I'm playing "The End," by The Doors. Jim Morrison's voice knows me.
I was cooking dinner and Jake's mom asked to see the autopsy report the hospital did on my baby...
I know she wants to see it for the same reasons I wanted to see it... She wants to see what happened to her grandbaby. She wants to see if it was my fault. She wants to know if I was carrying some sort of freak. I had to see it... It's not a way to "say goodbye" or anything like that; it's just that, if I didn't read it, I would believe on my deathbed that my baby died because I made her into some sort of monstrous inhuman freak.
I've read that piece of paper about a thousand times, and I still have no idea what it means. It all SOUNDS horrible... I mean, medical jargon may be baffling, but medical jargon can't disguise the fact that it's a paper about a dead baby cut into pieces.
I'm sorry I'm saying this right now. I try not to think about it at all. I try to forget. But it's ALWAYS there, and I can't forget it. And now I'm thinking about it, and I'm typing about it because I have to do something with my hands, because typing makes me breathe, because if I don't sit here and type, I might die or something... You have no idea what sort of ugliness is still inside me... It's funny; I feel the same way I felt the day after I came home from the hospital; I've just gotten a little better at hiding it.
Just don't think.... just don't think... just don't think, just don't think, just don't think about anything at all.... just don't think about it, just don't think, just don't think, just don't think, just don't think, just don't think...
She brought the paper back downstairs to me. It's folded up in its envelope: "Pathology Report, Open Immediately." I want to ask her: is it my fault? what did I do to my baby? was she a freak? did she know she was going to die? does she hate me? did I hurt her? what did she feel? what did I do wrong? what did I do WRONG? WHAT DID I DO WRONG? why? why? why? why? WHY?
But I can't ask her... I'm too ashamed. You can't imagine how ashamed I am. I killed her grandbaby, after all. Everything that paper says, whatever it says, is because of ME. I don't really want to know how awful it was. I don't really want to know what kind of horrors I inflicted on my baby. I don't really want to know how badly she was hurting. I think if I knew, if I knew for real, all the details, I would somehow ensure that I didn't wake up tomorrow morning. I will just keep this envelope forever, and not REALLY know...
I'm playing "Fearless" by Low. Their voices know me too.
I can't breathe. Why did I cook dinner, anyway? Noodles with tuna fish... Why can't I forget? When am I going to forget? When am I going to be okay? All I know is that I'm sorry. Why couldn't the pathologist just type up a piece of paper that said she was beautiful and she loved her mom and she's in a better place now? I guess that's not exactly the business pathologists are in though...
I'm going to go have a cigarette. Maybe it will help me to breathe...