Seize the Day (7 page)

“It feels like I gave in to her foolishness,” he said. “I've been struggling with it ever since. These parents put you in a bad a position. I didn't want to punish the kid because of the mother. But am I really helping him by letting him slide by? Man, you just don't know—this is a real struggle for me. If I can't do my job without worrying about hurting the child with potential or worry about a mother not doing her job so I have to make up for it…it's too much of a burden.”

I wonder if that was a hint of his mental struggle. I told him in the grille: “We've had this internal struggle from the beginning. It's always there. I've failed kids and it pained me to do it because they have so many obstacles in front of them. I did what I thought was right. That's all you can do. But it's hard when it's not just about the grade or the work. With our kids, there are many times other dynamics that come into play.

“If you could make a decision without considering them, you'd be less than human. You're struggling with the same thing all teachers, especially in public schools, do…all teachers who care, that is.”

“Yeah, but you did the right thing,” Walter said. “You didn't give in. You held true to your ethics.”

“It's always a judgment call,” I added. “I could say you held to your ethics by doing what you thought was right for the kid. That's our goal—to do right by them by preparing them for the next level. You've done that. He's a kid from Southeast D.C. who will go to Virginia. That's a great thing.”

He didn't respond; he looked off through the window for several seconds at the lush golf course. I finally broke the silence by suggesting we go to the driving range before our round. But that was the most he'd ever talked and he seemed genuinely pained by his issue. Recalling that put everything came into question: Was that a reason for a sick man to take his own life? Was he going on and on to signal me to help him?

I decided I had to let it all go before I drove myself crazy. But it wasn't easy. When I took a shower, however, I had reason to forget about everything. With the hot water running down my back I was taken away from all the drama—and then something happened.

A pain so severe and sharp and penetrating shot through my stomach and drove me to my knees. I was more scared than I had ever been. I felt like Redd Foxx on
Sanford and Son
: This was it. The big one.

The doctors told me I would experience occasional pain, but they lied. This was something beyond pain. I couldn't stand up. I couldn't move. I could only curl up and hold my stomach and pray harder than I ever had for relief. But it did not come. I began sweating, from fear and excruciating pain. I felt like I was going to vomit. My body began to involuntarily shake. What other recourse did I have but to think I was dying?

The water built up in the shower; my foot covered the drain. And I could not move it an inch to let the water flow. I was paralyzed in pain. All that and I'm not accurately describing the otherworldly discomfort that ravaged my body. The stomach was where all the pain was coming, but it rendered the rest of my body immovable. I thought I was going to pass out. Actually, I hoped I would pass out. I could not take the pain.

And I did. I had no idea how long I was unconscious, but apparently I moved enough to unclog the drain before or while I was passed out, relieving the water and preventing me from drowning. I came to with the water, now cold, bearing down on me as if I were lying under a Costa Rican waterfall.

The pain was still there, but far less devastating. I realized I hadn't died, and slowly pulled myself from the shower floor, all the while holding my stomach, feeling like my hand provided some support. I was scared to remove it.

Fearful the debilitating pain would return, I slowly, cautiously moved to pull myself up, turn off the water and wearily make my way from the bathroom to the bedroom. I didn't even consider drying off. I made it to the bed and delicately crawled into it. I curled into a fetal position. Naked and soaking wet, I cried until I fell asleep.

I
awoke feeling slightly disoriented and scared. I believed the doctors. I believed I had cancer. Before that episode, there was nothing beyond the X-rays and their prognosis that really indicated I had it. I didn't
feel
like I had cancer. I knew it after that episode in the shower. I
felt
it. And I was even more scared than when I was first told. That's why I cried.

Stomachaches from food poisoning or cheap liquor or a bad mix of alcohol was nothing compared to what I experienced in the shower. This was something altogether different. It was like the lining of my stomach was laced with acid, while being stabbed with tiny razors. It felt like how I thought cancer might feel. Only cancer could be that excruciating.

My stomach was sore in the morning, as if it had been punched repeatedly. With a pipe. I was able to stand upright and move about enough to grab my heating pad from a hall closet, plug it up and delicately place it across my midsection. As it heated up, I relaxed and eventually dozed off to sleep.

I dreamed that I was on the golf course with Walter and after making a hole-in-one, he told me he was thinking of killing himself because he was depressed. I asked: “How can you be depressed after making a hole-in-one?”

He didn't answer. So, I made him agree that if I got a hole-in-one, too, that he would not kill himself. Then I hit a 7-iron one hundred seventy-six yards over a lake and into the hole. I jumped up in celebration of my ace. I turned around to face Walter and he had a rope around his neck and was hanging from a tree.

I forced my eyes open. My heart was pounding. I lay in bed, looking at the ceiling, thinking about Walter's death and about my life. Neither made me feel good.

My cell phone rang, but I couldn't figure out where it was. That's when I learned I was a little disoriented. I couldn't determine where the sound was coming. Finally, I decide I didn't care who was calling. I was too scared to care.

Feeling like I had cancer was different from being
told
I had cancer. Now it was real, tangible, and I was petrified. I tried to call on Reverend Henson's prayer, but I couldn't remember it. I thought about Walter and figured it was better to be alive than in the ground. But that did not offer any comfort.

