Last regrets

Richard Perry woke up as he always did at 6:30. At 87 years old, no one could fault him for sleeping in every once in a while, but that was not his way. Richard struggled to sit up, his old bones creaking and popping with the effort. As he paused on the edge of the bed mustering the strength to get up, he had a vision out of the corner of his eye. His newlywed wife was lying on the other side of the bed. He sat there watching the rise and fall of his young bride’s breathing, the way the sun shone off of her silky black hair, the curve of the blanket as it followed the lines of her body. As he sat there he couldn’t believe how lucky he was and about the bright future they would have together.
But then again the hair wasn’t black was it. It was grey and thinning, and the rise and fall of her chest was accompanied by the hum and hiss of the oxygen tanks. And the bright future was a past filled with happiness and pain, forty years or more. Had he been a good husband? Not always. He had failed her in so many ways, but she had been a wonderful wife. These last few years had been hard on her. She had always taken care of him and now she couldn’t even take care of herself.
Slowly these memories faded and the sad reality of the loss of his beloved wife came flooding back to him. With grim determination he blocked out those thoughts. He focused his energy into getting out of bed and getting dressed. His walker stood there mockingly waiting for him. As much as he hated that accursed thing he knew that he couldn’t make it through the day without it.
He slowly made his way out of the bedroom into the living room. He stopped at the doorway as a vision came. Lying on the floor with a bowl of cereal lay his son. Just six years old, his hair sticking up in various directions he diverted his attention away from the cartoons on TV long enough to turn his head and say, “Good morning Dad”.
“You’re setting too close to the TV; you’re going to ruin your eyes.”
“Sorry Dad, I’ll move,” he replied and moved a fraction of an inch away from the TV.
“Can we play catch this afternoon?” the young boy asked, never taking his eyes off of the screen.
“We’ll see son, I have a lot to do today, but if I finish early we might have some time.”
“Ok”, the boy replied “I’ll get the mitts ready.” Hope filled his eyes as he looked lovingly up at his father.
The vision gently changed and where the six year old had lain on the floor a ten year old stood. The loving look had been replaced by something else, something not so easy to discern.
“Come on Dad, you always say we can play but you never have the time.”
“Watch your mouth boy,” Richard heard himself reply, “You know better than to talk to me like that. I told you that I have to work, this house doesn’t pay for itself you know. I tell you what, next weekend I will find someone to fill in for me. We can spend the whole day together.”
“Sure, Dad, we’ll do it next weekend” the boy said, but it was obvious that he knew it wouldn’t happen. It wasn’t a lie. Richard had really meant it. He always meant it, but there was the new business and things weren’t going good. If he didn’t make it work they could lose it all. He had to work, didn’t he?
The vision faded again, and now a seventeen year old young man stood at the doorway. Anger glowed red on his face. They had been in an argument, harsh words had been exchanged, and he was about to storm out the door.
“Son, wait.” Richard pleaded.
“I hate you.” The boy screamed and slammed the door.
The vision faded as the memories came back in a rush. Those were the last words they had spoken to each other. His son’s car had failed to make a turn outside of town. The boy had lain in the hospital for a few days, but he never regained consciousness. What had the fight been over anyway? He couldn’t remember, and it didn’t really matter anyway. He forced himself to move on toward the bathroom, not letting the memories take hold.
His ritual of a morning shower and shave were difficult to accomplish now, but they were some of the last of his old habits that he was still able to keep. As much as it hurt, as much as the effort took out of him, he forced himself to continue. He couldn’t allow himself to give up. That was how it started for his friends. Allow yourself to give in and soon they were coming to take you to the home.
As he lathered up his face his memory returned to a time long ago. His father was shaving and instructing him.
“Make sure you sharpen the razor every time. Nothing cuts worse than a dull razor.” His father stroked the gleaming straight razor on the strap until he was satisfied with its edge. He then took his brush and began mixing up the foam in his old cup. With a smile on his face, he lathered up his face, and then gently spread the foam on Richard’s face. Handing him a used popsicle stick, he showed him how to scrape the imaginary hair off of his face.
Finishing up the father looked down at the son and said,
“Look in this mirror; have you ever seen a better looking pair of guys? The ladies better look out.”
“Yuck dad, I don’t want any girls around.”
This happy memory slowly changed to a time years later. His father was in a nursing home and Richard was standing by his bed with the same old straight razor shaving his father’s face.
“Ok now Dad, lets do the right side here… good.” Richard wiped off the remaining shaving cream and said, “Look in this mirror; have you ever seen a better looking pair of guys?”
His father got a twinkle in his eyes that was rarely seen there anymore and said, “The ladies better look out.”
The memory faded as Richard splashed water over his face.
As he walked from the bathroom to the kitchen, Richard failed to notice the upturned rug and without warning stumbled over it. His wheeled walker tipped over and he fell violently. As he hit the floor he felt an intense sharp pain at his left hip. When he tried to move the pain intensified sending electrical spasms through his back and legs. He knew he had done something serious. For a few minutes more he struggled to reach his walker, hoping to be able to get to his feet and make it to the chair. The pain was too intense, he felt trapped, and he could feel panic starting to rise up. He forced himself to calm down. “Rest for a minute,” he said to himself. “Give yourself a chance to get your wind back.”
As he laid there the pain brought a memory back to him. He was looking at a wall of dense green jungle. He lay next to his friend in a foxhole half filled with water from the previous night’s rain. The temperature and humidity seemed almost unbearable. He was covered in sweat without moving. The insects were a constant irritant that threatened to drive them mad. To ease their tension he and his friend would try to joke around. They would do stupid things just to keep each other spirits up.
“You’ve never had it so good,” his friend said.
“Yep, I’ve really found a home in the Army,” he replied finishing the old recruiting add. Both laughed cynically.
“I’ve had enough of this.” Richard said jokingly, “Somebody call me a cab.”
“Fine, you’re a cab.” Someone close by would say, completing the old joke.
“Ya got any smokes?” his friend asked.
“Sure, but you owe me,” Richard replied handing his pack over.
Without any warning mortar shells started bursting around them. One exploded in the trees above them raining burning shrapnel down on them. Richard felt the pain in his legs and couldn’t contain the scream. As the barrage lifted his friend crawled up to him. Looking at the wound his friend quickly pulled out his first aid kit and attempted to apply a dressing to stop the bleeding.
Richard gritted his teeth and said, “So tell me Doc, will I ever play piano again?”
“This ain’t too bad Perry. As a matter of fact I’m betting that you got yourself a million dollar wound here,” his friend said, using the reference to a wound that would get a man sent stateside.
“You stay put and I’ll go find a medic to get you sent back, you lucky dog. Have a cigarette while you wait,” he said as he threw Richard’s pack back to him.
Why hadn’t he kept in touch with him like he’d promised before they shipped him out? Once he got home he had never written like he’d promised. He didn’t even know if his friend had survived the war.
His focus came screaming back to the present as the pain from his hip reasserted itself into his reality. He began to understand that he wouldn’t be able to get back up this time. He tried to get in a position that would be the least painful, but nothing seemed to help. He knew that his neighbor would be over to check on him and bring in his mail for him later in the afternoon. So he prepared himself for the difficult wait. The pain was bad, but what he dreaded most was being left with no way to escape his regrets.