I observe the Canadian geese on the river behind our house.
Some of them are without mates, through predation, age, or disease. The ones without walk among the others, calling while shaking their heads, continually searching the distance for the return of those they are bound to. Their days are without end and their voices are withered by want of those lost.
I have been among the missing.
26 January 98
04:30
I left her standing on the cold wood floor of our living room. Her arms were crossed, trying to hold in the anger, pain, and hopelessness. My daughter was sleeping in her room upstairs. The remains of what I once was had been packed into boxes and slid into the far away corners of the attic.
There was no guarantee of my return.
I slowly closed the door and stepped into the cold dark of morning to bring an end to my path.
We met when I was thirteen and she was fifteen; years later, we bound ourselves, one to the other. Unknowingly she had also bound herself to a heart that was marred from darkness.
Below the surface, of what she had known me to be, was damage that I could not repair myself.
I was saturated with depression; like fresh tar, it had crept from the earth into my shoes, onto my back, around my heart, and into my mind.
With all of the love within her she tried to wash it from me, but it would not go away. With tears and words she called to me, but was answered by echoes.
My experiences with death and dying were treated like obstructions on a path; I dodged them, crawled over them, and put them behind me, out of sight and mind.
I refused to give time or space to these incidents and did everything I could to physically separate myself from the perceived weakness of my family members and the horror that surrounded them.
I had little compassion for my siblings that were ill. Their illness drew attention to my family and validated the fact that we were weak and dying.
Compassion was the channel that could have drained the building waters of grief and darkness, but I was selfish and turned my face from the immediate pain.
I managed, poorly, to contain the darkness for years; the memories pressed and manifested themselves in destructive activities. Desperately I built the retention walls higher and deeper, effectively occluding myself from the love and compassion around me, I prepared no thoughts for the morrow and laughed when friends spoke of planning a future.
I did not expect to live long. Every headache or eye twitch made me question and discern; when will the seizures come, am I harboring the disease, is the sickness growing in my brain, pushing cells and synapses, making it’s nest, setting it’s defenses against chemotherapy, radiation, and scalpels?
I expected, daily, an early end to this life. I believed, I would be reunited with my family long before I reached maturity.
But, there was a quantity that would eventually ruin my wall and allow those deep dark waters to overwhelm me.
In the fabric of my body it was quietly working; from conception it ticked and whirred, suppressing the illness that had surrounded me and taken my loved ones, one by one.
There it sat, functioning properly, culling cells that could grow radically and form cancerous tumors. Permeating my flesh, it was keeping me alive.
After my fathers death I volunteered for genetic testing and a few weeks later held in my hands the business size envelope that would be the ruin of my expected demise.
I tested negative for Li-Fraumeni Syndrome. In my genetic code, Gene P-53 was not mutated.
Gene P-53 is important in multicellular organisms where it regulates the cell cycle and thus functions as a tumor suppresser that is involved in preventing cancer. As such, P-53 has been described as "the guardian of the genome," "the guardian angel gene," and the "master watchman," referring to its role in conserving stability by preventing genome mutation.
Elvis left the building.
The train I had packed so dearly for passage on, departed with all aboard but me.
I was suddenly separated from my birth family. I was not marked as they were and therefor not accepted.
A chasm formed between us because I was found unworthy.
The waters I had contained breached my wall and carried me towards the chasm. My baggage was strewn and there was hell to pay.
I could no longer hold the deafening memories as they bore down upon me.
The memories perforated may days, interrupting my work, and raged at night through the quiet.
I could not suppress them with alcohol or counselors. The promises of the good in life could not tame them.
The more I attempted to befriend them, the stronger they became.
I could not swim their currents.
In despair I succumbed to their tides and drifted further from my wife and daughter.
I dove for the deep in search of silence and peace.
I sought my physical destruction.
If death would not come for me, I would search for him. On my terms.
When I walked out on my wife and daughter I engaged death through the military and life as a soldier. I volunteered, trained, and prayed for war, but death was elusive.
Through the daily challenges of preparing for war I eventually found the surface of my life; after distancing myself from the physical haunts and connections of my history I was afforded the opportunity to heal.
In a way I was born again, and as a castaway coming to rest on a pebble strewn shore that is washed with clear water and bright sunshine, I was able to stand with a clear mind.
Some of them are without mates, through predation, age, or disease. The ones without walk among the others, calling while shaking their heads, continually searching the distance for the return of those they are bound to. Their days are without end and their voices are withered by want of those lost.
I have been among the missing.
