again. I wanted to share many more years with her, grow old with her. If I could live another thirty years I would do more things than what I’ve done so far. I would get rid of all the faults and defects that I have. I would worship my wife back again. Like when I first met her. I would make every minute of my life count. 

It was ironically sad that I had a doctor’s appointment on my birthday. When you have a death sentence you can’t celebrate your birthdays. Birthdays turn into sad events, and you have to keep it to yourself. You have to keep your tears inside your "joy".

Eric was professionally serious, but I thought I detected a restrained smile on his face. My wife grabbed a chair and put it behind the desk, next to Eric’s chair. At that moment I felt a little jealous. They looked like the perfect couple. My wife, wearing a beautiful smile said . . .  

“We have good news,” then she took a long pause, still smiling, but she seemed to be struggling to find the right words to continue. “What I'm about to say will be a complete shock, but you have to promise you’ll react in a mature way. Promise . . . ?”  

I had no idea what the good news could be. I didn’t have the slightest idea of what they could consider good news in my certain and fatalistic case. Did somebody discover a drug or vaccine to cure my disease? Were they going to confess their love for each other? But, that wouldn't be good news for me, so I discarded that horrific thought right away. Finally, my head stopped from spinning, and I quit wondering about stupid assumptions and I said, “I promise.”

“Don’t speak until I finish,” after a short pause she said, “You are healthy. You were never sick. I planned it all to avoid our marriage to end. I never stopped loving you. I did it because I was afraid of losing you,” then, with tears in her eyes she added, “I just couldn’t live without you. I knew how much you enjoyed life, so I never thought you'd commit suicide, although that was a stupid risk I was running. Now, you can do whatever you like with your life, but I wish you decide to spend it with me. Happy birthday honey, I love you.”

I should have been mad, but I wasn't. I could have had a heart attack and died right there, but instead I stood up and kissed her. I had joyful tears rolling down my cheeks. I was born again. No matter how I would look at it, it was a miracle, nothing but a miracle. How could I feel mad or upset about it, how could I feel angry or annoyed? My heart was full of joy; my soul couldn’t hold so much happiness. 

Then I remembered my visit to that little church, the talk I had with God. I knew I had to go back right away and offer him my repentance and appreciation. The only place I wanted to be at that moment was in that little church.  

My wife and Eric were baffled about my sudden desire to be somewhere else.

*****

On my way to church, I kept thinking how fortunate I was to have my life back. My future was intact after all. I never had a death sentence, and for that reason I never needed a miracle. But in this case I’ll discard all logic and rationale, the hell with it. It’s a miracle as far as I’m concerned, and I’ll never change my mind.

The church was deserted. We had a one-way conversation. One of them, a mere mortal who had received a second chance, and the other, a Supreme Being, able to grant or to deprive of anybody’s life in an instant. He had given me another chance, and this time I wouldn’t waste a minute of it.

"I know I'll never find the proper way to express my gratitude. but I promise you I'll never doubt your existence again, and I can assure you we'll be friends for a long time. I'll be thanking you every single day for the rest of my life."

When I came out of the church my soul was at peace. I was the happiest man on earth if that could be possible. 

Then I heard something that sounded like a firecracker, and then I felt a little pain on my chest. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my good friend Daniel with a gun in his hand. 

Then, before I could react I heard another shot. 

And that was the last thing I heard.

Edmundo Barraza

Visalia, Ca. Aug-7-2011

http://edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com/

Virginia and Her Fears

I'm sitting on a cement bench in front of the house. The bench is against a picket fence next to the sidewalk in the front yard. My twelve year old little sister is next to me. Her legs rock back and forth, with her hands crushed under her legs; she is crouching a little bit. She’s crying, and that makes me sad. 

Even though it's winter, we're warm, very warm, because of the heat coming from the house. The house is burning down. Nobody was home when the fire started, we just came back from school. I called my dad at work to give him the bad news.

