Missed Departure
She's a princess.
She's two years old.
I have more of these. One is three years old.
Why then did I think I could leave that behind?
He's gorgeous. Taller than me. Eyes that can end wars and the softest shag of hair you can ever find on a boy. His 19-year-old, bright eyes look to me for protection against the world's demands.
Who did I think I would leave that for? How could I think it would be acceptable to turn those eyes red and break that heart into a million shards?
I look like her. Others still think we are sisters. We giggle at the very sight of each other. There is never a silent moment when we're together. She has a heart of gold, and I'm jealous because I share her with the world, but I'm also proud that I share her with the world. I am the beginning of her reproductive energy. Her very own clone.
How did I think it would be fair to make that head of grey become downcast for the rest of its wise life? How did I accept that a mother would go through the rest of her life feeling helpless as she watches her other offspring mourn their closest thing to mom's copy?
How did I think my own clone, my sister's first child, would face life knowing that giving up is an option?
A father's silent cries may have ended in double tragedy, because some health issues only need grief to light up the trail to the grave.
He is tall, handsome, dark, silver and in love with the mess that I am.
How did I think he could simply live on and forget that he could not be there to prevent me from tapping out?
I have true friends. I have companions. Not a single enemy. I get affection and I get to give affection. That is a full life.
I have work. I actively contribute to the final product. I actively love what we create.
So how did I think that it was acceptable to cut the thread and take the underground subway to the no-breath lands?
Pain.
Daily.
Every hour.
Every minute.
Pain.
Physical, yet invisible. Indescribable, except to those who have experienced it.
Lack of hope that the pain will be done away with at the end of the tunnel. For it is not a tunnel, but a tomb.
"No anesthesiologist would take your case. It's too risky. You don't have supportive lungs."
"Every woman experiences pain. You're not alone."
This is untrue.
Fear.
Constant fear that a hug, a sneeze, a slight cough from a loved one will end with another stay in that well-lit place of healthcare.
Fear that the damage being done to my lungs is only creating one long, painful goodbye. Could the next one be the one?
Anxiety.
Anxiety that I am swiftly becoming a burden. Cancelled plans mean betrayed friends. Fewer friends.
Declined meetings mean less trust that I can be useful in my work.
Fewer conversations and activities mean I am no longer a parent, but a dying financier, waiting for that final stroke. Or else one that might become invalid and in need of care from a young man who is meant to enjoy his prime years.
Sure, there would be tears.
But I did leave room for one final act. Cremation with a popcorn-stuffed casket. Dinner and a show.
The tears of a clown are sweet.
Their tears would dry up, right?
Hearts live on, even if they are broken.
Light shines again.
New connections are formed and the memory of me would be just that, a memory.
No more pain.
No more anxiety.
No more burdening loved ones.
Yet, when I woke up from a failed escape attempt, I knew I had been presumptuous to think any of it was acceptable.
I knew I had done this in a moment of selfish concern. It was not a cry for help, but an unauthorised back door exit attempt.
Simply a new domino to affect another life that would be left devastated.
A psychological crime.
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