Perceptum Erroris (4/4)
For the first time in a long, long time, I cried. I was slipping in and out of consciousness and with the darkness nearly surrounding me, I knew I was dying. And if anyone was on their way for me, it would be too late.
I would be gone by the time they got there.
So I cried. The tears were hot and they burned trails down my cheeks. I cried for all that I had lost and all that I would never have. I cried because the slightest change of perspective can change the meaning of almost everything.
I cried because for too long, I couldn't see anything outside my own, little world. I cried because now that I did, it was far too late.
Of everything that happened after my father died almost seven months ago now, the worst was no more than two hours ago. My wife had been the one by my side who helped me through every ordeal and never once had I given that a second thought. In my world, from my perspective, the pieces of our lives fit together exactly the way they should.
But that perspective, as I know now, was limiting in every aspect of my life.
Somewhere along the line, Alice was no longer happy being the steadfast wife. Although she represented a sizable cornerstone to my world, according to Alice I never exhibited much more than a passing acceptance that she was there.
And then there was the baby. When we married three years ago, neither of us were interested in children. Whether she was being honest or not, I don't know. But apparently, shortly after our honeymoon, she began hinting at getting pregnant and I never once saw it.
Today, she told me that it wasn't her, but me.
I didn't have a clue as to what she was talking about. But then, maybe that's what she meant.
After my father passed away and in Alice's desire to have a baby, she had gone off the pill. When nothing happened after several secret attempts, she collected a sample of my sperm and had it tested.
I couldn't give her a child, which seemed secondary to the fact that I still didn't know if I even wanted to give her a child. But that didn't matter to her. She didn't want to be the wife-on-the-sidelines and she wanted to move on with her life.
When she told me, she acted as though it were the elephant in the room.
But I was completely oblivious to it.
I tried to change her mind, I tried arguing and fighting and pleading ... but her mind had been made up long ago.
And maybe ... maybe it's impossible to change someone else's mind if you can't even change your own.
After Alice left, I got in my car and started driving. The sun had gone down and it had started raining. From the moment I got into my car and straight through the accident, I never knew what my destination was.
Now, as the last few embers of consciousness slowly faded, I realize where I had been going. I wasn't driving away from my problems. I wasn't driving somewhere to clear my head.
I was going to see my sister, Haley.
I hadn't realized it until the very end, but I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to tell her about what happened with Alice and, more importantly, I wanted to know what she thought. I wanted her to tell me what I had done wrong and what I could do to fix it.
I wanted her to help me.
And even though I hadn't thought that far ahead, I knew that after Haley, I would have gone to see Mark for all the same reasons.
And I would have apologized.
I would be gone by the time they got there.
So I cried. The tears were hot and they burned trails down my cheeks. I cried for all that I had lost and all that I would never have. I cried because the slightest change of perspective can change the meaning of almost everything.
I cried because for too long, I couldn't see anything outside my own, little world. I cried because now that I did, it was far too late.
Of everything that happened after my father died almost seven months ago now, the worst was no more than two hours ago. My wife had been the one by my side who helped me through every ordeal and never once had I given that a second thought. In my world, from my perspective, the pieces of our lives fit together exactly the way they should.
But that perspective, as I know now, was limiting in every aspect of my life.
Somewhere along the line, Alice was no longer happy being the steadfast wife. Although she represented a sizable cornerstone to my world, according to Alice I never exhibited much more than a passing acceptance that she was there.
And then there was the baby. When we married three years ago, neither of us were interested in children. Whether she was being honest or not, I don't know. But apparently, shortly after our honeymoon, she began hinting at getting pregnant and I never once saw it.
Today, she told me that it wasn't her, but me.
I didn't have a clue as to what she was talking about. But then, maybe that's what she meant.
After my father passed away and in Alice's desire to have a baby, she had gone off the pill. When nothing happened after several secret attempts, she collected a sample of my sperm and had it tested.
I couldn't give her a child, which seemed secondary to the fact that I still didn't know if I even wanted to give her a child. But that didn't matter to her. She didn't want to be the wife-on-the-sidelines and she wanted to move on with her life.
When she told me, she acted as though it were the elephant in the room.
But I was completely oblivious to it.
I tried to change her mind, I tried arguing and fighting and pleading ... but her mind had been made up long ago.
And maybe ... maybe it's impossible to change someone else's mind if you can't even change your own.
After Alice left, I got in my car and started driving. The sun had gone down and it had started raining. From the moment I got into my car and straight through the accident, I never knew what my destination was.
Now, as the last few embers of consciousness slowly faded, I realize where I had been going. I wasn't driving away from my problems. I wasn't driving somewhere to clear my head.
I was going to see my sister, Haley.
I hadn't realized it until the very end, but I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to tell her about what happened with Alice and, more importantly, I wanted to know what she thought. I wanted her to tell me what I had done wrong and what I could do to fix it.
I wanted her to help me.
And even though I hadn't thought that far ahead, I knew that after Haley, I would have gone to see Mark for all the same reasons.
And I would have apologized.
***
As the darkness clouded my mind and I felt myself begin to fade, I cursed myself for the fear that clenched my chest. I was a believer--I had been all my life. I had gone to church every Sunday with my wife, even after she began to pull away from me. I took comfort in the ritual that was my faith.
And that comfort is meant to alleviate our fears about death. The sermons that I had sat through that talked of martyrdom and trusting in God were countless.
Believe in Him and nothing can ever be fearsome when you know that in the end, you'll be living your eternal life in Heaven in the presence of God and His only son, Jesus Christ.
So why, now that the darkness was creeping deeper and deeper into my brain, was I scared?
I knew where I was going. I believed in where I was going.
And yet I was frightened.
It was irrational, I knew, like when I was a young boy and was afraid of what could be under my bed at night. It was stupid and I was angry at myself for learning that when I needed it most, I wasn't able to commit to my faith.
I was afraid of the darkness. As I lost more and more of myself to it, the fear that there would be nothing afterward grew stronger. I regressed back to those days when I feared what was under my bed at night. And as the darkness consumed me, there was no difference between the fear of what my imagination manufactured to be lurking under my bed and the fear that the belief system that I had invested so much of my life into was likely nothing but lies and false hopes.
One of mankind's great attributes may be learning from our mistakes, but what's the point of it if you don't have the time to correct them?
And that comfort is meant to alleviate our fears about death. The sermons that I had sat through that talked of martyrdom and trusting in God were countless.
Believe in Him and nothing can ever be fearsome when you know that in the end, you'll be living your eternal life in Heaven in the presence of God and His only son, Jesus Christ.
So why, now that the darkness was creeping deeper and deeper into my brain, was I scared?
I knew where I was going. I believed in where I was going.
And yet I was frightened.
It was irrational, I knew, like when I was a young boy and was afraid of what could be under my bed at night. It was stupid and I was angry at myself for learning that when I needed it most, I wasn't able to commit to my faith.
I was afraid of the darkness. As I lost more and more of myself to it, the fear that there would be nothing afterward grew stronger. I regressed back to those days when I feared what was under my bed at night. And as the darkness consumed me, there was no difference between the fear of what my imagination manufactured to be lurking under my bed and the fear that the belief system that I had invested so much of my life into was likely nothing but lies and false hopes.
One of mankind's great attributes may be learning from our mistakes, but what's the point of it if you don't have the time to correct them?