Everyone will face the worst day of their life at some point. For some, when they’re children, for the lucky ones, when they’re withered and wrinkled and a nice doctor tells them the treatment isn’t working.
I could easily tell you mine. December 12th, 2011. In the waiting room of the pediatric neurologist, my once thriving and happy 3 year old sat next to me with a glazed look in his eyes, fixated on a light coming in from a window.
“Mrs. Graves, please follow me back” - a young and obviously pregnant woman escorted me and Henry back to a cheerful exam room, with monkeys and bright green leaves papering the wall.
After an excruciating 45 minutes of chasing Henry around as he tried to eat every item in the room and threw himself on the ground screaming once or twice, Dr. Travez entered the exam room. His face immediately dashed any hopes I had that the dramatic change I had seen in Henry was “probably nothing.”
For the next 20 minutes, Dr. Travez explained that Henry had a rare genetic mutation that led to an intense and rapid regression in cognitive, social, and physical abilities. His lost speech was not coming back, and the handful of words he could still say would go too. Potty training would likely regress, until reaching the point that diapers would be a lifelong necessity. Seizures and aggression would come along as his mind destroyed itself. It would not get better. Lifelong, 24/7 care would be needed.
All I can remember after that is the very happy and pregnant young nurse escorting us out. I wanted to scream at her-“Don’t you know how horribly wrong this could all go? Why are you so fucking happy? I was happy too!”
My husband took the news hard, how could he not? But he seemed to handle it better than me. Dave always handled things better than me. He was just built different. He stayed longer than you would expect someone to stay with an emotionally unavailable and unstable spouse.
The arrangement we had now worked well. Henry stayed with me Monday through Friday, and with Dave Friday night through Sunday night. Within a few months, these weekends of solitude became the perfect time for me to abuse my prescriptions and chainsmoke cigarettes. I did the steps, and stayed clean for 9 years before I had Henry. It didn’t matter anymore. The steps didn’t prepare me for this. I knew, deep down, that I would rather die than live this existence completely sober.
One abnormally cold October evening, as I sat on my back porch, lighting up my 3rd cigarette in a row and starting to feel the buzz from the handful of pain pills I had popped, I heard a strange scratching sound. But, it was soft. It continued with no breaks, like a machine.
I did not care. I didn’t need something ruining my buzz on one of my two nights of freedom. If only I’d known. If only I’d cared, just a little, I could have ran.
The next morning, as I lit up that first glorious cigarette of the day (the only cigarette I actually enjoyed), I noticed a small hole under part of the wooden fence.
For 5 days, I heard the scratching, and saw the hole getting bigger. However, whatever this animal was, seems to be shit out of luck. It had reached the part of the soil that was just bedrock. The scratching sound changed now, the sound of nails on rock was far more difficult to ignore, no matter how high you are. One night I’d had enough, I turned the flashlight on my phone and went to investigate.
The moment I approached the fence, the scratching stopped. I heard something, water running? As I kneeled down to try to shine the flashlight underneath the fence, I realized what I was hearing. Whispering.
Before I could even register what I’d heard, a faint voice whispered “don’t look Alice.”
Goosebumps immediately prickled every hair on my body, and I froze. I had known for a long time that when it comes to fight, freeze, or flight, I was freeze. But I had never experienced complete paralysis like this.
“You don’t have to look” -it said, louder this time.
The freeze response finally wore off, and I ran into my dining room and slammed the sliding door shut, locking it and immediately dialing 911. I stopped. Realizing I was way too fucking high to call the cops here. I was high. Duh. This whole thing was probably my crumbling brain playing tricks on me.
After taking a few more pills and blowing cigarette smoke out the bathroom window for a bit, I finally relaxed enough to lay down and go to sleep. I tossed and turned most of the night, waking up and thinking of that voice.
The next morning was a Sunday, my last few hours of being able to zone out and feel nothing. Before I turned back into the doting caretaker. Not mother. I stopped being mother a long time ago. Henry was older now. No communication, violent and long lasting meltdowns, seizures, diaper changes, tube feeds. He no longer smiled at me. He sometimes laughed, usually at nothing. I later learned this was also a seizure. Even the joy of my child’s laugh was stolen.
After dry swallowing 3 pain pills, I grabbed my cigarettes and lighter, heading out back. Fully prepared to realize how ridiculous I was being last night. I approached the hole under the fence and began looking around. I noticed a small rot hole in the wooden fence and began to peek through it when a booming voice screamed “DON’T LOOK ALICE.”
Instinctively, I closed my eyes. But in the half second between looking through the hole and the scream, I saw something. An eye. It had no eyelids, and the skin it did have looked wrong.
My heart was beating so fast that I knew I was about to die. I woke up in the grass, the sun setting, my ex husband yelling at me to “get up! What did you take this time Alice? God dammit. I can’t do this on my own 24/7.”
“I didn’t take anything Dave, just my meds. Listen, there is a man at my fence, he knows my name.”
“Yea Alice, it’s this thing called a NEIGHBOR. Sometimes they even know your name! I’m calling Mercy.”
Mercy. The hospital I spent 6 weeks at after a mental breakdown while trying to process Henry’s diagnosis.
“Dave, don’t! I swear to god I’m healthy. I just didn’t sleep last night and took my meds on an empty stomach.”
“This is such bullshit Alice. Call your mom. I can’t leave Henry alone with you tonight. Figure it out, I have work at 8.”
I began to walk with Dave towards the car to get Henry out. I looked behind me, at the hole. The bedrock had been chiseled down.
No, not chiseled, scratched. A much larger hole was present, the remaining bedrock covered in scratch marks.