by cyst & deceased » 04 Sep 2010, 12:27
If it is indeed a poetry thread I apologize. I have nowhere else to post my meaningless drivel as I am not a poet. Even the song lyrics I have come across seem infantile.
Don't Believe It
I have been reflecting on my late husband. It's been four years since he left us. Sorting the happy memories from the sad is getting a bit easier now. I am not so overwhelmed with grief and loss as I was in the past.
The cliche of watching out for the quiet guys held true for Tim. To strangers he was quiet, reserved, kind, and almost backwards. To us he was a twenty four hour a day comedy routine.
One summer day we stopped at my parents house to retrieve the children after work. Normally I did this alone, but this day we were together. We all exchanged hugs and kisses, and soaked up the news of each other's days. My dad pointed out a fairy ring in the backyard as we exchanged myths and superstitions surrounding the ring of mushrooms. The ring itself measured maybe six feet across, with mushroom tops four of five inches at the most.
Tim said nothing but seemed entranced by the giant circle of fungus. He listened to our stories. He turned to me and said, "I'm going to eat them." We all laughed. We warned him not to. We knew they were toxic to humans even to death.
Not convinced, he raced home and dug out my mushroom book. As I cooked supper and helped the kids with homework, he studied the book. Several times he cited references and showed me photographs of different fairy rings. He was certain they were safe to eat. I said, "You can find anything in a book. That doesn't mean it's true. Don't believe everything you read."
He promptly ignored me, as often was the case in our marriage, drove back to my parents house, and picked himself some tasty toadstools. He then rushed home, raced in the drive, and ran in the door.
"Babe, I got some. Wanna cook them for me?" he asked sparkling eyes.
"No dear," I said, "they are poisonous, and I'm not going to kill you tonight."
"Fine," said he, "I will cook them myself!"
My concern for his health was overruled by his excitement. Generations of mid-westerners had been wrong about fairy rings and he was about to prove it. He tenderly washed and breaded each mushroom as if making love to it. Then cooked them gingerly over low heat. We watched in horror as he slowly enjoyed every bite. "Mmmmm delicious," he said over and over.
Several hours passed and he seemed unphased by his unconventional dinner. The children were bathed and tucked in. I decided to go to bed myself. I kissed Tim goodnight. He said he would be in shortly. Not long after retiring, I hear some thumping and banging in the kitchen. He was a noisy type of person, and it wasn't unusual for him to wake me. His midnight snacks often sounded like nuclear testing gone awry. Suddenly I hear, "What are you doing?" It was my daughter. Her bedroom door came out into the kitchen.
"Getting a drink," he said.
"Well I don't have drinks in my room," said my daughter.
"Oh."
The first thing I noticed was that my dog was pink. Fifteen minutes earlier she was white. I was sure that I didn't eat any mushrooms, or did I?
"Are you okay?" I asked Tim.
"Fine."
"Why is the dog pink?" I wondered.
"He spilled cool aid on her," my daughter answered.
"What are you doing up?" I asked.
"He came into my room," she said, "he thought my door was the refrigerator. He was acting like he was getting a drink through my door. I think he got stoned off those mushrooms."
"Go back to bed," I told her. "I'll take care of him."
This is going to be a long night, I thought as I watched Tim pick up things around the house, stare at them as if it were the first time he could see color, then move on to the next item. Somewhere in another dimension I could almost hear the soundtrack to the Rocky Horror Picture Show playing. Here we go. About that time he opened my daughter's door again, thinking it was the bathroom. After we made it together to the real bathroom he started hallucinating, and not for the better.
Our thirty minute drive to the hospital was peppered by screams, cursing, and slapping the air. I was not laughing.
"What's he on?" the nurse asked.
"Mushrooms," I replied
"Psilocybin?"
"Fairy ring," I answered.
She laughed, "Fairy ring? Like the kind that grow in the yard? Those are poisonous!"
"I know," I said, "look at him."
By then he was in a heap, curled up, and talking jibberish about fairies. I was relieved of babysitting duty when the nurse gave him a sedative. He fell asleep around two in the morning. The doctor said the mushrooms were already past his stomach. He did some test, took some blood, and gave some injections into an IV. They sent us home around six am with the advice, "Don't believe everything you read in a book."
by hungry_joe » 01 Apr 2011, 21:46
DD
There are just times and days you have to ask yourself what have I become, what have I done, and how did I get this way?
