No words.
I am cold. Cold with age, cold with hate, cold with emptiness. It often feels as if my very bones are rattling beneathe my skin. With no muscle, or even fat, to keep me warm, I am left to huddling under thick blankets and quilts made for me by my wife. These blankets and quilts, along with numerous pictures and items, are all I have left of her. She was my blooming flower, the love of my life. I am cold. Cold with age--I am now 78 years old. Cold with hate--Will the Lord ever release me from his grudge? Cold with emptiness--I have nothing left.
Most would say that I am a bitter old man pointing his finger at the world. I agree. Some would say that I am lost and have no direction left in my life. I agree. There are the ones that would say my anger comes with my ripe old age. I agree. Yet there are others that would say that would say I am simply lonely. I agree. What all these young and happy folks are saying is completely true, but there is another side, a side that I cannot simply say for fear of completely breaking down and ending up in a nut house. A side to me, to my life, to my reason of going on, and to my thoughts. A side of which I am about to finally share.
Let me begin with saying that there is no simple way of telling this story. If I start with the very beginning, I would most likely die before I even came close to finishing. Is it not amazing how I can be sarcastic about dying? I suppose I am not afraid to die, I've been patiently waiting for nearly 30 years now. I made a promise. To her. I can not even begin to tell you the pain I am forced to endure every minute, every hour, every day. The expression, "...every waking hour," does not apply to me, for I feel pain even in my nightmares: In my nightmares, where I experience my most cherished, and hated memories. I relive my past, my mistakes, my victories, my defeats--all in an extremely short amount of time. I don't sleep much any more, I often wake to hysterical screams that I assume to be coming from the room next to mine, but I wake to find the screams coming from my own mouth. Simply torture. By now I'm sure you think that I am crazy, and you're already thinking what "the others" think. But please give me a chance, let me continue.
My neighbor placed me in this nursing home. She was slowly aging and could not take care of me as easily as she did in the past. Having no family members, sons, daughters, or grandchildren to care for me, she took it upon herself to fulfill that duty. How I hate that woman. Being 72 at the time, I could not put up a fight worthy of holding my place in my house. I gave in. Every day for the last six years I say to myself...What would she think of her man now? What would she think of him? But I made a promise and I could not hold that promise without someone's help. That is why I am here.
I was drafted. I had dreamt of that day since I was seven years old and playing "soldiers" in my back yard with Chris Robinson. I was strong enough, young enough, and determined enough to serve my country. However, I was not entirely ready to leave the newfound love of my life, no matter how temporarily my leave would be. Pat was my highschool sweet heart, but I made our love official on the day before I left for battle. The next day, Chris and I left our hometown and joined hundreds of other men our age in battle. I had been at war for nearly a month when I had received a letter from my grandmother. Back home, my parents and two sisters were lying dead in the ashes of our destroyed house.
Let me paint a picture for you: The air is thick with smoke and dust, so thick that you can hardly see ten feet in front of you. A wretched scent reaches your nose and you scramble to cover it, but not before you unfortunately discover the source. Your eyes, watering from the smoke and dust, scan the ground where your friends and brothers lay dead. Their bodies will be bloated by morning. You see blood. You see destruction. But worst of all, you see your best friend lying dead amongst his enemies. His blood stains the ground around him. His head is almost detached and his torso is covered in crimson holes. This picture is what I see when I close my eyes every night. Chris was killed in battle. For the second time in my life, I was not there. Not a day goes by that I don't think, what if I was there? He wouldn't be dead, he'd be sitting next to me now making jokes about Mrs. Wilson's panties hanging on her clothes line. No more than two weeks later, I received another letter.
Grandma was gone. She passed away in her sleep, simply floated off with all her worries left behind. Including me. I began crying at night. A grown man crying himself to sleep...Picture that. The hardest thing to imagine is large tears falling silently down the blackened face of a man that was hardened by war, leaving traces of the white and youthful skin he once knew. That is what it looked like. I suppose the only thing that kept me going was Pat. She continued to write to me weekly, sometimes more than once in a week. She would talk about the little things that didn't really matter. I could tell she wrote her letters with care to avoid a subject or person that might be hard on me. Though I say the little things she wrote about didn't matter, I don't mean it. Her letters made the difference between life and death. Though I never told her, she literally kept me alive.
