“All aboard for the 7-train. This is the final boarding call. Please stow away all hope in the overhead compartment. This is a one-way, non-stop express train to Despair”.
Exactly one month ago, I wrote about how the 7th of each month smacks me around. It’s no different 30 days later.
I can’t help it. My mind, like a continuous video loop, replays us walking into the Ruby Memorial ICU and seeing Ryan on the edge of life. “He’s in grave condition”, the doctor says. “He has very little chance of surviving this”.
I now wonder, did Ryan truly survive it? Or, did we lose him — his very essence — on that morning? Where is my son? Is he scared? Does he hear me and take comfort in my voice? Does he feel my touch and embrace? Does he see my smile? Does he feel the kisses on his forehead?
Time, and only time, might tell. Then again, it might not.
The 7th is a day that love and hate pull me, and both are equally as painful. I’m mentally being drawn and quartered. Vantrease and May (and their families) are always just below my consciousness, surfacing from time-to-time. Oh, how I resent them. I don’t allow myself to dwell on them for long.
As I said yesterday, there is comfort in the knowledge that Ryan isn’t Vantrease or May. Likewise, Sue and I are not their parents… thank goodness. Our children are made of the right stuff. They are a legacy that any father would be proud. How awful it is to be a drag on society, and pass that scourge along to the next generation.
Yes, love and hate. Opposing, but somehow collaborative forces. I suspect I am one of the few who experienced both extremes simultaneously. Both have a unique energy that pushes and pulls like gravity. They oppose each other. They attract each other. Get too close and you’ll see and feel an emotional black hole. So, to me, there exists no “thin line” between love and hate. In my mind’s universe, there is an event horizon that consumes all that dare cross it. Here, love and hate intermingle in cataclysmic chaos.
Perhaps I am completely simplistic in how I view this. But, I’m a simple man. Don’t believe me? Ask my wife.