*** warning: slightly gory ***
I had a dream last night I died. I was watching a real live movie of a war hero, played by Clint Eastwood. He got shot in the stomach in WW1, and was ok, and fought on. However, in the dessert in WW2, he got shot in the stomach again. This time, though, the wound was bleeding pretty heavily. It hurt, but not excruciatingly so, probably missed the stomach.
Anyway, I suddenly was in his spot because I empathized with him, and then I was him. I placed my hand to my stomach; it had to be the size of a half-dollar, the wound. I couldn't stem the flow. I quickly collapsed to lay down. I tried to stem the flow by bunching my shirt, but no dice. Things started getting really hazy right when the medic came to me. The shots of the Germans were distant. I didn't know where my fox hole buddy was, I guess to get the medic. I tried to formulate thoughts to make sure I didn't forget anything. I wanted to make sure my fiancee was ok, the kids were in the will ( I don't have kids) , but I knew I was out of time even as I was thinking about them as my consciousness quickly started to fall away. All I could feel was the warm blood on my stomach coming out of the wound too fast for me to survive such a loss. All I knew to physically do was hold my hand there as best I could, somehow my last grasp on life. Surprisingly, I wasn't as mad as I thought I'd be. I've always been akin to Robert Frost's poem to his father, telling him to not go silently into that dark night. I think all the willpower I could muster was the only thing keeping me alive; holding my right hand to my stomach instead of my rifle, and the last thing I saw was the medic's face, calm, sad, but determined. I think either I expended all the energy to hold onto those last physical sensations, or maybe it was there wasn't enough brain synapse time to be angry.
'Course, now that I think about it, I don't want to be angry when I die. The whole point if living the way I do is that I can die with dignity, knowing that I didn't waste any day that was given to me, and each day rocked. Even with all the things I hadn't done, I felt content. I was a little saddened, but I felt death was inevitable at this point, and my family would do ok. Things started getting really fuzzy, cloudy, and whitish blue as I visualized words of tasks since my real sight had failed.
Then that faded too, and all I could feel was the warm blood on my hand. Everything was gray around it, and the rest was black. I felt like something was coming, but I didn't know what. I was pretty calm considering, and waiting, almost like I knew I had to wait for a bit; wait to die, I guess. Score 1 for tenacity.
...and then I woke up. I could still feel the blood coming out. I grasped at my stomach, but I was fine. Blinking my eyes a few times, it was early. I guess because I'm a little sick my sleep has suffered, and naturally I have unpleasant dreams like the above. Course, I've had worse, the above wasn't so bad. I gotta stop feeling guilty for not joining the military, and find contentment in my life. Why can't I just be happy and appreciative and move on? I've already attained the American Dream. What an unappreciative, shameful, spoiled lamer. |