Let me tell you about her. Pat was the town beauty. She was beautiful in every way that makes a woman beautiful. God, when she moved I swear the sun would move in her direction. She gave off a radiance that turned heads. I always told her that she could light up a darkened room. She had an angelic body, not like one of those models you see on television today, but rather a soft and youthful shape. And those eyes, those rich brown eyes that made chocolate look fake, those eyes that made men go mad. Her whole life could be told by just looking into her eyes. Another pair of eyes like that will never exist. But the most attractive thing about Pat was her personality. She got along with everybody. I never knew Pat to raise her voice or narrow her eyes. She was funny, too and she sure wasn't afraid to prove it. When she would laugh, the whole world couldn't help but laugh with her. Her every movement was contagious. When she smiled, we all smiled with her. Her smile could persuade flowers to bloom and clouds to dissolve. She had a good heart. I believe Pat had a place for everyone in her heart. And I loved her. I loved her with everything I had, all my energy, all my emotion. What simply tickled me, was that she chose me and chose to love me back.
America won, the war was over, we were sent home. I walked up to my darling girl and swept her into my arms, and we stood like for a long time. She kissed me all over and told me again and again how much she loved me. We both cried and laughed and thanked the Lord, and after that day we agreed to forget that we had been apart. However, it was not that easy for me. I had nightmares. I would wake up soaked in cold sweat and breathing deeply, reliving the memories from war: Chris's blood-stained body, James calling my name and begging for my help, Curt holding my hand and praying to God before he died. And when this happened, Pat would be there. She would hold me and talk to me, tell me everything was okay. And I would believe her.
Three months after the war, Pat was pregnant with Christopher Michael Opinski. I remember dreaming of holding the tiny body in disbelief that I had helped to make such a beautiful son. Two months after Chris was concieved, he died. Pat was unable to give birth. Though time had passed after our son's death, there was still an emptiness left in our hearts. Emptiness...Mine had been growing since the death of my family. My heart beat only for Pat. It was Pat, not my heart, that kept me alive. Without her, I would be nothing--completely empty.
I remember telling Patsy about my emptiness. I knew and she knew that she would never fully understand, but she made me promise that if something were to ever happen to her, that I would carry on. I promised with the thought that I would do everything in my power to keep my amazing wife alive. However, my power was soon tested.
I realize I am skipping many parts of my life, like my marriage, my life after war, but this story is not meant to explain my life. It is meant to explain my feelings, my thoughts, and my torture. If you would like to know about my marriage, I'll tell you. It was bliss, simply bliss. Imagine waking up every morning to the most beautiful and amazing person you've ever laid eyes on. Imagine having no place particular place to go and no particular activities to complete. Imagine sitting on the porch swing every night holding eachother and talking about nothing at all, all the while staring up at the stars or down at the flowers. Imagine pure and complete happiness in every moment you have with your mate. That is what my marriage was like. War? War was hell, there's no other way of putting it. I could say that war was terrible and I'm glad I'm alive, but I will have no choise but to refuse to saying that. War was not only terrible, it was the scariest, hardest, longest time of my entire life. Although I am glad that I made it through war to be with my lovely wife, I was forced to relive every moment, every battle, every gunshot in my nightmares. I lived a life of paranoia and sadness, something that would never change, something that still remains to this day. A quick grammar lesson--War is the antonym of love.
Let us continue. At age 43, Pat was diagnosed with tuberculosis. I spent two years watching my once strong and healthy wife weaken and deteriorate. She refused to give in, she tried to live a normal life, but after the first year, she no longer could. She spent most of her days sitting on the porch swing painting, reading, or watching me work. She would talk, sometimes almost to herself if I was not within hearing distance. But soon, she stopped talking and said almost nothing at all. She became thin and sickly. Her appetite disappeared. I would shudder to hear her breath, taking in air through long, weezing breathes. Her strength eventually waned, and she passed away. I kneeled alongside her bed as she took her last breathes and held her hand as she asked me if I remembered the promise I made. I nodded my head yes, unable to open my mouth for fear of sobbing. I remeber her grip tightening on my hand as she whispered, "I love you." I told her quickly (knowing the next few seconds were her last) that I loved her from the first time I saw her, from the first word we spoke. I told her that I loved her with everything I possessed and that I would never be able to love anyone like I loved her. And with my final words to her, she left me. I was completely and utterly alone.
I realize that many people have lost ones they loved dearly, but to have so much loss in such little time is often unheard of. It is hard to say I've lived a life of happiness. Although my time with Pat was the most enjoyable experience I have had, that time was also filled with tragedy. The loss of our only son had a large impact on my life. The inability to create a new life with someone you love is the hardest thing I had to endure. The hardest thing, that is, besides losing Patsy. I hope you can see how much Pat meant to me and how she kept me alive. Again, by making me promise to go on without her, she has kept me alive. Although my time without her has been hell, I am almost restless with the thought of joining her in Heaven.
