I told some of you that I wasn't going to post anymore of my book, but I have decided to give you one more chapter. I hope it keeps your interest. Thanks for reading.
Cancer
When I was twelve years old, my mother was diagnosed with a type of pancreatic cancer. I remember feeling an uncontrollable anger wash over me; something that changed me. I become a bitter, angry, and hate-filled creature. By the time I entered my senior year, the cancer had overtaken much of her liver, and the cancer had taken over much of my heart.
My mother was a kind woman; well, I’m pretty sure she was. Your memory plays games with you sometimes. I have this childhood memory of one of my uncles. He is an intimidating man and rarely admits his faults or flaws. Somehow this arrogance and confidence created a false perception of him in my mind. For some reason I saw him as a much larger man than he was in reality. In my mind, my uncle was well over six feet tall. When I realized that I was taller than him, my memories of him were derailed. I think it had something to do with a kind of respect that I had for him, or I just thought that loud, obnoxious people must be tall. I don't really know. What I do know is that I really don’t remember much about my mother: except the talks.
Almost every night she and I would sit up and talk over mugs of hot cocoa. We would talk about life, school, family. But most of the time, we would talk about God. I guess when you know that you are dying, God becomes more of a concern than ever. One night, when I was in high school, I came home after a party to find my mom sitting at the table with a hot cup of cocoa waiting for me. We talked about the night, some of my choices, most of my mistakes, and why those choices didn't work out for me. She wasn't angry, but she was disappointed: and that hurt more than anything.
Certain things stand out in my memory of her. One of those is that I do remember that she had no friends. Seriously, all of the people in my mother’s life (aside from family) had pushed further and further away as her sickness had worsened. What a terrible feeling it must be: to know that you are dying, and dying alone. Don’t get me wrong, she had my father, and the rest of the family, but that was about it. Dad is a fireman, and a really good one at that. He has won several awards and honors. He takes a lot of pride in his occupation, as he should. But his hours were difficult to work around. He would work twenty-four hour shifts almost every other day. This meant that he would be gone one day, and be recuperating the next day. That made for a lot of nights alone for my mother.
My brothers and I spent a lot of times on our own or with our grandparents. But at 17, with a car, and a job, I pretty much did my own thing. That’s when I discovered binge drinking. I never cared much for alcohol, and my parents never had any around. I soon discovered that I could forget a lot of things while I was drinking. I could forget that my mother was dying. I could forget that I resented my father. I could forget that I was angry. Most of all I could forget about how much I hated God. I decided to turn my back to God. Now that isn't too easy with a family of Southern Baptists, especially when my grandmother was the epitome of a Southern Baptist Woman. But I figured out how to fake it real well. I would go to church with them, but I would draw, write poetry, flirt with the girls there: whatever I could do to avoid actually meeting God, I did it.
Because of my dad's job, I felt that I had missed out on all of the father-son activities that my friends and their fathers were doing. I never learned much about cars, or fishing, or any other “guy” things. It’s not that he was a deadbeat or even a bad father. He was busy. He was busy with work, busy providing for our physical needs. He was busy taking care of a sick wife. I resented him for years and I really didn’t know why. It wasn’t like he was a bad dad; looking back he was a pretty good one. I just wasn’t that close to him. I never really had a relationship with him and so I never really got to know him. He would make every attempt to be a part of what we were doing, but his job was a strain on him. If there are two regrets that I have, they would be (1) I didn’t spend enough time with my dad, and (2) I didn’t learn to play piano. Not necessarily in that order.
Wrestling with God
Since the day my parents told me about my mother’s cancer, I have been at odds with God. In fact, I can honestly say that I have cussed out God several times. I am happy to say that no lightning bolts have been sent my way. I don’t know how fair it is, but I blamed God for my mother being sick. I blamed God for my Dad working all the time. I blamed God when bad things happened in my life. So I decided that I didn’t really need a God that would let all of this happen. So, like I said earlier, I pretended to be a Christian. For years I was just going through the motions. Eventually I decided to just stop going to my parents’ church. I figured I could handle all of my problems on my own.
During this time, I had completely turned from God and Christianity. I had discovered alcohol, tobacco, and a few choice drugs instead. I also applied to Ball State University’s journalism department. I was hopeful to receive a scholarship. While attending a workshop on campus it was announced that I had in fact won two scholarships. I would basically only be financially responsible for the cost of my books. This was such a huge award because I knew that my father was not in any position to assist in funding my college education, so a scholarship was all I could hope for.
Ball State University has a great Journalism program, but it also has an even more famous party scene. It was once ranked in the top five of a men's magazine's list of the "Top Party Schools in the Country." Adding to the celebrated status of the festivities on campus was the fact that several of my close friends were already attending there or had connections there. This meant getting into the best parties, with the prettiest girls, and the best music. I had come along way from my Fundamentalist roots. And now I was ready to leave that all behind.
It was during the second semester of my senior year that my world started to change. Church was the furthest thing from my mind, but God must have been thinking about me. Right about then my friend Dana started to get really obnoxious.
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