Monday, February 23, 2009

Broke Back Story Part 7 (In Bed, But Not Dead!)

The first two hours after being sent home from the Emergency Room with case of "a sore back" were pretty uneventful. I just slept and slept and slept. I only ever got up to go to the bathroom. I never thought going to the bathroom would be the hardest thing I had ever done in my life. No, taking a wiz was still easy. It was getting out of bed that was the hard part. It usually took ten to fifteen minutes to get out of the bed and on my feet. Little did I know that it was because I was trying to get out of a bed with a broken spine! That may have had something to do with it.

Getting out of bed was like trying to limbo through the Labyrinth. (That last sentence at least makes sense to me, and that's all that matters.) I would slither to from the mattress trying to reach my feet, and I'd be able to make an inch or two of progress and then pain would hit and then I knew I would have to find a new route. Once I got the nerve to try to find a new way to slither a little further that wasn't unbearable, I knew that route would also be good for only another inch or two. This would go on for the ten or fifteen minute period until I finally could get myself to my feet to go to the bathroom. It really is amazing I didn't paralayze myself during one of my trips out of my bed to the bathroom. It's just that first off, I trusted that I was only as bad as the doctor thought I was - I didn't know doctor could misdiagnose broken spines. And second off, I really didn't want my mom and sisters to have to handle my jars of wiz and pans of poo, so I was determined to take a leak and crap in the bathroom.

On the second day after the accident someone came to see me: it was the girl who drove me into a tree. (I'm tired of dignifying her existence by saying her real name, let's just call her "The girl who drove me into a tree" for a while. Nah, let's just call her "Cuntree.")

So Cuntree somehow got into my house and sat in a chair across from my bed and woke me up with her obnoxious voice. (Because when you're in terrible pain, the one person you want to wake you up during one of your few moments of pain free peace is the girl made you that way.)

I woke up all high and was looking over at her talking away, and thought to myself, "Man, these drugs are good. I haven't even gotten mad at her, yet." I still wasn't mad at her, yet - even though I knew I should be. But when you're high, and hurt, and just glad to be alive, you really don't give a shit who's sitting in front of you babbling on and on about a bunch of nonsense you couldn't give three shits about.

Do you want to know what she was babbling on and on about?

Was it my condition? No.

In fact, she hadn't asked me one question about how I was feeling. I mean, who asks a guy who can barely walk, who has a softball-sized knot coming out of his forehead, who has all sorts of cuts on him including a seatbelt scar that would last for 10 years how he was feeling?

Was she babbling on and on about how sorry she was about what she had done to us?

She said not a word about that. I should have felt lucky to get the crumb of an apology I got at the scene when she thought that was more important than me getting help. I wasn't surprised, I had known her since I was four, she was always that way. I knew I would never hear one word of culpability come out of her mouth again for the rest of my life. And so far I've been right. Not that I care. Sure it would be nice, but it wouldn't change anything, as far as my physical problems go. Actually, all an apology in 2009 would benefit would be her. And I've already made it clear: I'd accept it. I really have no axe to grind. But as far as it affecting me - it wouldn't. I'm over it. I know it sounds like I'm not, but that's just because I took it upon myself to tell this story and I've kind of had to let all of the anger back in me for the purposes of writing this. Once I'm done, I'll let it go away again. And I guarantee you this: I'm ready to be done writing all this. It has been a haunting writing project. It has consumed me ever since I started it last week. But it's too late to quit. And when I'm done, I'll let every bit of it leave me again. Lord knows, I have to deal with it enough, just because of the physical pain that will haunt me forever whether I want it to or not, so I don't feel like adding to my burden by letting the emotional part of the ordeal consume me. In fact, I'm grateful that all the stars lined up and things didn't turn out even worse than they already did. Now let's get back to what this girl said to me while I was bound to my bed as she babbled away from across the room in a chair. So what exactly was she rambling about?

No, let me correct that: So what exactly was she bitching about? (Because yes, she drove to my house to bitch to me about something.) What was it?

Her new car.

Don't reread that. You read that right. The girl already had a new car. And it was less than 48 hours since she destroyed the old one.

And she was bitching about the car!

And she was bitching to me about the car!

What in the fuck was consistently wrong with this girl! I wish I could chalk up such behavior to her having a bad day, or say, a head trauma. But she wasn't just having a bad day - she always like this! And I was the one with the head trauma!

Lucky for me, I was high and disabled, because I had to listen to her go on and on about how much her parents had screwed her over by giving the poor girl a sports car that she didn't like.

Let's dissect how many fucked up things were in that sentence (As if we have to.)

1: The girl nearly kills people when she wrecks a car, so the parents give her another car.

2. The girl nearly kills people when she wrecks a car, so the parents give her a sports car!

3. The girl nearly kills people when she wrecks a car, so the parents give her a sports car and let her out on the roads two days later!

4. The girl nearly kills people when she wrecks a car, the parents giver her a sports car
and let her out on the road two days later and then she has the nerve to bitch about it.

5. And most notably: She had the nerve to come to my house and bitch about it to ME!

Still, I didn't mind one bit. I had other things to worry about, like not dying and crap.

(Maybe I read them wrong, maybe her parents also couldn't stand her, and were trying to insure that she finally finished herself off the next time she wrecked, by giving her a faster and more dangerous car than the first one.)

So while Cuntree was going on and on about her new car, I focused on something different to pass the time. I started looking at her, and I remember she was wearing short jean shorts and a little yellow shirt, as I thought to myself all perplexed, "Try as I may, I just cannot make this vile girl attractive. I could probably see her panties for a second if I wanted to, if I caught a glance of her from here at the right angle, but I think I'd rather not try. I bet if she was cool, she'd be at least semi-attractive, maybe even regular-hot; but she's such a consistently horrible person that I just don't think I could ever bring myself to touch her. That's too bad. Because if she was hotter, and had the slightest feeling of remorse: I bet I could totally guilt her into doing it with me. Then I wouldn't be a virgin anymore and my friends could no longer pick on me. Why, out of all the girls in the world, did this one have to be the one to critically injure me? If it was any other girl, I would totally try to get laid out of this. Dammit! And I'm even high! And I still can't bring myself to try to "turn her lemons into lemonade." I wish she would leave. But I'll let her sit here and babble on if she wants. I'm sure I'll fall asleep again soon."

And babble away, she did! Then Cuntree did more thing that you won't believe. (Unless you know her, then you'd totally believe me.)

She tried to persuade me to get out of bed and walk outside to see her new ride and sympathize with her about "just how ugly" her new car was.

Oh, poor her. Even then, I didn't get mad - no matter how long she argued with me that I really should take the ten to fifteen minutes it took me to get out of bed to go look at the terrible sports car her parents had forced on her.

If I was mad or clever at the time, I would've said, "Yeah, it sucks when people force something on you that you didn't ask for."

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