There you have it, now you know my every thought and feeling. My reason for sharing this story is not simply because I am dying and wish to get it off my chest, but prove that life does go on, no matter how unbearable or miserable it is. This story, my story, proves that no matter how hard your life might be, you should not give in. Do not let a sour life turn you into a bitter old man or woman who is unable to love or be loved. Let life take you where it wishes and follow. Improvise, live on, and never forget the ones you love. After all, everyone goes somewhere when they die...
Most would say that I am a bitter old man pointing his finger at the world. I agree. Some would say that I am lost and have no direction left in my life. I agree. There are the ones that would say my anger comes with my ripe old age. I agree. Yet there are others that would say that would say I am simply lonely. I agree. What all these young and happy folks are saying is completely true, but there is another side, a side that I cannot simply say for fear of completely breaking down and ending up in a nut house. A side to me, to my life, to my reason of going on, and to my thoughts. A side of which I am about to finally share.
Let me begin with saying that there is no simple way of telling this story. If I start with the very beginning, I would most likely die before I even came close to finishing. Is it not amazing how I can be sarcastic about dying? I suppose I am not afraid to die, I've been patiently waiting for nearly 30 years now. I made a promise. To her. I can not even begin to tell you the pain I am forced to endure every minute, every hour, every day. The expression, "...every waking hour," does not apply to me, for I feel pain even in my nightmares: In my nightmares, where I experience my most cherished, and hated memories. I relive my past, my mistakes, my victories, my defeats--all in an extremely short amount of time. I don't sleep much any more, I often wake to hysterical screams that I assume to be coming from the room next to mine, but I wake to find the screams coming from my own mouth. Simply torture. By now I'm sure you think that I am crazy, and you're already thinking what "the others" think. But please give me a chance, let me continue.
My neighbor placed me in this nursing home. She was slowly aging and could not take care of me as easily as she did in the past. Having no family members, sons, daughters, or grandchildren to care for me, she took it upon herself to fulfill that duty. How I hate that woman. Being 72 at the time, I could not put up a fight worthy of holding my place in my house. I gave in. Every day for the last six years I say to myself...What would she think of her man now? What would she think of him? But I made a promise and I could not hold that promise without someone's help. That is why I am here.
I was drafted. I had dreamt of that day since I was seven years old and playing "soldiers" in my back yard with Chris Robinson. I was strong enough, young enough, and determined enough to serve my country. However, I was not entirely ready to leave the newfound love of my life, no matter how temporarily my leave would be. Pat was my highschool sweet heart, but I made our love official on the day before I left for battle. The next day, Chris and I left our hometown and joined hundreds of other men our age in battle. I had been at war for nearly a month when I had received a letter from my grandmother. Back home, my parents and two sisters were lying dead in the ashes of our destroyed house.
Let me paint a picture for you: The air is thick with smoke and dust, so thick that you can hardly see ten feet in front of you. A wretched scent reaches your nose and you scramble to cover it, but not before you unfortunately discover the source. Your eyes, watering from the smoke and dust, scan the ground where your friends and brothers lay dead. Their bodies will be bloated by morning. You see blood. You see destruction. But worst of all, you see your best friend lying dead amongst his enemies. His blood stains the ground around him. His head is almost detached and his torso is covered in crimson holes. This picture is what I see when I close my eyes every night. Chris was killed in battle. For the second time in my life, I was not there. Not a day goes by that I don't think, what if I was there? He wouldn't be dead, he'd be sitting next to me now making jokes about Mrs. Wilson's panties hanging on her clothes line. No more than two weeks later, I received another letter.
Grandma was gone. She passed away in her sleep, simply floated off with all her worries left behind. Including me. I began crying at night. A grown man crying himself to sleep...Picture that. The hardest thing to imagine is large tears falling silently down the blackened face of a man that was hardened by war, leaving traces of the white and youthful skin he once knew. That is what it looked like. I suppose the only thing that kept me going was Pat. She continued to write to me weekly, sometimes more than once in a week. She would talk about the little things that didn't really matter. I could tell she wrote her letters with care to avoid a subject or person that might be hard on me. Though I say the little things she wrote about didn't matter, I don't mean it. Her letters made the difference between life and death. Though I never told her, she literally kept me alive.
Let me tell you about her. Pat was the town beauty. She was beautiful in every way that makes a woman beautiful. God, when she moved I swear the sun would move in her direction. She gave off a radiance that turned heads. I always told her that she could light up a darkened room. She had an angelic body, not like one of those models you see on television today, but rather a soft and youthful shape. And those eyes, those rich brown eyes that made chocolate look fake, those eyes that made men go mad. Her whole life could be told by just looking into her eyes. Another pair of eyes like that will never exist. But the most attractive thing about Pat was her personality. She got along with everybody. I never knew Pat to raise her voice or narrow her eyes. She was funny, too and she sure wasn't afraid to prove it. When she would laugh, the whole world couldn't help but laugh with her. Her every movement was contagious. When she smiled, we all smiled with her. Her smile could persuade flowers to bloom and clouds to dissolve. She had a good heart. I believe Pat had a place for everyone in her heart. And I loved her. I loved her with everything I had, all my energy, all my emotion. What simply tickled me, was that she chose me and chose to love me back.