I don't know why we ended up in this little town in the central valley of California, an agricultural region near Fresno. I don't know why we left our simple life in central Mexico. Things could have been so different. Who decides our fate?

My mom died last year, some say out of pure sadness. She died disappointed and ashamed in complete sorrow. She wasn't sick, she was defeated.

My dad’s name is Plutarco. Where we’re from, if the first born is a boy, the father names the boy after him, but in this case the boy was a girl, so he named her Plutarca. Ugly name for a man but ten times worse for a woman. 

My mom said dad cursed her with such an ugly name. She said she could see the word 'puta' in her name. And that's what she became, a 'puta', or whore in Spanish.

She lives in Las Vegas now. I heard she sells her body for money. I consulted the meaning of the word ‘prostitute’ in the dictionary, after hearing that word so many times in the house.

She's not completely condemned, she’s a whore, but she also goes to school. She pays for her tuition selling her body. She wanted to get out of this town, she loved having sex, and she wanted to study a career. To reach her goal, she combined her three wishes by becoming a prostitute. Now she does what she wants to get what she likes, or vice versa.  

My mom used to say that Plutarca was always horny, always in need of men, and they could smell that. My mom said Plutarca would change boyfriends more frequent than her underwear. Now, my sister is in exile, my dad kicked her out. One time, she sent money to mom, but she told me to burn it. She didn’t even touch it.

Other than that, she wasn’t a bad person, I still miss her. She was a good sister to me.

My other sister, her case is even worse. She’s still in town; she’s married. I've found her having sex with different men, many times. In the car, at school, in the house, in the backyard, even in the park. My mom used to say she could fuck anything that moved. 

My sister told me that our uncle raped her and that he took her virginity. Yeah, it’s always an uncle or a cousin, but I guess she liked it, because they still do it. Now, I don’t know if we can call her a whore, because she doesn’t do it for money. I guess she’s just addicted to it. My mom used to call her a slut. One time I heard my mom call her a nymphomaniac, (a woman with abnormal desire to have sex) I checked for the meaning of that word in the dictionary when I was eleven years old. 

She does it with co-workers, friends of the family, cousins, nephews and of course, uncles. She’s unashamed, maybe even proud. She doesn't discriminate, she flirts all the time with anybody, from gardeners to lawyers and everyone in between. What I can’t understand is how her husband doesn’t know about it, when everybody in the family does. My dad kicked her out too; she is not allowed in the house anymore, but she still comes when my dad isn’t home. She loves Virginia, but my dad doesn’t want her near her. He says she could contaminate my little sister.

Now, my little sister is sitting next to me, and it breaks my heart to see her sobbing as she watches her house go up in flames. My dad put the house on his and Virginia’s name after my mom died. 

Dad says my mom died of sadness, because of the enormous affliction my two older sisters inflicted on her. My mom used to call them ‘par de pirujas,’ pair of whores. At one point my mom decided not to go out of the house anymore because she said she felt the accusatory stares from the neighbors. Then she lost interest in life and became sad, depressed and joyless, then she fell ill. 

When mom was about to die, she made my dad promise her to leave the house to Virginia, so she wouldn’t become a whore. Her logic was, if she wanted to go to college she could sell the house or maybe a decent man would marry her, even if just for the house.

Before my mom died she called my sister Virginia to give her one last piece of advice. She told her that if the word ‘Puta’ was in Plutarca’s name, the word ‘virgin’ was in the name 'Virginia'. Then she told her to honor her name and not to mess it in the mud. And she begged her not to follow the example of the other ‘par de pirujas'. Finally, she told her to save her innocence and purity for a decent man, and to avoid sex until she got married.That was her only wish, her last wish. 

But I’m still worried about my little sister, because she's even more beautiful than my other two sisters. I knew that her breasts would attract lots of lustful desires. I saw my other two sisters naked, I don’t remember, or I don’t want to admit if it was accidental or on purpose, but I saw them naked a few times, and it was obvious they were going to provoke enough temptations.

