All in a moment

And as they reminisced

trying to recapture that feeling

they realized.

They understood gods purpose,

his purpose for them.

It wasn't the people

It wasn't the time

and it wasn't the place

nor the song.

It was the culmination of them all

that created that perfect moment,

a feeling of togetherness,

in a world carved out of loneliness

Not Yet - Part 1 of 3 (Fiction)

      I first learned about death when I was 7 years old. My grandmother had fallen ill and passed away quite suddenly. I didn't understand what was happening. It wasn't long after that when I learned that I too would die. To this day it remains the most frightening moment of my life. It is truly remarkable that this is still the most frightened I have ever been. I say this because some of the events that would transpire later in my life, but I ill get to that.
     When I consulted my mother about what had happened to my grandmother she had sat me down and explained to me; "That's what old people do, you see. They die".

I replied; "And when I get old, ill I die too?!"

"If you're lucky you will be as old as grama when you die", she said.

"But I don't want to die ever mommy, please don't let me die"!

She patted me on the head and smiled gently, "You wont die for a long time".
The reassurance didnt help matters any.

     Now, to say that I was panic stricken would be an enormous understatement. Especially when I learned that people can die at any age. When I was in the 3rd grade, a girl in my class had been in an automobile accident that had killed her and her entire family. I remember going into shock when I realized that I could die at any moment. I began to suffer from severe panic attacks and felt like I couldnt breath. My mother had taken me to the hospital for this on a weekly basis. We finally ended up going to a specalist who had diagnosed me with "severe onset anxiety", to which I still suffer.

     From that day forward I have been completely afraid of death at all times. The medication they prescribed me had only made me sleepy. When I would awaken, it wouldnt be long before I would revert back to panic mode. The thought of no longer breathing, and being placed into the ground for eternity to rot, it plagued me constantly. By the time I was in middle school, I had become obsessed with the fear of death, it consumed me. There wasn't any particular method of dying that scared me, it was just death in general. I began to feel as though death was like that pesky rain cloud that just hovered over me at all times. And ultimately, we become our thoughts. The things that we think about and obsess over, they manifest themselves into our lives. I read in the newspaper that a serial killer was on the loose 2 states over, and that he was targeting little boys. It was during this time that I stopped leaving the house. Even after he was captured, my fears only escalated. I did not want to die, ever.

   
     I began to study nutrition, and read all of those articles concerning food and drink that was "bad for you". I became a health nut, and I would exercise 3 times a day. But I would never, ever leave the house. I took countless dietary supplements, whatever vitamins or super foods my health research had led me to.
     My mother grew more and more concerned. She would bring countless shrinks and psychiatrists to the house to talk with me. There was one occasion when I had gotten into a heated dispute with one of the counselors. I had proposed to him the question; "How is it that you can possibly go on in your every day life, going through the motions, knowing you are going to die"? To this, he had first stumbled his words, searched for a response, and found none. He picked up his things and walked into the other room. I could hear him speaking with my mother; "I'm sorry, but I dont believe that I can help your boy. I will not charge you for my visit".

