01|09|12 . #357 | God, Heaven & Michael Keaton pt.2

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8:50pm.

Like everyone who succumbed to cancer, my mother suffered. A lot. I remember nights lying with her. Crying. My father worked nights so I slept with her often when she was sick. She didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want her to be alone. She was the strongest of the three of us. My father and I were weak. I was young. She was his everything. He couldn’t handle losing her. They kept me in the dark of severity of her sickness. I was always under the impression it would pass. Not that this was her last lap. That’s why it was a shock when she died. I wasn’t very polite during her viewing. I wasn’t interested in shaking hands or being polite. If you weren’t my father or my friends, I didn’t give a fuck about the way you felt. It seemed everyone knew exactly what to say to piss me off. The worst? “At least she’s not suffering anymore. Or “she’s in a better place now.”

Where is that? Heaven? What’s heaven? Like, let’s be honest. Fuck heaven.

That’s where I was at.

I was never able to shake those comments. They annoy me now as much as they did then. I understand it’s people trying to be nice. But it’s a ridiculous thing to say. I promised myself I would never tell anyone that who had lost someone close. It’s not comforting at all.

You can’t help but wonder where you go when you die. Nobody really knows. Nobody has lived to tell. We all think we know. I think I know. I’ve told people my thoughts. Some agree. Most don’t. But I feel I have something to back my thoughts up. I may be proven wrong. But until then, I’m not changing. I stumbled upon this discovery one morning, just before I was leaving to shop in Buffalo with my best friend, Anova (made famous in my lyric in Graffiti Wall). 

The cellphone alarm went off. The snooze option was hit. Just like every morning. Not so much this morning, because I was excited for our road trip. I was stoked to take advantage of the US exchange rate and come home with a new pair of Jordan’s. I walked to the bathroom, head tilted to the right. I couldn’t stand up straight. The joys of living in a basement apartment. I preferred it. Made me feel Bukowski. My body wanted more sleep. I was breathing heavy through my nose. Looked at my clock and noticed it was 8:27. I’ll never forget that. 8:27. Eight.Two.Seven. Stumbled the to the front of my toilet. Stared at the unrine streaming into the bowl. My eyes were heavy. I finished. Gave my penis its last shake. Then ______________. I felt pressure against my face. I was dazed. Confused. I blinked a few times before I tried to figure out what was happening. My nose was pressed towards the left side of my face.

What the fuck?

I pushed my self up slowly with my right hand. My hand was wet. On my knees I then realized I was on the edge of my bathtub. I passed out. My head bounced off the shelf above the tank of my toilet. My deodorants and cologne bottles were on the floor. That’s when I felt intense pain in my ribs. I stood up. Where I was feeling pain dictated what happened. The right side of my face. My right shoulder. My ribs. Right side. My right arm was fine because it landed in the tub, hence my wet hand. My right side, waist up, was not fine because it landed on my tub, dead weight. I’m not a small person, but I was bigger then. Unfortunately, I cracked my ribs. Fortunately, I didn’t die.

I lowered myself slowly on to my couch. Looked at my clock. 8:43. 16 minutes. 30 seconds to peeing. Maybe one minute, maybe two, to waking up and realizing I had fainted. That means I was out for 13 minutes. I stopped thinking about the pain. What scared me is I completely shut down for 13 minutes. Lights out.

Instead of thinking about how I could have died, I started to think about dying. This may be a juvenile way to look at the situation, but I don’t remember a single thing between pissing and waking up, kissing my bathtub. Not a dream. Not a thought. It’s possible it just didn’t happen, or I was too shocked to remember. All I know is it was 13 minutes of nothing. Is that what happens when you die? Could it be that simple? No out of body experience. No soul floating above your shell. No pearly gates. No fiery hell. No paradise where I will be reunited with my parents. Where Cobain is jamming with Hendrix. None of that bullshit. Could it be that you simply just…turn off?

On a brighter note, I managed to score an sweet pair of Jordan 3’s from the Walden Galleria that day. Couldn’t find a Hot Rod shirt in my size at the WWE store on Clifton Hill, though. Leave it to Rowdy Roddy Piper and a near death experience to ruin your day.

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