Baptism

My first shower was three, maybe four, days in. I was being held in one of two observation cells—what, because of the whole suicide thing. I was dressed in a "bam-bam" suit. It's supposed to make it harder to kill yourself. A rip-stop canvas material you could hoist boulders with. Velcro shoulder straps secured a bell-shaped drapery over my softest bits. It's more of a dress than a suit. A "blanket" of the same material and a fluid-proof mattress were the only other accommodations, not bolted down, in the tiny cell. Oh, and a half-cast that held my recently reconstructed left hand together. A knuckle is no match for a 45. I can't remember how many stitches. 30, maybe 40? My disintegrated gripper was hardly worth remembering. Not after what happened.

My entire life, gone in an instant. People say that a lot; "my life changed in an instant." It's almost always hyperbole.

What is an instant anyway?

My life—it changed in the time it takes a 45 caliber round to leave the chamber, travel up ten steps, into the best person I've ever known and come to rest in her compassionate, biting, simply complex, my-favorite-in-the-whole-world, loving, beautiful body. It felt like less than an instant; like a projector, switching reels, had skipped a scene. When you’re trying to kill yourself but end up killing the love of your life, time turns to mush.

With enough gravity, an instant can last forever.

911.

CPR.

Police.

Ambulance.

Hospital.

Jail cell.

Fog.

Three, maybe four, days staring up at a fluorescent light that never goes out. Alone, except for a camera inside a dark little bubble in the corner to make sure I don't try and kill myself again. I could save them some time. If they'd listen. I could tell them that I was no suicide threat; that I never would be again; I could tell them that, in my weakest moment, I'd forever lost my right to an easy way out; that, by some mind-bending cosmic tragedy, I'd burnt through every ounce of pain one person can be allowed to cause in a thousand lifetimes. That I'd lost the right. And Monica got her way. I'd have to go on living, this time without the only person I'd want for company; this time without her. I doubt the camera would've cared. It would've gone on silently watching no matter what. It didn't really matter anyway. Nothing did.

At some point I ate some food—I assume—though I can't remember what, or when. At some point I must've used the brushed-steel toilet in the corner, though I can't remember how. I must've been breathing, because I didn't die, though I can't remember how or why. And at some point I slept. This I do recall because, every time I opened my eyes, the cell, the camera, the fluorescent light, and a couple hundred cinder blocks came crashing down around me. And with it came the devastating recollection of my reality's most recent twisting. Every time I came to, my heart broke to pieces all over again. And still, I found slumber to be double edged. It was the only time there was still a chance that none of it had ever happened; that it would all be gone when I finally lifted the covers.

It never was.

Nightmares are meant to be woken up from—not into.

At some point, three, maybe four, days in, a little plastic bag fell through the slot in the door my plastic trays of food came through. It was filled with little travel-sized hygiene products. At some point, not long after, a voice came through the same slot and asked if I wanted a shower. I almost had to remind myself what a shower was. I must've answered because the slot said to be ready in five minutes. 

I turned the bag over in my hand. A thumb-sized bottle of shampoo, a brittle piece of soap folded in paper, a middle finger-sized toothbrush, a pinky-sized tube of toothpaste, and a tiny stick of clear deodorant you could close your hand around.

I don't know what time it was when my door opened, but it was late. After midnight. Every cell but mine was dark. The jail was quiet. Silent actually. The doors buzzed and clicked as I was escorted to the intake area. I could hear the lights buzzing. It was bright—like shield-your-eyes bright. The tile floor was cold under my bare feet. Officer Hemingway, that was his name, handed me a towel, a wash cloth, and a trash bag and pointed to a thick green curtain and told me I had ten minutes.

Three, maybe four, people could've showered in there at a time. I positioned my bag of toiletries on a steel soap dish under the first nozzle. The showers in jails don't have hot and cold knobs you can turn on and leave on. They have buttons you push that will give you a 30, maybe 40, second burst of water. I pushed the button and hoped the water would be something other than freezing. I took off the canvas bam-bam suit and tied a trash bag around my hand. I stood there shivering, primal. Everything I did, up to this point, was a reaction. One instinct after another. A mental default mode.

Because I was the only one showering, the water came out hot. Steaming. I stood under the spray. The water hit my matted hair and found its way down my body collecting blood and dirt and oil from a time before that never-ending instant had occurred. I had created a crack in time. Everything in my life would forever be divided. Before or after. The water ran down my legs and swirled around the drain, taking with it the remnants of a life I wasn't ready to let go of. I stepped on the drain. I don't know why, I guess I didn't want to lose that last part of her, of everything I had and took for granted, of everything I'd thrown away. I'd realized, too late, that I was washing her off of me; that this was the last time our strands would tangle; that circling this drain was the last time we would ever dance. Ten minutes would never be enough. The water could mask my tears. It was up to me to try and cry as silently as possible.

I failed.

I used the tiny implements until the soap had crumbled and the bottle of shampoo was empty. Each time I pressed the button I told myself it would be my last. But I couldn't stop. Something was happening. One more—just one more time and I'd be done. From behind the curtain Hemingway said, "Alright Caldwell, wrap it up."

I pressed the button one last time. I took a breath and let the water fall down my face. With my forehead pressed against the wall, the water retreated to a trickle. I exhaled. The first breath I remember letting go of after everything had happened. I dried off with one hand, the other hand in a trash bag.

Nothing was fixed, nothing was solved there in that shower, but something had changed. I don't know if it was the trauma fading, the drugs wearing off, or because it was the first human thing I'd done that took any thought, but that shower was the first thing I remember in any detail. My first glimpse back into reality.

Standing there shivering I realized nothing would ever be the same, that I'd destroyed my old life and altered the lives of everyone I loved. And that's just the way it was. As painful and difficult, as lost and hopeless as the road ahead would be, I knew, after everything I'd been through, after everything I'd caused and everything I'd be facing, that I could no longer look at life and its struggles as something to run from or surrender to. I knew that I still had people out there that cared about me, that would one day need me, and that I owed the world to. Walking out of that shower back to that torturous little cell was the first time I felt—no matter how minuscule or fleeting—a twinge of hope or possibility that I might be able get through whatever life had in store for me. 

I spent 17 days in isolation with nothing but that fluorescent light, that camera, and the, rarely helpful, thoughts in my head. I had no visits, no time or space to stretch my legs, no human interaction and no physical comfort. I was pushed to the limits of what the human body, mind, and spirit can endure.

And, I don't know how, but I survived.

I started meditating in there, and in doing so I began to reevaluate my life and the way I chose to see the world. I analyzed every aspect of what led me to that moment of weakness and despair and every personal flaw that allowed me to get to a place where I was blind to my blessings and willing to throw it all away. I came to see how selfish my suicide attempt was, that I was willing to put Monica through the pain I was now feeling, at her loss, had been successful, how I was willing to leave her and the kids to deal with my death. And with no one else to blame, and nothing else to do but change or die, I focused on changing. And in that fire I decided to do whatever it would take to become something better, someone better, someone worthy of Monica's unconditional love, someone able to live up to the potential she saw in me...To finally make her proud.

I'm not there yet, and I may never be, but there was something about that shower that I'll never forget. Under that water, I found myself in one of those rare moments in life, of which you only ever get one maybe two, where you have to make a choice that will determine the rest of your life. And for whatever reason, this time, I choose to fight.

It cost me everything to learn something so fucking simple. That life is worth fighting for...