      As I got older, I only grew more and more interested in nutrition, and keeping a healthy body. It was during my research that I discovered a stem cell procedure that is only performed in Germany. They basically take your blood, they incubate it, they spin it, and add nutrients to it manually. This procedure is supposed to be the best treatment available to improve a persons overall health, and thus live a longer, healthier life. I was sold immediately. However, my hypochondriac nature would never allow me to step foot on an airplane, especially to travel overseas.
     Shortly after, I began to be treated by a new, world-renowned psychiatrist. We would communicate 3-5 days a week by telephone. I had sought him out to try to help me get over my fear of flying so that I culd go to Germany to get the procedure. During one of our conversations, he had produced data that conveyed just how improbable it is for an airplane to crash. I had to admit, it lightened my anxiety a bit. Then, he made a joke that would change my life forever. He said; "Hey, I think that every airline allows you to bring a carry-on item. You could bring a parachute if it would make you feel more comfortable"! He chuckled.... Needless to say, I didnt laugh. But, the more and more I read into this stem cell procedure, the more I told myself that I need to have it done. I read testimonials from several credible celebrities who had taken the trip to Germany to have the procedure done, and they were all remarkable experiences.
     On my 40th birthday, I had called one of these clinics and I made an appointment to have the procedure. At the end of the call they made me put a significant down-payment by credit card to secure the appointment, there was no backing out now. I had exactly one month until the procedure, and so I booked the flight the very next day. Needless to say, I booked my seat closest to an emergency exit. While I was booking the flight, I noticed that I as alloed to bring one suitcase and one carry-on item free of charge. When I seen this, I immediately thought of the psychiatrist and began looking at parachutes online. I wasnt seriously going to purchase one, I was just curious to see how much they costed.
     About a week before my trip, my anxiety towards the plane ride had grown significantly. I was freaking out. I called my psychiatrist and was given a prescription for xanax, the strong ones. It would help me sleep at night when my mind was racing, but once I would wake up I would immediately become nervous about the flight again. I had also had several nightmares about being involved in a devastating plane crash. My psychiatrist explained to me that this was completely normal for somebody with my condition. He said to pop one xanax on the way to the airport, and to take 2 of them about 10 minutes prior to boarding the plane. He said that I would sleep like a baby and the trip would be over before I knew it. However, the thought of sleeping on the plane only increased my anxiety. If I were asleep and the plane were to crash, I wouldn't be able to do anything about it. Then I realized, even if I were awake, I wouldnt be able to do anything about it.
     It was because of this that I quickly opened my laptop and again began browsing parachutes. The last time I was only looking, but this time I was shopping. I purchased the most expensive and "reliable" parachute I could find and had shipped to me in over night mail. In the item description online it said, "So simple to use, that even a blind monkey could operate it without any training".
     When it arrived, it came in a giant cardboard box and was covered it packaging peanuts. This thing was legit, apparently it was the same brand used by the US Air Force. When I removed it from the plastic it looked like an industrial backpack because it had 4 separate straps on it to hold each extremity in place. There was an accompanying DVD that I quickly popped into my blu ray player. It was an instructional video, I watched it 9 about times in a row. Each time, I was practicing getting strapped into it and ready to use it in case of an emergency. I have to admit, I got pretty good at putting it on quickly. It was right then that it occurred to me, I had never spent so much money on something before that I had hoped to never use. It had also just occurred to me that if I carry this thing onto an airplane, it will probably terrify the other passengers. I could already see their faces as they were thinking to themselves; "What the hell is this guy doing with a parachute on a red eye"? I found a large backpack and I stuffed it in, it just barely fit. It would be one extra step to assemble it and get it ready to be used, but I had no choice. I also made up a contingency plan about sky diving with a friend in Berlin, in case airport security had discovered the item during check-in and questioned me.

     The night before my fight I had the worst nightmare in which I was in a burning airplane. It was the most vivid night terror of my life. I remember waking up, covered in perspiration, and so thankful that it was just a nightmare. There was no way in the world that I was getting on that aircraft.
     About an hour later, my psychiatrist called. I was just about to let it go to voice mail, but I answered it. He asked me if I was all ready for a "nice, safe flight to Germany". He told me that he had checked the weather and that it would be "smooth sailing the whole way there". I quickly manufactured a tale of how I had come down with the flu, and had to reschedule for the following week. (However, the nightmare had me so startled that I had no immediate plans to reschedule, that was for damn sure!)
     He quickly seen right through my lie, I should have known better than to attempt to fib somebody with 2 doctorate degrees in psychotherapy and psychology. To this day I can not tell you ho this man manipulated me to get on that airplane, but he was good. He was like Michael Jordan in the playoffs, or Michaelangelo painting that ceiling of his. There was absolutely no way I was getting on that airplane, but this man convinced me. It was a combination of; "This could cure all of your fears", "think of all the money your have spent", and "think how good you will feel from the stem cells and how much it will improve your health".
     Anyways, I took one xanax on the way to the airport and it made me drowsy. I didnt have any problems getting the parachute past customs, they didnt even open the bag. I had considered taking the other 2 xanax 10 minutes before boarding, but I knew that if I was in a zombie-like state I would not be able to operate the parachute, if necessary.
    After I boarded the plane, and took my seat beside the emergency exit door in the center of the aircraft, the stewardess began giving her speech about "in the event of an emergency". I looked around and it seemed like nobody else was paying her any attention, but I was on the edge of my seat. The pilots voice came over the intercom and said that our flight should take about 8 and a half hours. He explained that it would usually take a bit less, but that he was expecting a bit of turbulence but that it was only on account of some severe weather. (I should have known that my psychiatrist wasnt an expert on weather conditions between continents. How could I have fallen for that false sense of security? I pondered an excuse to get off the plane, but then we started moving)
     They had an in-flight movie that had began playing as soon as we were in the air; "Forrest Gump". I had seen that movie about 100 times, it was one of my favorites. The last thing I remember was Forrest breaking free from his leg braces and running when I dozed off.
     I have no idea how long I had been asleep when I had been awoken suddenly by a loud "Smash" sound!

