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It was a year spent in fear and never ending crises and a series of dramatic failed suicide attempts. Towards the end of that decade of our lives we were all sucked into the vortex of bipolar manic depressivie pychosis with suicidal tendencies at both extremes.
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A wonderful trajectory for a life on the way to success and greatness before it got hijacked and swerved into full blown madness. We married during college, parented three small sons, and spent almost eight years in graduate and post graduate school. His sons and I had been a part of his lofty orbit as his star rose and shined. He was athlete, scholar, friend, lover, hometown hero. He was the home town's IT boy, the one envied by all the other guys and lusted after by every girl even near his age. Wow, he had been a super nova, a bright star, a young man with infinite possibilities for the future. They fail to remember the series of crises and chaos that crushed him and me and our 4, 5, and 6 year old tow headed boys. Their young minds are thankfully innocent of the horror of what went on back so many eons ago. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn't have burned family pictures, thrown my wedding rings into the Gulf of Mexico, and buried my wedding gown deep in the Florida Everglades maybe I should have saved some semblance of the life we shared with him for almost a decade before all hell broke loose. It's not easy to memorialize and bury a father, a husband you haven't seen or heard from in years, someone who might seem like a figment of your imagination. How do you explain a life that seems to have been wasted? A life that started out so wonderfully perfect. I should have tried rehearsing them back home in Florida, my mind tells me, circling back. I have a lot to say, to explain, to confess, but the words cannot flow because they are not ready. My adult daughter has stayed behind in Florida because she was part of my second family, never having suffered through the first Their spouses and kids were never a part of this and probably are better off for being innocent, ignorant of our shared story, his history. This we are about to do does not involve their wives or their families. Like his two older brothers, he has traveled alone. All is just beginning as we wait on Jeff to arrive on the 4:45 flight from Charlotte. Both keep their eyes averted, absorbed by the screens of the cellphones in their laps. They're quiet and somber as we sit off to the side of the area reserved for incoming flights. The two sons help me exit the plane, wander through the terminal and reclaim our baggage. What words can I use? What feelings dare I express? Why so little so late” The words have been forming in my mind, in my heart for almost fifty years., but I'm afraid if I speak them they might choke me.
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I've been thinking about that call, trying to decide what to say and how to say it ever since, well, for more than forty years. Old Uncle is oblivious to the turmoil his words will bring. The call is a jolt like a bolt of searing truth. First and only time I think he had ever called me. I startle awake to the fear that I am no more prepared than I was when I received the call. They've just turned on the warning lights and we're set to touch down at Chicago's O'Hare in a couple minutes. The three days since I heard the news have been busy, sad days, frantic with plans and activity, punctuated with torrents of tears. I need as much rest as possible before to prepare for the words. I slouch in my seat, the seatbelt uncomfortably tight around my hips, sandwiched between my two grown handome sons, bookending me as I drowse off.
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It's far better I just do this thing a capella and off the cuff, but I need some sort of road map or at least a list of the things that I need to say, you know, like professional bullets, maybe even like a Powerpoint presentation. but would only magnify my guilt and grief. I could have brainstormed it, taken notes, crafted it, and then rehearsed what I wanted to say, no, rehearsed what I wanted them to hear, what I needed them to know. I sit in the middle seat, not the window seat, hurtling through the crisp but cloudy September sky at hundreds of miles an hour, wishing I hadn't procrastinated, put this off. Only this disaster could lure me back against my will, as I am forced to remember a similar frantic flight over fifty years ago. The ridiculously expensive earphones do their best to achieve dead silence, as advertised, exactly what I need to convince myself that breaking my fifty year vow to never leave Florida and travel back to the Midwest is the right thing to do. This story contains themes or mentions of mental health issues.