Born With a Rusty Spoon: Episode 70
...With the realization that I was still breathing I cried and cursed. The terrible pain in my chest was almost nothing compared to the disappointment I felt at being alive...
Artist Bertie Stroup Marah continues her deeply mpvong autobiography.
No. This can't be. I can't be alive. I told you, God, I'm done with living. Those were my thoughts as I slowly became aware of the sharp smell of alcohol, betadine, and blood. I heard the strange beeping of machines, and squeezed my eyes shut against the bright overhead fluorescent lights in the Intensive Care Unit.
The last and only thing I remembered was standing outside my car in the mall parking lot, staring at the sky. I was crying and shouting at God, "Damn you! You're not going to do anything else to me!" In my tortured mind I blamed God for my despair. Those words were the only thing God willed me to remember before I pressed the muzzle of the gun to my heart and pulled the trigger.
With the realization that I was still breathing I cried and cursed. The terrible pain in my chest was almost nothing compared to the disappointment I felt at being alive. When I began pulling at the bandages and tubes, cursing and flailing, a nurse administered a sedative. I drifted away from the glare of lights over my hospital bed and fell back into a deep sleep.
The next time I woke I heard a familiar voice. "Bertie, its Mama."
I felt the strong hand I knew so well, gently holding mine. I opened my eyes to the anguished face of my mother. Her eyes were bruised and swollen from crying and exhaustion. They were filled with sadness and love; but not scorn—never scorn. Her face, still beautiful in spite of the old scars, was drawn and pale and her trembling lips turned down slightly at the corners. It must have taken all her strength, but she didn't cry.
I started to say something to try to explain why I tried to end my life but she stopped me.
"Hush now, sweetheart, I don't want to know why you did it. I'm just glad you're still here with me. Nothing else matters."
Knowing her, I believe she must have wanted me to save my energy for living.
Her compassion was intolerable. I felt I was deserving of nothing but contempt. In my mind I was a useless failure. Her horror and surprise at what I had attempted was concealed behind her mask of strength. Never would she tell me how I had hurt her and the others who loved me; only that she was grateful that I was alive and would do everything to keep me that way.
This woman whom I had wished many times would behave in a more conventional manner had once again proven to be the very person I needed in the worst hours of my life. I had long ago absolved her for the roll she played in making my earlier life so terrible.
