Mind and Body Health Myths that You Still Believe - Bioprin

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Continued from Chapter Two... By the time we got to Mrs. Griffin's house, my sheets of numbness had slid off leaving me with the feeling of anger. It was cold naked anger. I had never felt so much hatred for Dad or anyone for that matter. The way my objectivity had left me in sheets, I wanted to tear at the layers of my father's face. I'd leave his eyes for last then work from the whites to the center, the ignorant, insensitive center.

The sound of a wine glass shattering brought me back to earth. I looked around. Most of the same people who were at the funeral made it to Mrs. Griffin's house. Actually, there were more people at the house than were at the funeral. Three of them came in tattered jeans. Five were in t-shirts. Fourteen were in sneakers -- that made 28 squeaking sneakers on Mrs. Griffin's marble floor tiles.

I noticed that my anger was still there. In fact, it was more there. I looked around at the laughing faces. Most of them were laughing. Most of them were stuffing their pig faces with the food Mrs. Griffin had catered.

Mom had just brought them cold beer

Mr. Gregory and Mr. Nigel were talking about their upcoming golf game. Mr. Leinhardt and Mr. Cole were talking about the new boat Mr. Robbins just bought. Mrs. Kenner and Mrs. Cole were debating about whether Gary or Steven (their respective kids) would be the Walton Place Jr. High's soccer team captain. Mrs. Grossberg was telling Mrs. Balton that Mom should have left Dad after the first time. All of them were drinking red wine.

Mr. Nigel and Mr. Leinhardt were over for a football game a while back. Dad was out back bringing in more hot dogs -- the spicy kind with cheese in the center. Mom had just brought them cold beer. As she walked away, Mr. Leinhardt said to Mr. Nigel, "I'd tap that so hard she'd be cured."

In my mind, I ran through Mrs. Griffin's vaulted living room. I threw the full plates of food from each hand to each face. I grabbed wine glasses and smashed them over the ears of each pig standing there acting like they actually cared about Mom.

I didn't.

I heard that Chad Fogerty did something like this last year at his Dad's wake. I couldn't stand the thought of all the kids at school calling me a copy-cat. I could see their faces. I could hear them whispering. I could feel the notes and texts and messages flying around school about how I was a copy-cat. I couldn't.

I couldn't.

"You stupid puny-looser-idiot!" I screamed at myself.

I didn't want to make any noise. I couldn't.

I ran up the long winding flight of stairs behind me into the upstairs bathroom. Softly, I leaned against the inside of the bathroom door closing it. I didn't want to make any noise. I couldn't.

Collapsing on the cold marble floor hard enough to make my knees bleed, I draped myself over the side of the coldest porcelain tub you can imagine.

I couldn't even stand up for Mom after her death. I was afraid of what the other kids would say about me.

I wept. I turned on the bath water. It was cold. But it covered my whimpering.

"If I stood up for Mom, my beautiful glowie Mom, while she was alive, she might not have died at all."

continued: Chapter Four

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