I know for a fact my oldest once thought I had died. I had recently had a surgery–my only of my life, for an umbilical hernia–and did in fact mix in a mild way the painkillers with booze. I was alive, obviously, but I will never forget her opening my door and calling my name. She was terrified.
I remember also a story a homicide cop acquaintance of mine told me, about finding a couple, one dead of natural causes, one dead of suicide, both a month or more old. He dealt well with his job, but he said some smells would trigger things he had a hard time dealing with.
And I, I , I, I (it’s not good to begin paragraphs with I, especially repeatedly) think of Bukowski–who for some period of time also likely worried about dying alone–and his poem “Hell is a lonely place”.
he was 65, his wife was 66, had
Alzheimer’s disease.
he had cancer of the
mouth.
there were
operations, radiation
treatments
which decayed the bones in his
jaw
which then had to be
wired.
daily he put his wife in
rubber diapers
like a
baby.
unable to drive in his
condition
he had to take a taxi to
the medical
center,
had difficulty speaking,
had to
write the directions
down.
on his last visit
they informed him
there would be another
operation: a bit more
left
cheek and a bit more
tongue.
when he returned
he changed his wife’s
diapers
put on the tv
dinners, watched the
evening news
then went to the bedroom, got the
gun, put it to her
temple, fired.
she fell to the
left, he sat upon the
couch
put the gun into his
mouth, pulled the
trigger.
the shots didn’t arouse
the neighbors.
later
the burning tv dinners
did.
somebody arrived, pushed
the door open, saw
it.
soon
the police arrived and
went through their
routine, found
some items:
a closed savings
account and
a checkbook with a
balance of
$1.14
suicide, they
deduced.
in three weeks
there were two
new tenants:
a computer engineer
named
Ross
and his wife
Anatana
who studied
ballet.
they looked like another
upwardly mobile
pair.
So, I have no point. I am pointing to something real. Life is a fascinating thing, with many textures. We live many lives within our lives.
What is the solution? One solution is me overcoming my hatred of Established Authority. Wish me luck. I feel like kicking most of these people in the balls. That is not productive, though.