Registering the Driver

     When I was 16 years old I dislocated the top of my ring finger playing basketball. It looked really grotesque and so I ended up going to the emergency room. The first person I seen when I entered the hospital was the registrar. This is the person who gathers your patient information, verifies insurance information, and asks you what is your chief complaint. I remember showing her my finger and seeing her "ick" face when she looked at it. The whole top segment of the digit was facing straight up rather than flat. Then I said; "I bet you must see disgusting things all day long, huh"? She looked at me and said; "You have no idea".
   
     Who would have thought that I would be doing the same ork as her some 10 years later, in a hospital  200 miles away? It was just a job that I had stumbled into while looking for any office work I could find. I had recently moved in with my brother in a new city to sort of "start over". When I first moved there I found out that the hospital employed the most people in the area, and I was desperate for a job. During my interview the manager had asked me; "Do you have a problem with gruesome sights, like blood"? To which I quickly answered, "No, not at all", without hesitation. (I told you, I was desperate) The hours for the position were simply horrible, but I didn't care. I was new to the area and so I didn't have a "life" or any friends around anyways. I would be working 2nd and 3rd shift. This meant that I would work either 3-11pm or 11pm-7am. It wasn't long before I had lost track of time. There were no windows because of privacy concerns, and so when I would leave work I would forget if it was day or night time. I can recall several instances when I would step outside and think to myself; "Oh yeah, its dark out", or vice versa. Also, the job would occasionally call for what they referred to as a "quick change". This meant that I would work 11pm-7am and then have to be back to work at 3pm. It wasn't long before I realized that the term "quick change" was ultimately synonymous with the term "suck". It is really depressing to relieve the same person who just relieved you 8 hours before. That first summer working there is just a giant blur in my memory bank. But, the way life goes we learn to adapt to our circumstances and our environment. I have learned that human beings can be extremely resilient to change, especially when they have no other choice.

     This emergency room was extremely busy. It is the only hospital for at least 30 miles in any direction, and it served a large city as ell as countless other small, surrounding towns. The patient flow was constant during the 3-11pm shift. I would typically have a list of 5-6 names written down, waiting to be registered. And the size of the list would only grow when an ambulance arrived, or if a critical patient walked in, since they took priority.

     I had been working there for about 8 months and I had seen my fair share of stomach-turning injuries, they didn't bother me so much anymore. I had settled into the job and I was able to keep up with the fast pace environment and cope with the rudeness of some of the nurses and patients. The one good thing about being constantly busy is that your work day feels like it flys by.
   
