Roses in the Urinal
Michelle Marie McNiff
I will never forget the day I met Doris. Far from Cupid's arrow, heart-shaped chocolates or swanky dinner reservations, I met a soul guide, more than half my age. On that early morning in 2014, a time when people were rushing out to buy Valentine Day cards, I was given a second chance at life. A wish not granted in a Hallmark card, nor stamped on a confectionery heart.
The night before the order of my life changed drastically as though a screen writer twisted the outcome. Alone in the guest room of my Florida home, I brokered a desperate deal with God, begging for more time. A death row pardon mailed to the universe, in the middle of the night.
As I wrestled with the angel of death, rain drummed a violent tune against the windowpane.
“I don't want to die,” I sobbed, struggling for air. “Please God, not tonight. I'm not ready to leave this world.”
In some ways, it would have been easier to slip away, leave a tattered marriage and a life full of broken dreams. Simply, fade away... Sense and sensibility chopped the fatalistic thought midsentence. The house was quiet-the family-dog included-slept peacefully in their beds. In the next room, my son snored, listening to him, I wanted to follow his symphonic slumber. From late evening to early morning, my lungs whistled like a night train rattling through a country town. And I hacked a violent dry cough, which made my lungs itch without relief.
I thought to wake my husband, Carl or call my friend Reina, she lived three houses down, but I was downright stubborn and determined to leap this mortality hurdle, alone. Bracing for oxygen, I sat upright in bed and propped my back against the headboard. I clasped my shins and rolled in a ball, rocking back and forth. The lull did not put me to sleep; my heart raced out of my chest and a persistent, severe cough kept me awake. Drenched in sweat and fear, I closed my eyes.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Just breathe... I can't! I'm slipping away.
In the past, I had battled asthma attacks, but this one was most severe. Code red. Stress, fatigue, and a pesky flu bug ambushed me, all at once. Obstinately, I ignored the flashing hazard signs, warning me to slow down and rest. As always, I raced in a labyrinth of carnival mirrors, sprinting in suburbia, clutching a Mom's agenda book. On any given day, fat, skinny, bad hair day, salon blow dry, morphed images reflected in the mirror. All the while, I could not afford a sick day. Aside from wife and mother, I filled many positions: project manager, chauffeur, banker and security officer. There was no substitute or under study readily available. If the tasks fell behind, the work piled mile high like the makeup work of a student absent for days, weeks, months.
Fading in and out of consciousness, the future stalled when the ghosts of the past haunted the halls of my memory. In the dark shadows of desperate misery, my life flashed before my eyes...
Under the shade of an old, oak tree, I watch my younger self in pigtails, swaying on a swing. I kick off one of my shoes. My golden retriever fetches the patent, leather red sandal. Nearby, my mother paints a pink rose in the center of a canvas that rested on a rickety, wooden easel. I can smell the oil paint, a reminder she is near. The scene changes to snowflakes tumbling on a somber scene. A priest holds a black umbrella and prays over a mahogany casket. Standing beside my father, I cry, “Mommy!” My voice trails off... the sky opens bright blue in a peal of church bells. Locked at the elbow, my husband and I run down a steep flight of marble steps. A small crowd of family and friends toss white rice and pink rose petals in the air. Slipping into an antique, white Bentley, we take cover, watching them wave goodbye through the etching on the back window: Just Married Carl & Sophie. We are young, carefree and madly in love, speeding in a red, convertible corvette on an ocean-side highway, belting Eddie Money lyrics, “I got two tickets to paradise.” Suddenly, a blinding light flashes... I'm cradling my newborn daughter in the hospital, swaddled in a pink blanket. Laughter echoes in the background. Blindfolded, my son grips a baseball bat and swings at a large piñata. Pow! Pow! Pow! The sound of gunshots, the paper maiche Tonka Truck splits open, a gush of rainbow-colored candies spills on the dead leaves of fall. The reel of memories jam, the images fade to black.