I’ve Gotten A Lot Weaker
My grandfather died pathetically. In the final years of his life, he was slow and confused with dementia and often headed out into the woods. He died there, alone. In a foreign country, someone, perhaps a jogger, found his body. A minor laceration to the head but no indication of ill play. The doctor marked it a myocardial infarction, anything to fill the box for his cause of death. There was no autopsy.
Several days later, I was in Animal Physiology, learning about the heart, how it worked, how it pumped, but not how it failed. I carried my emotions on my face. I must have. The professor told me, “You look a little pensive.”
Before that and before the suicides, I was just a college freshman, who failed to get into an ivy league school. After all my years of private academy, paid with credit; after all my music lessons with a toxic teacher; after losing friends to focus on college admissions; after the all-nighters that stunted my growth; after all the valid criticism my track coach threw at me; after all the Sundays in an empty church; and, after all the loneliness — I failed.
Then, I made another mistake, which would in turn produce more mistakes. I chose to go to a better-ranked university, despite the other option, a state school, giving me a full-ride with a $3,000 research stipend and Honors housing…
