Vignette 5 - Control

(Static starts to fade in but immediately cuts. Static then fades in and out)

I think back to your painting a lot. (Music fades in) Your manager hardly let me get more than a glimpse of it, but that glimpse has gone a long way.

Then again, maybe I’m just twisting the memory. Somehow. That’s a thing I could be doing. Everytime you revisit a memory, you add more fingerprints to it. The exact nature of those fingerprints is yet to be determined. Maybe it’s the thumb or it could be the index finger. But the manner in which you lift the memory is going to influence what mark you leave left upon it. 

That’s a nice metaphor… Maybe, but I’m trying to explain that… Well, maybe your painting of me or the me in the painting wasn’t as brave and strong and so many other things I’m not, things that would make this whole thing easier. Maybe I’m misremembering. Maybe my wants and needs right now are just overpowering, overwhelming, overwhelming rationality, and that’s why I thought she--or I guess me--was the way she was: this immovable force and power. A warrior. Really anything else would be better than me. More capable, so… Maybe I should adjust my language accordingly.

I admitted that I wanted to be like that. Maybe I--I doubt that she was like, and maybe I’m only remembering it that way because I can’t imagine being that way. I can’t imagine being so different. But obviously I won’t think it was possible for me to be like that. Dad would never allow that. Because if I did think that was possible, then it would only be a matter of time. Right? I--

(Sigh) You know, you don’t realize how fundamental your memory is to who you presently are until it’s you that starts to lose them. Through the power of sympathy, you might understand how difficult it could be. Practically. Rationally, you might be able to somewhat describe the practical challenges. It’s the existential stuff that catches you off-guard. And then once you start to dip a toe into that pool, you find yourself falling in, and then you’re completely immersed. And you don’t know how to swim anymore. Who am I now, you might ask. Who could I have been? 

(Music fades out)

Is the person I currently am worth the trouble I’m going through? Is she worth saving?

(New music fades in)

The answers to those things should be so obvious. Or at least the last one is. But I don’t know. For some reason seeing how delicate this persona of mine is has made me hesitant. And I want to say this is what Dad was after. I want to believe that. I want to believe that because it means not trusting my head and going by instinct alone. And what do we call those things? Gut feelings. My gut presumably is untouched, but maybe I’m running way too far with this metaphor. 

What--What’s the one organ we can’t live without? That can’t be transplanted. That’s the one I’m having trouble with. What do the rest of them matter?

When I saw my mother again, in Dad’s office, on that morning that I can’t even begin to think about without a pain in my chest, and not my head which is technically a good sign, I guess, but… To reclaim the point, when I saw my mother again, she seemed to be needlessly strapped down to the exam table. I say needlessly because, well, just from my perspective, Dad could have gotten the same thing accomplished with half as many restraints. In fact… 

Well, okay, restraining patients is not unheard of in this line of work. Especially for people in the field. It’s not something we like to talk about, but with brain degeneration especially--and there’s no delicate way of putting it--as a patient loses control of themselves, an external control is sometimes necessary. For everyone’s sake. Your patients don’t always know you’re trying to help them. You don’t always know if you’re helping them. The restraints have their practical purpose as well as their metaphorical one.

He who binds must be in the right, I would imagine the inventor of them saying to himself. I don’t know who came up with this. I just have my own headcanon. But truth be told, he might not have cared. I’ve noticed that physicians don’t have the mental space for doubt. They have to balance the chemical equations, pros and cons, prescription balances and reactions. And because of all of that, they don’t get to doubt themselves. That’s for the rest of us to do, I guess.

It’s a very rare thing for me to have to help restrain a patient, but I have. And the first time I did it, I was overwhelmed by concern. Not for the patient, though saying it was would have made me sound like a better person. But at the time, I was thinking or I didn’t want to think about why Dad might have gotten into this field. Like breaking down the specific values, how far did his lust for control go? And how relevant was it in this?

Which feels like a dumb question considering what I’ve been accusing him off for so long. To focus on that point feels almost comical, and so I want to be more flippant and mocking and among other things. I just can’t muster it right now. I really can’t because of what this all means. Implications and all that. 

The age gap between me and my siblings. The fact that Mom always hated him, albeit silently. Well, I--I should be concerned how all of them happened, right? How all of my siblings happened. But... Or is it not my responsibility to worry about those things? 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

I knew they didn’t have a good marriage. I knew my dad’s behavior wasn’t something that should ever be replicated. And given the family dynamics, that was the best I could do, right? It made sense, but I couldn’t agree. I can’t agree.

When I walked down that hallway, Mom’s song filled the space. A song from her own body. And I’m sure that only made him more angry. Dad hated music. And while it might not have been a genuine hatred and only a means of further controlling her, it had to have set him off to know that he didn’t get what he wanted. And maybe that’s why he busted out the extra restraints. Maybe that’s why things got so bad. I… I actually think that might have been part of the plan. I just don’t know what his plan was. For her. Or for me.

(Static starts. Music cuts. Static fades out).

This has been a production of Miscellany Media Studios with music licensed from the Sounds like an Earful music supply. It was written, performed, edited, and produced by MJ Bailey. If you like the show, please consider leaving a review and-or telling many friends about it. Thanks.