How to get your dad to drive 15 hours for a last minute father's day visit: overdose, spend some time in ICU, then have your sister given the authority to commit you to a mental institution for one year. Granted, there might be easier ways.
For the icing on a week full of beer, no sleep, and a passive dumping, I talked to Ed on the phone. The initial awkward topic was Patrick, which somehow evolved into his telling me that he was strapped for cash because he was buying a new house and moving in with his girlfriend. Too much information. "Great," I said. "I'll talk to you later. Bye."
During our marriage, I always assumed HE was the problem; the control freak that was lucky to have me. Ha. Turns out I'm the unlovable one, the girl that can't seem to find anyone else. Eight beers followed in quick succession, to wash down the bottle of beta blockers and a handful (or two) of Tylenol 3 that had been prescribed to him after knee surgery. Every attempted suicide needs irony, afterall.
Though there physically, details came later about the fire truck, police cars and ambulance ride to the emergency room. My auto pilot had no measurable blood pressure, so there was talk of a pacemaker. In the end they found an antidote to the beta blockers, which relived Patrick - he was worried I'd never be able to make microwave popcorn again.
Around 4:30 a.m., with a "stable" heart rate around 40 bpm, they wheeled me from the emergency room to the I.C.U. I realized I wouldn't be going into work and called in with a vague explanation of a history of heart trouble. Co-workers came to visit, bringing magazines and plants. Making small talk on a good day, is painful for me. Making small talk with i.v. tubes, heart and blood pressure monitors, and oxygen tubes in my nose while I unceremoniously vomit into a plastic kidney shaped bowl, is hell.
I feel like a fraud who doesn't deserve well wishes or concern - I did this to myself. Relatives and friends battle cancer, praying for more time, while I carelessly try to cut mine short. Why isn't there a life barter system? Watching my dad cry, thinking he failed, and knowing the hell my son and sister went through...depression, apparently, is better served with guilt.