America won, the war was over, we were sent home. I walked up to my darling girl and swept her into my arms, and we stood like for a long time. She kissed me all over and told me again and again how much she loved me. We both cried and laughed and thanked the Lord, and after that day we agreed to forget that we had been apart. However, it was not that easy for me. I had nightmares. I would wake up soaked in cold sweat and breathing deeply, reliving the memories from war: Chris's blood-stained body, James calling my name and begging for my help, Curt holding my hand and praying to God before he died. And when this happened, Pat would be there. She would hold me and talk to me, tell me everything was okay. And I would believe her.
Three months after the war, Pat was pregnant with Christopher Michael Opinski. I remember dreaming of holding the tiny body in disbelief that I had helped to make such a beautiful son. Two months after Chris was concieved, he died. Pat was unable to give birth. Though time had passed after our son's death, there was still an emptiness left in our hearts. Emptiness...Mine had been growing since the death of my family. My heart beat only for Pat. It was Pat, not my heart, that kept me alive. Without her, I would be nothing--completely empty.
I remember telling Patsy about my emptiness. I knew and she knew that she would never fully understand, but she made me promise that if something were to ever happen to her, that I would carry on. I promised with the thought that I would do everything in my power to keep my amazing wife alive. However, my power was soon tested.
I realize I am skipping many parts of my life, like my marriage, my life after war, but this story is not meant to explain my life. It is meant to explain my feelings, my thoughts, and my torture. If you would like to know about my marriage, I'll tell you. It was bliss, simply bliss. Imagine waking up every morning to the most beautiful and amazing person you've ever laid eyes on. Imagine having no place particular place to go and no particular activities to complete. Imagine sitting on the porch swing every night holding eachother and talking about nothing at all, all the while staring up at the stars or down at the flowers. Imagine pure and complete happiness in every moment you have with your mate. That is what my marriage was like. War? War was hell, there's no other way of putting it. I could say that war was terrible and I'm glad I'm alive, but I will have no choise but to refuse to saying that. War was not only terrible, it was the scariest, hardest, longest time of my entire life. Although I am glad that I made it through war to be with my lovely wife, I was forced to relive every moment, every battle, every gunshot in my nightmares. I lived a life of paranoia and sadness, something that would never change, something that still remains to this day. A quick grammar lesson--War is the antonym of love.
Let us continue. At age 43, Pat was diagnosed with tuberculosis. I spent two years watching my once strong and healthy wife weaken and deteriorate. She refused to give in, she tried to live a normal life, but after the first year, she no longer could. She spent most of her days sitting on the porch swing painting, reading, or watching me work. She would talk, sometimes almost to herself if I was not within hearing distance. But soon, she stopped talking and said almost nothing at all. She became thin and sickly. Her appetite disappeared. I would shudder to hear her breath, taking in air through long, weezing breathes. Her strength eventually waned, and she passed away. I kneeled alongside her bed as she took her last breathes and held her hand as she asked me if I remembered the promise I made. I nodded my head yes, unable to open my mouth for fear of sobbing. I remeber her grip tightening on my hand as she whispered, "I love you." I told her quickly (knowing the next few seconds were her last) that I loved her from the first time I saw her, from the first word we spoke. I told her that I loved her with everything I possessed and that I would never be able to love anyone like I loved her. And with my final words to her, she left me. I was completely and utterly alone.
I realize that many people have lost ones they loved dearly, but to have so much loss in such little time is often unheard of. It is hard to say I've lived a life of happiness. Although my time with Pat was the most enjoyable experience I have had, that time was also filled with tragedy. The loss of our only son had a large impact on my life. The inability to create a new life with someone you love is the hardest thing I had to endure. The hardest thing, that is, besides losing Patsy. I hope you can see how much Pat meant to me and how she kept me alive. Again, by making me promise to go on without her, she has kept me alive. Although my time without her has been hell, I am almost restless with the thought of joining her in Heaven.
There you have it, now you know my every thought and feeling. My reason for sharing this story is not simply because I am dying and wish to get it off my chest, but prove that life does go on, no matter how unbearable or miserable it is. This story, my story, proves that no matter how hard your life might be, you should not give in. Do not let a sour life turn you into a bitter old man or woman who is unable to love or be loved. Let life take you where it wishes and follow. Improvise, live on, and never forget the ones you love. After all, everyone goes somewhere when they die...