After another indeterminable period of sleep, I woke up with a different mindset. I was no longer so scared I couldn't move. I was scared. But I was going to use that fear to my favor and challenge myself to press on.

With the pain minimized, I could think without distraction. I found my phone. And then I found the most powerful pain-killers I could get my hands on. I knew I had to at least attempt to manage the pain. I knew it would come again, and maybe worse, and that was not something that appealed to me. So I would make sure I would have a bottle of oxycodone handy at all times.

When I looked at my phone, I noticed the missed call came from area code 703. That was Northern Virginia, where Walter's son lived. I checked my voice messages, and sure enough, it was Walter Jr.

“Hi, my uncle Donovan called me about my dad. I wanted to call you to talk about getting into his house and searching for insurance information, his will, bank accounts, whatever. Please call me back at this same number.”

I was uncomfortable. There was no sense of remorse that his father was dead. He was as a matter of fact as one would be about ordering a pizza with particular toppings. I wanted to call his ass back immediately and let him know how I felt. But it struck me that I did not know the nature of their relationship…and that it was none of my business.

So I, instead, gathered myself and went into the bathroom. I was startled that the shower curtains had been pulled off the railing and that water was all over the floor. I could not recall how I got out of the tub or even turning off the water. I was in that much pain.

I grabbed a few towels and placed them over the standing water. The shower hooks were broken, so I would have to replace them—and a new shower curtain, too.

When I got to the mirror, I scared myself. I had forgotten that I had all my hair shaved off and the image I was not expecting jolted me. I rubbed my head as I stared at myself in the mirror. The bald head would look better on me once my scalp's color caught up with my face. But I was OK with the look. Significantly, I felt different with no hair. A little more free.

It took a while for me to clean up the bathroom and to get dressed, but I did and it was a relief that my stomach was pain free. I thought better of telling my daughter about that stomach episode. It would only make her more worried and I couldn't bear that. Not even my father would know. What would be the point of telling them? They'd just get upset. I had caused enough drama.

Finally, I sat down on my living room couch and returned Walter's son's call. I was hoping he'd be dejected to know his father had passed. But I didn't detect a strain of sadness. And that made me angry.

“So, what are your plans for a funeral?” I asked. “Will you and your uncle work it out? You're his only relatives.”

“That ain't got nothing to do with me,” he said. “I ain't involved.”

“But you just asked about the insurance money, his will, his bank accounts. Above all that, he's your father.”

“In name only. Man, you seen him more than me in the last five years. I ain't complaining. I'm just staying out of the picture.”

“But he's your father. And he loved you. I don't know about issues you all had. But he's your dad. He helped raise you, right? How can you just stay out of the picture?”

“The man killed himself. That tells you everything you need to know about him right there.”

“But you want his money? How can you not want to give him a proper burial but at the same time talk about getting his money?”

“Because I'm owed at least that.”

“Walter is owed a proper burial by his family.”

The kid and I went back and forth for another minute or so without him budging off his stance. Eventually, we agreed to meet at his dad's house later that evening.

I called Walter's brother back to see where he stood on the funeral. His phone went straight to voicemail. I was sort of glad it did; I wanted to be a good friend to Walter, but I had my own issues to figure out. First was what to do about preventing or minimizing another attack.

I called Maya about going to Atlanta for the holistic treatments. The strength of the treatments was that it would release much of the cancer or whatever was in my body through the enemas. Whatever hang-ups I had about enemas before my episode disappeared after it. I would do almost anything to prevent going through that again.

“Why are you so eager to have the treatments now?” Maya asked. She was keen. She knew me and knew that I could be stubborn. “Why the change?”

“I don't know. I can sense that I just need to get this stuff out of my system. My stomach doesn't feel right. I'm scared to eat much; I feel like I will get sick if I do. So I'm hoping the treatments can make me at least get my appetite back.”

She bought what I was selling, but not totally. “Yeah, OK, Daddy. If you say so. That's all the more reason for you to fly instead of riding the bus for fourteen hours down there. Your first appointment is in six days. So you have to leave soon.”

I told her about Walter's suicide. “Oh, no, Daddy. I remember him. He was a nice man.”

“I'm surprised you didn't see it on the news.”

“I haven't turned on my television in two days.”

“When did you meet him?”

“That time at school when you were honored for Teacher of the Year. He was quiet at first. I sat next to him at the ceremony. But when he learned I was your daughter, he opened up. I'm so sorry to hear this. This is crazy. Why would he do that?”

I told her about the e-mail to me and that I felt obligated to attend his funeral. “I understand. Anything I can do to help, let me know, Daddy.”

Another call came in; it was Donovan. I told Maya I'd call her back.

“I'm at the airport. I'm on my way there.”

“Really? Good. That's a big turnaround from last night.”

“I talked to my nephew and, well, I just need to be there. We've got some papers to go through.”

My instincts told me it was about money. He was coming to D.C. for the money, whatever money Walter had. I wasn't aware of any, but that didn't mean anything.

“Papers? You mean insurance?” I asked.

“Insurance, checking account, savings, investments.”

I shook my head. “So, what time will you be here? I can meet you at the house to let you in.”

“I arrive around eight tonight. Do me a favor? Don't tell Walter Jr. I'm coming.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to see those papers before him.”

“I really don't want to be in the middle of whatever you all have going on.”