My little sister was in deeper trouble than she could imagine. Just the other day she was trying to remove her sweater above her head, but she pulled it up along with her undershirt and I saw her small breasts, well, medium I should say. Hers, are tits that point to heaven but can take to hell, they don't obey the laws of gravity. She tries to hide them to avoid drawing the attention of men between the ages of fifteen to seventy-five. When I was her age I was always trying to hide my erections, I thought everybody noticed them; my crotch looked like a circus tent. My little sister is doing the same thing. She tries to hide her erected tits. She will attract lustful looks anywhere. She’s in trouble and she knows it.

With the house on fire, her options are disappearing too. Her college dreams would fade away. Her good grades will decline too. She would be afraid of needing money for any reason. She could also be afraid she might enjoy sex too much and turn into a sex maniac like her sisters. To other people this logic might seem like absurd preoccupations, but she doesn’t have other examples. What she's seen, is what seems normal to her. 

Of course, she'll be worried about getting too close to her only phobia . . .  becoming a ‘piruja’. With the house in flames, she feels like a step away from becoming one. 

The firefighters are losing the fight to the fire. Her hopes are fading away with the flames. The house is hers, but it is fast turning into ashes. With the house intact she could have pleased mom even more and become a nun. But now, she's probably thinking she's getting closer to graduate as a whore instead.

Our dad just got home, but what home? He's behind us, hugging us both. He knew we were safe. To our surprise, he tells us not to worry, “We had fire insurance.” he says.

He says he’s going to fix it himself. He used to work in construction, and he says we’re going to get a ton of money to fix it. He just needs to do it himself. He says he won’t give the job to unscrupulous general contractors or fraudulent companies and intermediaries that take huge commissions and profits out of suffering homeowners. 

He says he'll rebuild the house, and still have enough money left for a down payment on another house. I told my dad that I didn’t get in time to save our memories, family photographs, birth certificates or the family jewels that were so precious to mom. But he said he took care of all that yesterday. 

Hmm, in the back of my mind I had a little suspicion about that, but I erased it immediately. I knew my dad would do anything to save his last girl from perdition. He knew Virginia was his last hope to make mom proud. My dad too, was trying to make sure my little sister wouldn’t become a ‘piruja’ under any circumstances. He wanted to make a hundred percent sure that my little sister wouldn’t become a whore, a slut, or even a nymphomaniac. 

My dad says that we’re spending the night in a hotel. He tells us not to worry, and says that tomorrow we’ll visit our mom at the graveyard to tell her the good news . . .  Virginia is safe. 

Then, Virginia held my dad's hand, looked into his eyes and simply  said, “Thank you daddy.”

Edmundo Barraza 
Visalia, Ca. 01-27-2011

http://edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com/




 

Spirit in the Sky

If we were doing sixty, the train was probably doing fifty-five. The highway was parallel to the tracks but we were gaining speed because we needed to cross to the other side before the long train arrived at the railroad crossing. It seemed like we were going to beat it. We were getting closer. At that point, we had a better chance if I accelerated a little bit more. If I’d try to use the brakes or chicken out, it would be fatal. 

My brother Ralph was always daring me to do stuff like that, and I was stupid enough to pay attention to him. On the other hand, Anthony was always eager for a chance to reach another adrenaline high. He kept cheering. Ralph was twenty-two years old. Anthony was seventeen, and I was nineteen.

***

I was asleep on the couch, when I heard someone knocking at the door. I didn’t want to get up, but whoever was at the door had been very persistent. When I opened the door nobody was there. I was pissed but happy at the same time because I could go back to sleep. The moment I sat down, they knocked again, this time I hurried to the door but again, nobody was there. When I sat down on the couch I was very alert and ready to jump and catch the funny guy who interrupted my sweet dreams. Even if it were one of my brothers, I would kick his ass.

I was very attentively looking at the door. That's when I noticed they were knocking on another door, the closet door in front of the couch across the room. What the hell? 

