10 Years

"Ten years is a long time.

Selfishly, anyway. That is to say my ten years is a long time. A human ten years. Cosmically speaking, it isn't even a blink of an eye. It isn't really anything worth mentioning. Besides, our evolution up to this point has made so many things possible in such a short stretch, we forget how rapidly our lives are progressing. It's speculative, but the ten years of
today's possibilities and advances seems so vast and infinite in contrast to the backdrop of history. It certainly couldn't be the ten years of centuries ago.

We are struggling for a better position in this colony-- and we struggle indeed, both scared and hungry. Scared of each other. Insatiably ravenous for more. To Excess! To Distraction! O, Golden Calf, let this be our battle cry! We rattle our sabers as we clamor and roll on top of one another to passively fight for a better life. How we define that life has become distorted and convoluted. Ten years breeds fear. Plus, we have families to worry about. More and more mouths to feed, on a blue and green marble that has far exceeded it's capacity for creatures like us. And we miss so very much, we, who are so forward focused... Our core values, which seem so alarmingly simple, have been neglected and abandoned. We are ants, tunneling fervently. Little, self-important, cancerous ants.

Ten years of evolution is nothing. But we are devolving. Rocketing towards an unseen finish line as aimlessly as the rest. But even ten tiny human years can define you.

Ten years ago, today, I watched my father die.

I was called to his room in the University of Maryland ICU around noon. Upon arrival, I knew that this would be the day. His eyes were taped shut, with all manner of tubing and IV fed into him. He, at least the man he was, had died months ago, but our selfish nature kept his body alive. Morphine kept his mind alive, although it was awash in confusion.

My mother did all she knew to do; and her selfishness kept me away from him. Never able to have my last real father-son moment, at least not a clear one. She refused to leave the room, a symbol of her devotion, as well as a testament to her fear. She was soon to be alone in a world she didn't understand or fully feel welcomed in. And my brother and I were soon to be discarded. Pushed aside. For we were an eternal reminder of my father, I'm sure. Or a reminder of her supposed failure. An inability to keep our father alive. Her husband. The thread of our family was breaking, and I knew the recourse lying in wait.

After the second time the nurse had breathed hot, electric life back into him, it was apparent the battle he was fighting had reached it's end. Thanks to a slew of misdiagnosis, a hole had torn through his intestine and was spilling bile into his body, killing him slowly. The doctor mentioned there was no real chance of survival or recovery, and asked, would we like to revive him again?

Being asked to end a life is a perplexing question. One that should wrack a normal person with guilt. With anger. With sadness. But some of us are programmed for these things. I've been to war, although I've never been in the service or carried a gun. My war prepared me for these things. My war hardened me, both to death, and the wake of it's aftermath.

So, I made a decision. Love was my weapon, and compassion the ammunition. I pulled the trigger with the shake of my head that no, the next time he flat-lined, he was to stay that way. Do not resuscitate. He had his struggle here, and it was nothing short of a hard-earned life. He was moving into the next phase, and who was I to stop that? So, donning the costume of a dutiful son, I held his hand, and stiffened my lip.

The cresting and collapsing saw waves in front of me on-screen told me what my heart knew. They were slowing. As the valleys grew wider and the waves became lessened, I felt a gentle pressure on my hand. That said everything to me. Thank you for everything. I love you. I'll miss you. All the words that he was unable to say came through in one very simple, very modest gesture. And then, the digital ocean calmed, save for a faint tone that I know I was supposed to have heard. But it, as did my thoughts, drifted away. I was away from that room, away from my family, and alone.

I wanted to taste that moment. I wanted to savor it, and I wanted every detail committed to memory. Like a beautiful, macabre piece of art, I wanted that memory admirably hung on my wall. To what effect? I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps, never to forget. Perhaps because I knew it was to be the last time I'd see him breathe. I would feel his pulse. I would reminisce on a childhood filled with disappointment save for a few golden moments with him. My role model. My hero. My father, the complete and total mystery. Ten years have gone, and I am thankful. I am able to live the life I wanted. To live a life he wanted. To move through this world equipped with love and compassion. To lead a successful life. To help people along the way. To do something with my time here. All because of him. With him, I would have a father. Without him, I am able to become who I am.

In the end, it's only ten years. Ten rapidly passing, finite years. And time is forgetful. I know I am on the way to the finish line just the same, but I'm not running, I'm walking. It's leisurely, and I'm enjoying every moment."

-D.R.