Thread:Urkelbot666/@comment-26268104-20150826235822/@comment-26268104-20150922221525

So, this is my story now. What can be improved and what is good?

              My intentions were good, but how I tried to do them was a disaster. Because of that, I’m thought of by everyone as the new Jeffery Dahmer. Maybe it’s good if I’m locked up in prison, rather than being in the world to hear what everyone has to say about me. About you, you don’t have to listen to my story, nor do you have to care about it, but if you listen to me, thank you.

First, I think I should tell a bit about myself. My name is Denis Barnes. Me and my family lived on a farm. I had a dream of becoming a doctor with a degree in medicine and biology. Meanwhile, my brother, Theo, wanted to become a comedian. Everyone in my family was close, and overall, our life was great. Until what I like to call the incident happened.

It started ten years ago, when I was 12, and my brother was 1. My dad just came home from a medical examination. I was doing homework, so I didn’t noticed his grim expression. He wore it only when I or my brother got punished. It wasn’t until I finished my homework that I noticed his expression.

“What’s wrong,” I asked.

Dad stared at me for a while, then he took a deep breath and said “I’ve been diagnosed with…” He trailed off and just stared back, into the distance. After a minute or so of this, he sighed and went upstairs. As I watched him go upstairs, I felt a mixture of depression and fear. I knew dad was going for a medical examination, but I didn’t know what he was being examined for. Would he be ok? I refused to accept the idea of dad dying.

After a few minutes of silence, I crept toward the stairs. Above the ceiling, I could hear mom and dad talking.

I hear dad say “I just…I can’t tell him. Could you tell him?”

Mom responded “How will that make the shock any better for him?”

“It won’t,” my dad said. “But it will be even worse for him if we don’t bother to tell him at all.”

“Alright, I’ll tell him,” mom said.

A few seconds later, mom marched downstairs toward me. She was trying to remain emotionless, but thanks to her wide eyes and half-open mouth, I could clearly see she was shocked. Again, the thought that dad might have been diagnosed with something deadly crept into my mind. I tried to suppress the thought, but the tear inching down my cheek told me I wasn’t doing a good job.

“At the appointment,” mom began. She trailed off.

I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. So I asked “Is my dad ok?”

Mom paused then said “He has…”

Baby Theo’s wail interrupted us. We waited for the baby to calm down, and heard dad say “Shhhhh,” to the baby softly. He always talked in that soft voice whenever the baby cried and to me when I was younger. After a few moments, I asked “What does my dad have?”

“He…he has lung cancer,” my mom said quietly. My heart sank. Lung cancer was one of the least survivable diseases in the world. More tears slipped out of my eyes. I pulled a chair from the table behind me, sat down, and cried some more. I knew that dad would likely live only 15 years or so. I was 12 then, so I wondered something.

<p class="MsoNormal">What would I be like at 27 years old?

<p class="MsoNormal">The next few months were the worst months of my life. Every time it seemed I could get over my grief, more bad news would come from the hospital, sharping it again. I would spend hours in my room, crying until I had a terrible headache. It felt like a cycle that went like this: my grief would sharpen, become dull, and then sharpen again. This cycle repeated until mid-October, when news from the hospital finally stopped coming to our farm.

<p class="MsoNormal">(Time lapses)

<p class="MsoNormal">I was 22. My dad’s lung cancer made him constantly confined to his hospital bed. Me and my family-Theo and mom-would visit him occasionally, and with every visit, he seemed closer to death. The constant sound of the machine monitoring his heart rate sounded like a countdown to death, rather than an indication that he was alive.

<p class="MsoNormal">I was studying medicine and biology, and about to graduate from college. Not because of my dad’s cancer, but because the human body has always been one of my favorite things to talk about. As I got more advanced in medicine, I began having these fantasies about finding a cure to save my dad. I told him about these dreams once while visiting him, and he simply said that I shouldn’t get too ahead of myself.

<p class="MsoNormal">One day, at the start of spring, when I was only a few months from graduation, I was sitting on my porch, lost in my thoughts. I just came back from a visit to my dad. The entire visit replayed in my head repeatedly, and every time it finished and started over again, the pain in my mind sharpened, until it was needle that made me lie on my back, staring at the sky.

<p class="MsoNormal">(Flashback)

<p class="MsoNormal">I fell into the chair next to dad’s hospital bed. Theo was sitting in the chair next to me. Mom was sitting in the waiting room, insisting to have a moment alone with him. We looked at dad as he looked solemnly back at us. After a minute of silence, dad said “Denis, Theo.”

<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes,” We both asked.

<p class="MsoNormal">“When I die…” he began.

<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t want to talk about dying,” I interrupted.

<p class="MsoNormal">“Just listen,” dad said. “When I die, be strong. Don’t spend too much time grieving. There will still be a giant world waiting for you.” He paused, then added “And don’t smoke.”

<p class="MsoNormal">Theo responded “Don’t worry, I won’t.”