Late spring/early summer... Again.
Last week marked the 20 year anniversary of the suicide one of my close friends growing up, and the deaths of several others... 1993 was a rough year, and (as I think I've mentioned in previous posts) I lost a number of friends that summer. Two by suicide, another three by auto accident, one was murdered (stabbed twenty some odd times and set on fire down in Stockton), a couple of drug overdoses, and one who died of natural causes.
Three weeks ago I marked the ten year anniversary of getting to watch a friend (not a close friend, but a friend none the less) and co-worker of mine burn to death in a car fire (that got so hot that even the firefighters couldn't get close to it). I was five minutes behind her leaving work, and got there just in time to see the gas tank go up while she was slumped over the steering wheel. She was still very much alive, I could tell by the way her body spasmed, the way she unconsciously (I hope) clawed at the air in front of her when the initial flash burned the paint off of the outside of her sedan.
Contrary to popular mythology, a person burning to death doesn't really scream all that loudly, at least not in my limited experience (though I'll admit I was otherwise occupied). I never saw what caused the fire, and from the way her car was sitting in the intersection I don't know if she was hit, or overcome by fumes (or heat, it was over 100 that afternoon), or if there was some other problem. I just remember rounding the corner, seeing her car smouldering as I passed it, pulling over. I remember bailing out of my vehicle to go back and help, just in time for the tank to let loose and the car to go up in a pyrotechnic fireball. I remember dialing for help, being told that it was on the way. I remember the firefighters motioning at me to get myself and my vehicle out of the way, driving numbly home.
If I think about it I can still see it, still feel it, hear it, smell it.
Melting plastic, hot metal, and burning meat...
It was years before I could eat pork again.
Last week I also marked the fifth year since I sobered up.
No twelve step bullshit, no expecting a higher power to fix my shitty life for me, just plain old bloody mindedness, fear of death, and recognition that my body was disintegrating.
I've had maybe two drinks a year since then, and I don't feel guilty about any of them.
Hail verdant spring,
hail joyous summer,
in all their demented glory.
Three weeks ago I marked the ten year anniversary of getting to watch a friend (not a close friend, but a friend none the less) and co-worker of mine burn to death in a car fire (that got so hot that even the firefighters couldn't get close to it). I was five minutes behind her leaving work, and got there just in time to see the gas tank go up while she was slumped over the steering wheel. She was still very much alive, I could tell by the way her body spasmed, the way she unconsciously (I hope) clawed at the air in front of her when the initial flash burned the paint off of the outside of her sedan.
Contrary to popular mythology, a person burning to death doesn't really scream all that loudly, at least not in my limited experience (though I'll admit I was otherwise occupied). I never saw what caused the fire, and from the way her car was sitting in the intersection I don't know if she was hit, or overcome by fumes (or heat, it was over 100 that afternoon), or if there was some other problem. I just remember rounding the corner, seeing her car smouldering as I passed it, pulling over. I remember bailing out of my vehicle to go back and help, just in time for the tank to let loose and the car to go up in a pyrotechnic fireball. I remember dialing for help, being told that it was on the way. I remember the firefighters motioning at me to get myself and my vehicle out of the way, driving numbly home.
If I think about it I can still see it, still feel it, hear it, smell it.
Melting plastic, hot metal, and burning meat...
It was years before I could eat pork again.
Last week I also marked the fifth year since I sobered up.
No twelve step bullshit, no expecting a higher power to fix my shitty life for me, just plain old bloody mindedness, fear of death, and recognition that my body was disintegrating.
I've had maybe two drinks a year since then, and I don't feel guilty about any of them.
Hail verdant spring,
hail joyous summer,
in all their demented glory.
posted by Murph | 1:21 AM
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