Spilled Dreams

I’m not a very honest person, and I’m not a very open person, so I’ve put off the telling of this story for far too long. I don’t know how many times I’ve considered opening up, but every time, fear gripped my heart like an ice-cold vice. Every boy, at some point, wants that feeling of being a hero, of doing something important, of being powerful. As I got older, that feeling faded with many others and passed like the seasons fade into each other.

“I’ll miss you, Andre. I’ll miss you so much.”

“Aw, Mom, I’ll see you every break I get.”

“Promise?”

“Sure.”

Medical school had been my idea of heroism. My idea of a modern superman. I had put myself through the first four grueling years of study, the long nights, the strained relationships, and social life. The memories always came back so viscerally after a few drinks, and I reached for another refill.

“Hi, Andre. How’s school going?”

“It’s okay. Look mom, I’m really tired… could I call you tomorrow night?”

“Of course, baby. You need your rest.”

I poured another shot and winced at its strong taste. On the other side of my lonely kitchen counter sat thank you cards from patients, young and old, thanking me for successful surgeries. Wilted flowers surrounded the papers, and I felt the dying vines were constricting my heart too.

“Hi Andre, it’s mom. I was calling to check in, I know you’re busy. Are you eating enough? Call me when you can, love you.”

The worst part about being the hero is when you realize you aren’t. I thought back to my early days as a surgeon, watching those more experienced than me show me what to do and learning from them. I had been so eager, so ready, so excited to work alongside those practiced, modern heroes; I neglected what I now realized each of those heroes had.

“Andre? I haven’t heard from you in a while. Are you doing okay? Love you, baby.”

I wish I could stop here, and escape the rest of my story. I think the hardest part is admitting I’m not the hero— I’m the villain. No one likes to be the bad guy. Growing up, when my cousins and I would play superheroes, we would fight over who got to be the good guy. The one everyone liked. The one no one could dream of becoming. Truth is, I hadn’t realized until now how fine the line is between the hero and the villain. It’s crazy that in life, one small decision you didn’t even realize you made, can be the catalyst to a broken future.

“Hi mom. I’m going to be going to Rachel’s for thanksgiving break this year, is that okay?”

“Oh…Andre, well…”

“I promise I’ll come see you for Christmas, how about that?”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, of course.”

How time flies and how blind you can be to the things unfolding in front of you. It not until now that I’ve been able to look back and regret things that should have been obvious to me; things that were so clear to other people.

“Andre? I—

“I can’t talk right now mom; can I call you back later?”

“Well…”

“Love you mom, bye.”

I took another shot. I couldn’t live with what I’d done, and I couldn’t live with what I had left. I had lost my wife, Rachel, my two boys, and what had broken me most… I struggled with the alcohol bottle, desperately trying to pour more into the shot glass. Why couldn’t I just move on? Well, I know why; the little boy in me refused to admit that he wasn’t a hero, and could never be one again. I was too intoxicated that I missed the shot glass and poured the liquid all over the counter, which cascaded down over my pants and to the floor. I cursed under my breath and moved to correct it, but I ended up falling off my stool and landed hard in a puddle of booze.

“Andre?”

“Hi, Dad. Where’s mom?”

“Dad…?”

I remembered how I had dropped the ground, the phone clutched tightly in my hands, and my breathing coming in sharp, quick gasps. My father was asking me if I was alright, but I felt I couldn’t breathe, this had to be fake.

“Andre…”

I realized I had dropped the phone and then sat trembling; the regret of all my neglected phone calls weighing heavy, and I had reached shakily for the phone again.

“I’m fine, Dad. I’ll come down for the funeral.”

Once I had hung up, I had collapsed into a sobbing mess. It was then I had realized that if I had just picked up the damn phone when my mother called, I could have let her explain what she was trying to say. Not once did I call her back, and not once did I give any thought to why she called. Now I would never hear her voice again… and it was all my fault.

“Hey, Andre. How’re you doing?”

“Hey, sis.”

“It’s not your fault, Andre. Mom would never hold this against—

“That’s not true, Ashley. She needed a damn surgeon!”

“Andre…”

“I would’ve done it for free!”

“Dad would’ve remortgaged the house if it was a cost issue.”

“Don’t lie to me Ashley! He already did that for the first two!”

“She had insurance…”

“A WHOLE LOT OF GOOD THAT DID…!”

“A-Andre…”

“STOP CRYING, ASH…! S-Stop-p…”

I’d never cried like that before. I don’t think I’ll ever cry like that again. I don’t think my sister will again either. After that phone call, I think I kind of went numb. I felt cold and yet I didn’t shiver. My life was a movie that I didn’t feel I was a part of anymore. Who watches a movie where the hero isn’t the hero anymore? After the funeral, I started drinking—heavily. My medical license was suspended after I came into work intoxicated. It’s like all the good I’ve ever done was undone in the blink of an eye, or, in my case, the tip of a glass. My marriage collapsed, and I haven’t seen Rachel or my boys in over six years. I guess in a way their hero faded from their lives like the days blur together for me. If I could tell mom one more thing, I would probably apologize. The part that hurts most is that she supported me through everything, and I turned my back.

“Mom…?

“The number you have dialed has been changed…”

“I’m sorry. I…”

“…disconnected, or is temporarily out of service…”

“…I…love you.”