Fighting Fate

I am pulled back into this dusty garage, the stench of the moldy cigars now holding my lungs in a chokehold. What if I had chosen "How". What if I hadn't found this calendar in the first place. How would things have been different? I contemplate this before collapsing to my knees.

How am I going to tell my sweet grandmother that her baby boy needed a coffin soon? Or should I be cremated? I had never thought about these things before.

I spent most of my days at work. I love what I do. The elderly have a way of entertaining me the way no one else can, even my buddies that I barely got to see. I love dementia patients the most. Some develop dementia in their 80s or 90s and usually, that just results in forgetting the "small stuff". Like what I told them 5 seconds ago about who that talk show host was with the brown hair.

"Oprah, Ms. Adams".

"Ah, I remember her."

I turned my back to grab a cup for her medication.

"Roger?"

"Yes, Ms. Adams?"

"Who's that black woman with the brown hair on the tv right now. She seems real familiar." Her dark eyes squinted in suspicion. As if this woman on TV was an imposter. And, really, aren't we all? Just living these silly little lives pretending to be the most prestigious doctor. Pretending to be the perfect wife and husband. Pretending that the thought of expiring one day doesn't scare us shitless. We are all imposters.

"Roger" My grandmother calls from the kitchen.

"Yes Ma?"

"I'm going to take a nap. You might want to check on this rice."

"Alright. Have a good nap."

I try and hide the emptiness from my voice. But isn't it strange hiding emptiness when you have nothing to fill it with? How does that work? It seems like whatever you try to cover it with would just get sucked into a black void.

So today is when I will die.

I take a seat on one of the sturdiest looking boxes. My heart doesn't even feel like it's beating. I can't feel my legs, my eyelids, or my fingertips. All I can think about is how I'm 30 years old and can't remember the last time I went out for drinks with the guys. The last time I had a woman in my life even though they were always throwing themselves at me. And maybe that was the part that wasn't appealing. I normally like a challenge.

So I guess THIS is my challenge. Trying to accept my fate as it. Because what's the point of fighting fate? I can hear an invisible clock in my mind. The tik-tocking is almost driving me crazy. Then, I hear footsteps that don't sound anything like my grandmother's.

I'm too empty to care. Maybe this is the murderer that's supposed to take me out. As the footsteps get closer they also get a lot slower. They know I'm here. Do they think I'll put up a fight? I guess that's what any normal person would do. Death is inevitable now. It doesn't matter what I wanted to do but never got the chance to. It doesn't matter who I wanted to meet but never got the chance to. It doesn't matter what risks I wanted to take but never got the chance to. Nothing matters anymore. And maybe nothing ever mattered.

So I'm here. Waiting for my murderer to come in and prove that calendar's credibility. But then, the footsteps stop. Maybe the reaper has decided to spare me. Maybe the intruder has already killed me. Was death supposed to be this painless? This quick? Maybe I got spared something more painful.

"Roger." The voice says this as more of a statement than a question. It's a deep voice with no hint of emotion, no nothing. I say nothing.

"I'm proud of you. You know that, right?" Now, this was a question, but from whom? I couldn't put my finger on the voice. Maybe I developed dementia earlier in my life and didn't know it. Maybe that's why I related to my patients with dementia the most. Maybe that's why this voice sounds foreign. But foreign in a way where someone who doesn't speak any English is trying to piece together a sentence that makes a little sense, and vice versa.

"Tree shade hot?"

"Oui caliente?"

"I hate that all this happened," he says.

A sense of knowing hits me hard and the numbness in me melts away. My eyes brim with tears until the floodgates open and they nearly soak my entire lap. "Dad?"

"Yes?"

I want to run into his arms like I did as a little boy. I start to stand up but I can't move. It's like I'm glued to this box. What's happening. Is this the end?

"I know you said it was soft to be afraid."

"It is."

"Well, I guess I'm soft. I'm scared shitless."

"Excuse me?"

"Uh-I'm terrified."

"Why is that?"

"Well, I found that calendar grandma keeps. It's predicted everything in my life so far. Today, it says death."

He chuckles. Ah, there's the emotion I remember. But why the hell is he laughing about my death? I'm taken aback, now not numb anymore. Fire of anger starts to well up inside of me.

"I didn't know a dead man could be such an a-a terrible person."

"Roger. Did you even read past that? The other dates?"

"Of course not! What's the point of that. What, would I be able to see what it's like in the afterlife or something? Could that piece of sh-trash predict that too?"

"I'd read it. You might be surprised."

I still don't see him anywhere. I accept the fact that maybe I am psychotic. Maybe this is what happens. My patients often say they see or hear their dead relatives just before dying. So I guess this makes sense.

"So, you won't read it?"

"No sir."

"Well, I'll tell you myself then. Today is your death day. The death of your soul. Your old self. You're reaching a new shift in life. You're waking up to the most important things in life. You've worked hard your whole life and you realize how you've been wasting away. Son, you have died. Just to be reborn into a new man. Congratulations."

"Roger!" I hear my grandmother call me from her bedroom.

She sounds spooked and frantic. My adrenaline kicks in and I can move again. I run to her bedroom to see her with a slipper in hand staring at two huge, black spiders on the wall. My grandmother was strong woman who I never thought was afraid of spiders. But, here we are. Both scared shitless because I am too.

"Lemme grab a broom," I say. And as I rush to get a broom from the kitchen, I see the time. It's 3:33AM. That means it's May 2nd. That means I'm not dead. That means my father was right. How did time pass so quickly? I can't believe I'd been in that garage for almost 12 hours.

"Roger!"

"Coming!" How long have I been standing in this kitchen? I check the time. 3:35. Okay good, only two minutes. I run back into her bedroom and whack those spiders with as much force as I possibly could.

"Oh boy. An old woman can't get no rest around here now can she? Thank you honey. I'm goin' back to bed. Shut that door please."

I close the door behind me and stand there until I'm sure my grandmother is peacefully resting. I hear the first snore and know I can comfortably move.

"Dad?" I call out. But get no answer. This feels like childhood all over again. like I really did revert back like a dementia patient. Like my brain really did say "Hey you know what would be nice? All play and no work. Yeah, let's do that."

I go back to the garage to sit once more on that box. I grab the calendar and flip through it like my dad had suggested. I speak aloud to make sure my voice still works out here since nothing else did earlier.

"May 1st, death. May 30th, game night. June 6th, vacation. June 30th, date. July 19th, start business. September 20th-" I stop reading. I can't believe this. This new life of mine. The one where I had to die to be reborn again just to see it.

I reflect on the question my patient asked me. "Would you rather know when or how you were going to die?" And I wonder why I didn't answer with, "Neither". Isn't discovery part of the fun? As long as I live a life full of joy, why does it even really matter in the end? It doesn't. And who am I to fight fate?