11:26

11:26pm. The clock was one of those original “digital” clocks that actually flipped the white numbers over on a black background back in 1980. The insignificant details are the ones that have stayed with me. I awoke with a start from a sound sleep that had begun less than five minutes after my head hit the pillow three hours ago. I sighed and rolled onto my back, glancing at Jamey breathing heavily beside me. My eyes drifted shut.

In March of my 12^th year on this earth (I would turn 13 in April), the first of my three stepfathers was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer. What started out as a routine surgery to remove his gallbladder turned into a death sentence, as the surgeon discovered that the cause of his stomach pain was not his gallbladder, which he had been born without (apparently, it’s like an appendix, an organ that humans don’t really need anymore), but cancer that had started in his pancreas and spread throughout his abdominal cavity. He was given six months to live. He lived three. He was 41 years old.

After one chemotherapy treatment, Rich was too sick to endure another one. The doctor set him up on regular morphine and sent him home. He had been my stepfather for not quite three, hellish years.

Let me set the stage for you. Rich was born to German immigrants, Hans and Hattie Johns, their only child. He married and had three sons – Mark, Matthew, and Luke… yes, their last name was Johns. You just can’t make this stuff up. After the divorce (at least, I think they were divorced), he met my mother. That’s another story.

Anyhoooo, fast forward five years, and here we are. Rich is sitting in the recliner in the living room, high on morphine, wasting away from his original 190 pounds down to 130 or so, asking my mother for a chocolate chip cookie, thinking she is his actual mother, Hattie. My mother mimes giving him a cookie. He takes it, closing his eyes in blissful indulgence, and chews silently.

My guilt is overwhelming. I wished this on this man. Every day for the last few years, I had wished that he would die. I had actually prayed for it, specifically. He was a Deputy Sheriff in our small town, population 1,400, of Hayward, Wisconsin. The Sheriff’s department was located on a busy 4-way stop on the north end of Main Street. I was familiar with the place because I served as a school crossing guard there every morning and afternoon. Every night I prayed that a logging truck would blow through a stop sign and take him out right there while he was crossing the street. I daydreamed about it. I wished for it. I prayed to God for it. Now, it was happening, not quite the way I had prayed for, but he was dying. I was responsible. I did this.

After enduring three years of unending emotional and psychological abuse, I was ready for it to end. I was not sad for Rich. I was thankful for his demise. For all of the times he had told me how selfish I was for wanting to take a shower more than once a week, I was thankful. For all of the times he had called me incompetent for forgetting to clean the litterbox and made me clean it with my bare hands, I was thankful. For all of the times he had lectured me on respect for spilling a green bean on the table when trying to get it to my plate, I was thankful (Did I mention that he made me sit on my left hand during dinner?). For all of the times, he had told me I was unworthy because I had no friends, I was thankful. For all of the times he had verbally despised me for looking like my father, I was thankful. For all of the times he made fun of me for being shy and quiet, I was thankful. For all of the times he had locked me out of the house and told me to “go find a friend,” I was thankful. For all of the times he had called me a whore for wearing jewelry, I was thankful. For all of the times I had hidden in the attic as he came in the front door from work, I was thankful. For all of the times he had threatened to end my life if I told my dad what was going on, I was thankful. For all of the times I had considered stabbing him through the heart with a carving knife that I was towel drying after dinner while he stood over me, berating me, I was thankful. For all of the times, I was thankful.

When Rich went into the hospital for what would be the last time, my mother knew that it would be rough, so she sent me to stay on a friend’s dairy farm. It was June and I loved animals. We milked at 5am and 5pm. In between, we ate breakfast and lunch, bailed hay, fixed fences, chased loose cows, and fed calves. It was glorious.

I was a 5’10” string bean of a 13-year-old girl who loved animals and books. It was the perfect escape. I even made a new friend. Jamey lived on a neighboring farm and we were introduced at a BBQ, becoming fast friends, enjoying sleepovers, boy talk, and Air Supply.

That fateful night, she was at “my” house. Just before I awoke, I had been dreaming that Rich (currently in the hospital) had been buried in the ground up to his neck. His head, neck, and left arm were left above ground so that he could breathe, talk, and receive IV treatment. The stainless IV stand was hovering above his filled-in grave. His breathing was loud, labored, and slow. Everyone was standing around his grave – Mark, Matt, Luke, Hattie, Hans, and my mother. I was running around yelling at his sons, parents, and my mother to help him.

“You can’t just let him die,” I screamed, “Do something!”

BAM! 11:26pm.

The next morning, Rachel, the mother of the house, told me that my mother had called with the news that Rich had passed away in the night. I was going to be picked up that afternoon and taken home.

Yes, the details revealed that his time of death was 11:26pm.

I didn’t cry at the funeral. People attributed it to shock. It was shock. It was thankfulness. Yes, I believe in karma.