26 January 98
04:30
I left her standing on the cold wood floor of our living room. Her arms were crossed, trying to hold in the anger, pain, and hopelessness. My daughter was sleeping in her room upstairs. The remains of what I once was had been packed into boxes and slid into the far away corners of the attic.
There was no guarantee of my return.
I slowly closed the door and stepped into the cold dark of morning to bring an end to my path.
We met when I was thirteen and she was fifteen; years later, we bound ourselves, one to the other. Unknowingly she had also bound herself to a heart that was marred from darkness.
Below the surface, of what she had known me to be, was damage that I could not repair myself.
I was saturated with depression; like fresh tar, it had crept from the earth into my shoes, onto my back, around my heart, and into my mind.
With all of the love within her she tried to wash it from me, but it would not go away. With tears and words she called to me, but was answered by echoes.
My experiences with death and dying were treated like obstructions on a path; I dodged them, crawled over them, and put them behind me, out of sight and mind.
I refused to give time or space to these incidents and did everything I could to physically separate myself from the perceived weakness of my family members and the horror that surrounded them.
I had little compassion for my siblings that were ill. Their illness drew attention to my family and validated the fact that we were weak and dying.
Compassion was the channel that could have drained the building waters of grief and darkness, but I was selfish and turned my face from the immediate pain.
I managed, poorly, to contain the darkness for years; the memories pressed and manifested themselves in destructive activities. Desperately I built the retention walls higher and deeper, effectively occluding myself from the love and compassion around me, I prepared no thoughts for the morrow and laughed when friends spoke of planning a future.
I did not expect to live long. Every headache or eye twitch made me question and discern; when will the seizures come, am I harboring the disease, is the sickness growing in my brain, pushing cells and synapses, making it’s nest, setting it’s defenses against chemotherapy, radiation, and scalpels?
I expected, daily, an early end to this life. I believed, I would be reunited with my family long before I reached maturity.
But, there was a quantity that would eventually ruin my wall and allow those deep dark waters to overwhelm me.
In the fabric of my body it was quietly working; from conception it ticked and whirred, suppressing the illness that had surrounded me and taken my loved ones, one by one.
There it sat, functioning properly, culling cells that could grow radically and form cancerous tumors. Permeating my flesh, it was keeping me alive.
After my fathers death I volunteered for genetic testing and a few weeks later held in my hands the business size envelope that would be the ruin of my expected demise.
I tested negative for Li-Fraumeni Syndrome. In my genetic code, Gene P-53 was not mutated.
Gene P-53 is important in multicellular organisms where it regulates the cell cycle and thus functions as a tumor suppresser that is involved in preventing cancer. As such, P-53 has been described as "the guardian of the genome," "the guardian angel gene," and the "master watchman," referring to its role in conserving stability by preventing genome mutation.
Elvis left the building.
The train I had packed so dearly for passage on, departed with all aboard but me.
I was suddenly separated from my birth family. I was not marked as they were and therefor not accepted.
A chasm formed between us because I was found unworthy.
The waters I had contained breached my wall and carried me towards the chasm. My baggage was strewn and there was hell to pay.
I could no longer hold the deafening memories as they bore down upon me.
The memories perforated may days, interrupting my work, and raged at night through the quiet.
I could not suppress them with alcohol or counselors. The promises of the good in life could not tame them.
The more I attempted to befriend them, the stronger they became.
I could not swim their currents.
In despair I succumbed to their tides and drifted further from my wife and daughter.
I dove for the deep in search of silence and peace.
I sought my physical destruction.
If death would not come for me, I would search for him. On my terms.
When I walked out on my wife and daughter I engaged death through the military and life as a soldier. I volunteered, trained, and prayed for war, but death was elusive.
Through the daily challenges of preparing for war I eventually found the surface of my life; after distancing myself from the physical haunts and connections of my history I was afforded the opportunity to heal.
In a way I was born again, and as a castaway coming to rest on a pebble strewn shore that is washed with clear water and bright sunshine, I was able to stand with a clear mind.
Through it all the love of my life followed me and continually held my daughter to me; as the din of the pain slowly subsided I heard her impassioned calls and began my return.
Being alive has been difficult to accept, but I have come to terms with my history and I am now enjoying my life and all that it holds. I owe a great debt to my wife and daughter for holding tightly to me through the darkness. I continue to miss my siblings and my father very much and hopefully, in some way, I can honor them for the strength that I gained from walking next to them.
Maybe the best way to thank them is to span the void between us by living a long life filled with the fortunes they were not afforded.
I am fortunate, thankful, and once again, among the living.
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