It seems like forever ago that the rip tide carried us out. The water we are in is still deep, but each day I can see that we have swam a bit closer to shore. The load that we have been carrying is getting lighter. There is still a ton of weight. Nonetheless, I can feel the difference.

I imagine the future, the one in which all of the debt, mistakes, and bad memories are finally off our shoulders. I imagine us laying on the beach, hand in hand, arms tired and out of breath from treading water. Every muscle aching, but we are over joyed that we pulled through when so many other drowned under lighter loads.

We're gonna make it.

My name is E. and to this day I'm not sure if I killed my father.

We were in room 218 of the Baltimore / Washington Medical Center. I was laying back in the recliner trying to sleep but my fathers' breathing was strained by the oxygen mask on his face and the beeping noises of the machines prevented me from drifting off. I tried counting sheep but every time I got to 69 I thought of some other meaning for the number and it would take me 15 minutes to resist the urge to sneak into the bathroom to release some tension while thinking about the fairly hot nurse that did the nightly rounds. Once I settled down, I'd start counting again. 1.2.3.4.5. Read the rest of this entry »