When The Shit Hits The Fan
Sometimes, all we can do is take it.
There are bad days. And then, there are days straight from hell.
Days when, if you had the proper tools handy — say a spade — you could dig a whole, tumble in, and pull the dirt over you.
Everyone has these days. Every single person on the planet. But, there is one day in particular that stands out in my mind. A day so shitty, I had to include it as a scene in my screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart.”
Four years ago. A cold, rainy, November day in Chicagoland. Before I get to the actual day, I need to tell you about the night before.
My husband, Jack, was on a business trip in Lyons, France. I had visited my sister, who was caring for our parents, as they were facing dire health issues. We didn’t know how serious these issues were, but given that they were in their early eighties…
Stressed out and scared, I “self-soothed” with a couple glasses of vino. When I got home, I indulged in a couple more. I don’t remember for certain how much I imbibed, but it was way too much. I was stupid. Again.
I fell asleep — or passed out — on a loveseat in our family room. My husband was to arrive home at some point that evening. I wanted to stay awake, but my alcohol intake put the kibosh on that.
The sound of a key unlocking our front door jolted me awake. Jack. In my haste to get up, I fell off the loveseat and landed squarely on my left ankle. I heard a POP and the resulting pain was excruciating.
My hubby tells me that I went right back to sleep. I did nothing to help mitigate the effect of that tumble.
The next morning, I felt and looked like shit. My ankle was swollen and I could barely walk on it. But walk I had to, as we had a family meeting scheduled at my parents’ doctor to discuss their condition.
Jack wrapped my ankle in a drugstore-purchased brace and off we went.
The doctor’s office was small and stuffy. The players: Jack and myself, my sister and brother and our parents.
As we waited for the doctor, I started to feel ill. The combination of stress, ankle pain and fear for my parents had me in “fight or flight” mode.
At one point my brother looked down and said, “Your foot is blue.” Blue, and getting bigger by the minute.
The doctor finally arrived and we did our best to appear hopeful and upbeat. Like gamblers at a casino who know full well that the house almost always wins.
We got the news that both my parents had stage four lung cancer. Both of them. At the same time. What are the odds?
During the subsequent discussion of treatment options, I had to leave the room, as I felt faint. I’m ashamed of that now, but there was no helping the fact that I was going to get violently sick, very soon.
One of the staff brought me some juice or water. I don’t remember now what it was, but it helped settle me down.
As I waited for my family, my foot throbbed like a humongous infected nerve. I knew I had to have it looked at.
Off to Urgent Care, where I found out that my ankle wasn’t broken. It was, however, sprained within an inch of its life. The doctor told us that some sprains are more severe than breaks and mine fell into that category.
When we finally arrived home, Jack and I were utterly exhausted and drained. After hanging up my coat, I hobbled into the kitchen and Jack followed. He leaned against the sink and gazed out the window at the back yard.
“The tree is gone,” he said.
At first, his comment didn’t register. Then I remembered we had called a “tree guy” to trim our majestic maple in the back yard.
I rushed to the window and son of a bitch — the tree was indeed gone. A stump, with one of our bird feeders lying on the ground next to it.
In spite of my ankle, and hyperventilating, I limped and hopped at an unreal clip out the front door and saw the guy who had chopped down our beautiful tree stacking the logs in his truck.
There is no way I can adequately describe my reaction other than to say I lost my shit. Completely.
I fell to my knees screaming, crying and hurling invectives at the man who cut down a tree we watched grow from a sapling.
Certainly, the neighbors heard me. Some probably came outside to see what the commotion was all about. I didn’t care. Totally impervious, I kept on screaming.
Meanwhile, Jack hightailed it to his car, saying, “I can’t take this,” and he left! I wasn’t mad. I couldn’t feel anything other than a loss so great, it hurt, physically.
Everything: My parents, the tree, my stupid ankle, all of it culminating in a shit storm so virulent, I thought I could die on the spot. I wanted to.
Finally, I went back into the house, grabbed a bottle of wine and collapsed on the floor with a keening wail so loud, it scared our poor cats.
Four years ago. And less than two months before my own diagnosis of breast cancer. Again — what are the odds? My parents, then me.
I guess the point of my writing this is to help us all remember that we’re tougher than we think. The human spirit can deal with the unthinkable. “Indomitable.” That’s what we are.
When life knocks the piss out of us, we get up, dust ourselves off and jump back into the fray. What else is there to do?
Blessed. As it turns out, that’s what I was as my cancer was caught early. And, we’ve since replaced the tree. An “Autumn Blaze” maple. And, it’s absolutely beautiful.
Sherry McGuinn is a longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.