Five Minutes

The following post is my first entry into the yeah write challenge.   Faithful followers and new fans, please link back to the preceding post for an explanation of the below narrative. If you are interested in learning more about yeah write, check it out here: http://yeahwrite.me/okaformee/.  There are no holds barred below, and it gets really real just as promised because this is indeed a true story. Thanks for reading and bigger thanks for following this blog!

 

(Introduction not to be included in word count.)

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Five Minutes

 

Five minutes could change an individual’s life forever.

Five minutes early could mean that you find your spouse naked in your bed entangled in the limbs and grip of another woman.  Five minutes late could mean your boss spews curses and terminates you, salty tears now sliding down into your coffee.  Five more minutes could give you just enough time for the man of your dreams to stride coolly into the room and seat himself next to you.  For me, five minutes was all that was needed to save a life.  Sometimes I secretly possess the detestable wish that I had been held up at work, for I cannot be entirely certain that his was a life worth saving.

“Five more minutes, ma’am,” the EMT spoke to me,” Five more minutes and there wouldn’t have been much we could do here.  He would have been dead.” 

DEAD.  This was the last word of his suicide letter.  “You’re better off with me dead,” it read.  Maybe he’s right.  Just maybe he’s right this time.  This was my fucking awful thought as I sat alone in the emergency waiting room while my spouse was having his stomach pumped.  Between this terrible thought, the trembling, and the tears, I sat like stone and relived those few crucial minutes in my mind as though the memory had been burned onto a repeating cinema reel.   The pills.  The locked bathroom door.  The photographs all facing down.  His trembling body.  The 911 call.  The pills.  The note.  The bright lights and men arriving.  His eyes rolling slowly back in his head.  Sit up. Sit up.  Please sit up! The pills.

“The pills, ma’am,” the man questioned,” Do you know how many pills he took?  What kind?”

Three bottles. Antidepressants.  Maybe not the whole three bottles; some tablets were in the sink.  I don’t know.

“Ma’am?”  I had offered him no response.

“Three bottles of antidepressants.  Lexapro. Depakote.  Effexor.”

“His or yours?” he asked.  They belonged to each of us; we were a toxic match with our mental illnesses – each only compelling the other to further suffering rather than offering the expectant empathy that was so desperately needed.

But this shit; I couldn’t sympathize with this shit.  I didn’t even know the man who lay on that bed shaking and sobbing while complete strangers checked his vital signs.  That man on the bed was a fucking liar, a cheater, a thief; he was not the man I believed I had married.  I thought I was in love.  I fell too quickly.  I was young and my eyes weren’t wide open.  I could have blamed it on a million different little things – anything to avoid the straight truth that I was wrong.

“I don’t know if you really want this, but here,” said the EMT as he handed me a piece of paper that I quickly assumed was the suicide note.  I just wanted the man who had written this note to live then; I loved him so much.  I didn’t care what had been scribbled on that stupid fucking piece of paper.  I quickly shoved it deep into the pocket of my denim jeans.  I then removed my hand from my clothing and wrapped my fingers tightly around those of my love.

And then the lies came to light on the lines of what was intended to be his final goodbye.  Sitting in that waiting room, I had pulled the note from my pocket and read the contents in insane disbelief.  The truth had been revealed, and the truth was one ugly little fucker. 

He wasn’t really attending university.  His transcripts and admissions documents had all been completely fabricated.  He lost his job months and months ago.  His income was achieved through thievery by pawning off stolen goods.  He possessed a criminal record, outstanding financial debt, and an enormous desire to die. 

My life was a lie, and I had no damn idea until I read the hastily scribbled contents on a piece of college ruled notebook paper.  That same paper was now soaked with tears, and black mascara covered my soft cheeks that he had gently kissed so many times.  How had I not known?  Naïve little girl so desperate to be loved.  I initially blamed myself as much as I blamed him. 

What could I do?  Should I have run away from the hospital and left him alone to be transported to the ICU?  Should I have sought an annulment and played Pontius Pilate to the whole damn thing?  I stayed.  I stood by his side.  I thought I had forgiven him, and told him we could have a fresh start.  But he had fooled me once, and soon proved he could do it again.  And I stayed; I cried and cried endless nights.  I lay awake in bed with my deceitful spouse beside me and held a razor blade to my wrist just praying for the fucking courage to go through with what he had failed to successfully do.

I couldn’t be wrong; I wouldn’t be wrong.  I said “I do,” and I did; I did everything to make it work although an equal effort was never returned.  We yelled and we screamed, and the same shit I was screaming about just kept on happening.  He threatened suicide when I threatened to leave.  Then came the night he laid his hands upon me in violence.  He clenched his wretched fingers around my neck.  The next morning I left and never looked back. 

It didn’t take five minutes that time; I only needed a few seconds to put the keys in the ignition and leave that life of lies behind.  But I have wondered – would I have been better off with him dead? How would my life be different now?  What impact would that five minutes have made?  I will never know these answers, but I did learn that it’s more of a mistake to stay miserable than to admit you’re wrong and move on.  

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