     Anyways, it was about 5pm on a typical weekday afternoon when I was at my desk registering a patient and the phone rang. I answered it and heard; "New one in T-3" on the other end. The ER clerk would always call out to my office to let me know when an ambulance had arrived, and the location the patient was being placed in so I could locate them quickly. The "T" stood for trauma, and the "3" was for the room number. I quickly strolled into the emergency room, unplugged the COW (computer of wheels) and rolled it into the trauma section. The EMT's are usually very helpful in having primary patient information available for me, as they have been with the patient for a period of time already. The are also normally in good moods and friendly, which is rather surprising given the fact that they work long hours, deal with sick people, and are ridiculously under-paid.
     However, on this occasion they all had somber looks on their faces. I could see the stretcher but I couldn't see who was on it. As I got closer I realized that it was a young boy, his face was covered in blood and he was unresponsive. Half of his face had been caved in to the point that it looked like he didnt have an eye-ball on one side. Typically the EMT's would be performing CPR on a patient like this, but it would have been useless. I asked an EMT if they had a name and he shook his head "no". He said it was a truck vs pedestrian and that there was no family around. The doctor took one look at the patient and it was obvious that he had already passed away. He said not to bother registering the patient and then he began asking the EMT's where the parents were at. I left and went back to my desk.

         I finished registering the patient who was still at my desk when my phone rang again; "New one in the back". "The back" is the term for the area located in the rear of the ER designated for patients who are being treated for psychiatric issues. These patients are all given the same registration complaint: "Crisis Evaluation". Most of the time these patients are brought in by the police against their will. They are typically drunk, on drugs, suicidal, or just "off their meds". These patients are not typically happy to be there and are often not in touch with reality. If someone is arrested and they make a suicidal threat, they will certainly become an inpatient at the psych ward based on liability issues alone. These patients are typically dirty and grungy looking, strung out, smelly, and just in rough shape all around. I usually get my registration information from the police officer who brought them in, I only go talk to them to verify things if they are not acting erratically.
   
     The reason I mention all of the typical attributes of these patients is because this guy was the exception. The gentleman looked to be about the same age as me, really clean cut and didnt look like a drug addict. He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands on his face, and crying hysterically. He also had what appeared to be his mother and father on each side of him. They were probably in their early 50's, very nicely dressed, and consoling him. I had attempted to ask the gentleman his name but he couldn't talk through the hysteria. He was trying to say his name but his voice was really shaky and his face was beat red. The father told he his sons name and I told them that I would "give them a minute". When I walked out of the room and seen the police officer, he motioned me over to him. He explained to me that this was the guy who killed the kid who had just came in. He as driving his truck down the street when the boy ran between 2 parked cars and he ran him over. The driver was very distraught accordingly, having just killed a child. I later found out that there were several witnesses who corroborated that the accident was unavoidable. The driver had not been drinking, on drugs, or speeding. He was simply coming home from work and now his entire life had been changed in an instant. As fate would have it, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. This could have happened to anybody. But now, this guy has to live with the memory of killing a child in horrific fashion for the rest of his life. Can you imagine?
     When I registered him I noticed that he was a month older than me. I began to empathize and envision if I had been the driver and what I would be going through if I was in his position. The memory of this would haunt me daily. I think about that guy from time-to-time and I wonder how he has been coping over the years. Just because he could not have avoided causing the death of the child does not eliminate any feelings of guilt. Time is the only tool that could possibly lessen the burden of such an ordeal, but I wonder to what extent.
     About 20 minutes later I seen the driver and his parents exiting the hospital. Normally patients "in the back" remain there for hours and hours. I assume that the counselor just gave him a quick "Its not your fault" lecture and sent him on his way. However, technically speaking, it is his fault. And that is a monkey that will probably cause him immense grief and night terrors forever.
   

     I think we would be surprised how many people we walk by every day who are responsible for the death of another. This might be in the form of abortion, maybe a war veteran, some horrific accident, contributing to suicide through neglect, healthcare malpractice, etc...the list could go on and on. There are a lot of people who are living with the burden, some of them it effects deeply and some just go on and time allows them to seldom think about it. Just because you killed somebody on "accident" doesn't change anything, they are still dead all the same. I assume that the depth of ones conscious and the amount of compassion they have for others determines just how much it bothers them. I have never seen a grown man cry as hard as that young driver who killed the boy. And when I sat down and empathized, I realized that if I were in his shoes I wouldn't handle it well. Sure, time can help to ease the grief, but it would have a permanent residence in your brain. How do you live for two? How do you say; "I'm sorry"? Does god hand out killer exempt forms in the event of an accident? After all, in reality we all kno that there are no such thing as accidents. "Accident" is just a made up word we use instead of blaming ourselves.