Most conversations somehow go back to Vietnam. I don’t know how we got on the morbid subject of suicide, but we did.
Dad: Tina, there’s a right way and a wrong way to slit your wrists. Back in boot camp…
Me: I know. I’ve heard this story before. Thanks to you, I have known for years exactly where to slash my wrist if I want to off myself.
Dad: Now listen. Back at boot camp, one of the guys tried to slit his wrists. The drill sergeant woke us all up at 3am, and the guy had cut his wrist straight across and blood was dripping down his fingers. The sergeant said, “This guy wants to die, huh? Well this here’s how to slit your wrist, you f*ckin’ maggots!” And he cut the guy right here (gestures to section of wrist where pulse is), and blood started shooting out (makes shooting motion with fingers). Here, feel my pulse. That right there is where you cut it, just a small incision.
Me: I know, Dad. So did the guy die?
Dad: No, the sergeant said, “This guy has seven minutes to live, now get him the hell out of my sight!” So we took him to the hospital, and he was fine.
If I’m ever going to hurt myself, it will probably be here. At my dad’s house.
After 8 peaceful years on my own, I left my tiny New York City apartment for my hometown of Independence, Missouri, a mere five days before my 30th birthday. Why? I missed my dad. Biannual visits weren't enough; I longed for Sunday dinners with The Ol' Man. But I forgot that before I can enjoy those occasional dinners, only to go back to my own Kansas City apartment, I would need to take up temporary residence. In my childhood home. After losing my mother to cancer in 1998, my outspoken, liberal, Vietnam veteran hippie father has grown accustomed to living alone. And when my cat and I move in, my 60-year-old pop's bachelor pad (and world) is turned upside down. -
Can I get the sargeanty guy’s digits? Rawr
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