The luckiest unlucky man.
I met the luckiest unlucky man on Earth. He had won the lottery, twice. Was a millionaire, twice.
And had shot himself in the head, once.
Upstairs, in the house with furnishings from the '70's, six loud bangs were heard. They sounded like gunshots, and resonated off the wallpapered walls bouncing into the reading room where the elderly parents did crosswords. Frightened, the mother dialed the three digits on their rotary phone. 9, click, click, click, 1, click, click, click, 1 click, click, click. The father, scared that his deepest fears may have just come true, opened the basement door and carefully negotiated each step to his son's bedroom. He screamed as the mother relayed their address to the 911 operator.
I arrive the same time the fire department does. I'm still relatively new at this point in my career and haven't seen a lot of suicide attempts, especially by gun. Enroute, muffled by the screaming sirens and 911-operator traffic, we were told that he was still breathing. Not for long, I thought. A shot to the head can't sustain life.
The elderly father greets us at the door. His eyes floating in tears. His wife sits on the guest couch as the father leads us thought the living room, into the kitchen, and the directs the way to the basement with a crooked, pointed finger. "Down those stairs" he said.
All six of us, plus the 2 cops that just arrived on scene, crunch down so as to not bump our heads on the low ceiling. Our footsteps crash each rung as we slowly walk down the stairs. Not knowing what is around the corner, we carefully peer around the dimly lit room looking for anyone that might want to hurt us.
There, on the bed, was a fully clothed man. Jacket and shoes on, he rested on a bloody comforter with his hands at his side. The sulpher from the gunshots still smoked in the air. The imaginary sound of the blast penetrated my thoughts.
"Where's the gun?" I asked, not necessarily hoping to locate it, but to warn the firemen there was possibly a locked and loaded firearm in the near vicinity,
"My father has it."
I stutter. The firemen flinch and two back up. My partner, like a cold gust of wind, disappears up the stairs. I am left speechless.
Clots of blood the size of pancakes crown the patient in the bed. Grayish clumps of matter the size of jellybeans are strewn on the headboard and embedded in the pillow. Meditation rocks, with inspirational sayings like "Trust" and "Love" and "Peace" are scattered on the floor. "Hope" is wedged firmly in his tight grasp. I begin to talk.
Like that uncomfortable silence on a first date, I ask,
"What's your name?"
"Where do you hurt?" "
"Why did you do this?"
He answers each question. Quietly, and succinctly.
His father, now downstairs but out of the line of sight, states he heard 6 shots. I see one in the head. Penetrating above his right ear and exiting with an explosion at the base of his skull. One of six. I remove the bloody comforter and look for more. His right arm is tense, as if every muscle is flexing simultaneously. His right leg is shattered. From his hip to his knee.
The CSI in me begins to piece the puzzle together. The gun was in his right hand; he put it to his temple, pulled the trigger and blew two holes in his head with one shot. His arm fell to his side, and as the neurons misfired in his traumatized brain, his right hand flinched uncontrollably, causing him to shoot himself 5 more times in the leg, fracturing his femur and blowing his kneecap off.
We load him up and he continues to play a role in his medical care. Do this! He does it. Do that! He does it. He begins to cry and I tell him it'll all be alright. Even though I didn't believe it.
On the way to the ED he has an episode like I've never seen before, and probably never will. He is communicating with me, although his words make no sense. He looks at me as though I'm from a foreign country. I'm sure he asks, in his own language, "do you understand me?" I don't.
We make it to the hospital where he lives for another month. And where I learn that this unlucky, lucky man's luck had run out.
And had shot himself in the head, once.
Upstairs, in the house with furnishings from the '70's, six loud bangs were heard. They sounded like gunshots, and resonated off the wallpapered walls bouncing into the reading room where the elderly parents did crosswords. Frightened, the mother dialed the three digits on their rotary phone. 9, click, click, click, 1, click, click, click, 1 click, click, click. The father, scared that his deepest fears may have just come true, opened the basement door and carefully negotiated each step to his son's bedroom. He screamed as the mother relayed their address to the 911 operator.
I arrive the same time the fire department does. I'm still relatively new at this point in my career and haven't seen a lot of suicide attempts, especially by gun. Enroute, muffled by the screaming sirens and 911-operator traffic, we were told that he was still breathing. Not for long, I thought. A shot to the head can't sustain life.
The elderly father greets us at the door. His eyes floating in tears. His wife sits on the guest couch as the father leads us thought the living room, into the kitchen, and the directs the way to the basement with a crooked, pointed finger. "Down those stairs" he said.
All six of us, plus the 2 cops that just arrived on scene, crunch down so as to not bump our heads on the low ceiling. Our footsteps crash each rung as we slowly walk down the stairs. Not knowing what is around the corner, we carefully peer around the dimly lit room looking for anyone that might want to hurt us.
There, on the bed, was a fully clothed man. Jacket and shoes on, he rested on a bloody comforter with his hands at his side. The sulpher from the gunshots still smoked in the air. The imaginary sound of the blast penetrated my thoughts.
"Where's the gun?" I asked, not necessarily hoping to locate it, but to warn the firemen there was possibly a locked and loaded firearm in the near vicinity,
"My father has it."
I stutter. The firemen flinch and two back up. My partner, like a cold gust of wind, disappears up the stairs. I am left speechless.
Clots of blood the size of pancakes crown the patient in the bed. Grayish clumps of matter the size of jellybeans are strewn on the headboard and embedded in the pillow. Meditation rocks, with inspirational sayings like "Trust" and "Love" and "Peace" are scattered on the floor. "Hope" is wedged firmly in his tight grasp. I begin to talk.
Like that uncomfortable silence on a first date, I ask,
"What's your name?"
"Where do you hurt?" "
"Why did you do this?"
He answers each question. Quietly, and succinctly.
His father, now downstairs but out of the line of sight, states he heard 6 shots. I see one in the head. Penetrating above his right ear and exiting with an explosion at the base of his skull. One of six. I remove the bloody comforter and look for more. His right arm is tense, as if every muscle is flexing simultaneously. His right leg is shattered. From his hip to his knee.
The CSI in me begins to piece the puzzle together. The gun was in his right hand; he put it to his temple, pulled the trigger and blew two holes in his head with one shot. His arm fell to his side, and as the neurons misfired in his traumatized brain, his right hand flinched uncontrollably, causing him to shoot himself 5 more times in the leg, fracturing his femur and blowing his kneecap off.
We load him up and he continues to play a role in his medical care. Do this! He does it. Do that! He does it. He begins to cry and I tell him it'll all be alright. Even though I didn't believe it.
On the way to the ED he has an episode like I've never seen before, and probably never will. He is communicating with me, although his words make no sense. He looks at me as though I'm from a foreign country. I'm sure he asks, in his own language, "do you understand me?" I don't.
We make it to the hospital where he lives for another month. And where I learn that this unlucky, lucky man's luck had run out.
Comments
Fried Pie.