I wasn’t mad anymore; that was a cool joke after all. I bet it was my younger brother Anthony. Ralph wasn’t so inventive as to pull such a smart prank. But I still wanted to kick somebody’s ass.

When I opened the closet door, I was still smiling, but nobody was there either. What the hell? I clearly heard someone knocking from the inside. How could they do that? Then I grabbed a visible note that was left hanging from the shelf. It said, “You need to go to the cemetery. We’ll meet you there.” It was signed by Ralph and Anthony.

My brothers and I had always been close. We spent most of our time together. If Ralph wanted to visit our grandma in Tijuana, we would also go. If Anthony wanted to go hiking, we would all go too. Entire days when we were apart were very rare.  

They both knew how much I loved cemeteries. When we were kids, I begged them to join me to the cemetery every year on the day of the dead even though we didn’t have anyone to visit. The first time we smoked grass, we were there. I remember it was a foggy night and just before midnight Ralph said, “Shh, did you guys hear that?” We turned around and a second later we fled like mad ghosts, laughing hysterically.

It was almost dark when I arrived at the cemetery. We always liked a mausoleum with a black marble surface, four thick grey columns and a statue of a child angel. I went straight to that tomb, but they weren’t there. I kept looking for them until I found two mounds of fresh dirt obviously belonging to two recent arrivals. My two brothers were there. I mean, they were there, physically, but they looked transparent and foggy. Each, sitting down on a mound. Then I understood what had happened. We didn’t make it to the other side of the railroad crossing. 

Both of them had a sorrowful smile.

“I miss you brother,” Anthony said to me right away. “We were supposed to be together all our lives. We can’t be apart, remember? We cannot be with you anymore, but you can come with us. You have to, brother. We need you.

Ralph was weeping sadly. “We didn’t make it bro. Well, you did, but not us. We don’t know what’s going on, but I think, soon someone will come for us, ‘cause nobody else is here. And we don’t want to leave without you.”

At last, I understood the situation. I was alive but alone. My whole life ahead of me, but without my brothers it didn’t make sense. I will always be incomplete. The whole world belonged to me, but I didn’t want it. Not without my brothers.

“What’s the solution? What do I need to do to be with you? Does that mean that I have to commit . . . ?” I replied, but I had to stop before I pronounced that ominous word.

“It’s either that or maybe we can help you somehow,” Anthony said. “I think the best thing we can do is to dig another hole next to ours, then you can lie down at the bottom while we fill it back.” He began to dig with his hands. In an instant all three of us were digging, satisfied with Anthony’s idea.

To dig a big hole by hand, even if we were three, it wasn’t easy. We were happy to be together, and we began to reminisce about our childhood and adolescence.

Ralph told us about the time he lost his virginity and about the silly situation he created when he dropped the condom in the dark and kept looking for it under the bed until he noticed he had it on one of his fingers. We laughed until we had tears on our eyes, even though we had heard that story a dozen times before. 

Anthony told us the story about the time he stole one of my dad’s wristwatches to sell and buy a heart pendant for our mom on mother’s day. He was only thirteen. 

When it was my turn to tell a story, we were on our knees, but we couldn’t see the surface anymore. 

Just before I began with my tale, the silhouette of a man appeared with a flashlight on one hand and a shovel on the other. He said, “What the hell are you doing? You grave robbers, sons of bitches!” Not even a second had passed when I felt the shovel hitting the side of my head. I fell on my back, semiconscious, but I still could see the gravedigger trying to hit my brothers with the shovel. Swinging it left and right in vain, and saying, “What the hell?” Until he realized that my brothers were the ghosts or spirits of the two young men, he had recently buried. And he sped away faster than the train that killed my brothers.

I could barely hear the joyous laughter of my brothers. And that made me happy.

The following day there were three mounds of fresh dirt next to each other. 

But we weren’t there anymore.

Edmundo Barraza

Visalia, CA. Nov-14-2012

http://edbar1952-accomplishedignorant.blogspot.com/