The cardiologist who is reviewing the results of my family's heart exams, told me, a little coldly I think, that sometimes, human beings just break.
Sometimes they last a long time, he said, and sometimes they don't, and sometimes they get sick, and we can fix them, and sometimes we can't, but the same thing happens to all of us in the end.
Of course, I know this, asshole, I thought to myself as I sat across from his desk, waiting for answers that he doesn't have. What he's not telling me is that the reason it hurts so much is because we've allowed ourselves to become attached, we've invested all of our emotions in people, people who get sick and die, and sometimes don't get sick, but die anyway.
And, obviously, I know that the return is worth it. It's a good investment. Our lives are richer for the people we love, the people who love us. It's too bad the risk is so high, though. You put in that much, and if - when - all goes belly-up, then you lose everything.
Why is it, though, that as much as it hurts right now, as much as I feel like I've lost everything, I feel like the investment I put in doesn't warrant the pain I'm in? I don't know if this makes sense or not, but sometimes I almost feel guilty for hurting this much.
I guess it boils down to the fact that it doesn't matter what you say about a person after they're dead, or how much you cry about him, and how many nights you spend tossing and turning in your own agony. What matters is how we treat them when they're here, when they're alive.
My brother and I - well, I'm not copping to horror and tears, here. We weren't very close, we weren't distant either, but when push came to shove, we took care of each other. He was just Frankie, you know? He was just always there.
Except, I got that part wrong, didn't I? And now he's not, in fact, here, and I have regrets, and it hurts.
My heart hurts.
0 comments so far