I Need A Shot Of Redemption: 2009

OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!

OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!

OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!

OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!

OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!! OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!
OH, BABY, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!!!!

Amanda Littlefield belched loudly at her sister Marigold after taking a long swallow from the brown bottle

of Anchor Steam that she had just helped herself to from the stainless steel box residing in her sister’s

immaculate kitchen. The gold liquid had felt icy going down and numbed her parched throat. She was

always so thirsty these days. Feeling somewhat shamed by her uncouth reaction, Amanda looked

down at her sister’s smooth, gray mottled granite countertop and ran her finger along its cold, hard edge.

How much had this granite cost per square foot? Marigold had just finished telling her that her eyebrows

looked like two black woolly caterpillars crawling across her forehead and that she should pluck them or

risk being single for the rest of her life.

I would like to slap you across your face", thought Amanda, lifting her finger off the cool slab.

"I would take great satisfaction in doing so," she thought again, dropping her hand to her side.

Marigold, with her smooth, translucent skin and delicately arching eyebrows was thin and pale blond

and her limber body had borne two children: two angelic children that Amanda would never bear.

These two babies were beautiful specimens: chubby, pink-cheeked, with soft blond curls and big blue eyes.

They smelled of flowers and green grass. Amanda’s child was her black cat; a cold-hearted beast, rarely

asking for affection and more than occasionally afflicted with worms, fleas and hairballs that it always

managed to choke up at her feet.

Looking down at the floor, she noticed two strands of her black hair had fallen on the sea of white tile

even though that morning she had pulled it back in a tight ponytail. These rebellious prisoners sat there,

mocking her, curled in lines that looked like distorted question marks. It was only half-past four in the

afternoon, already Amanda could smell her sister’s dinner cooking. The meaty perfume of free-range

chicken, poaching slowly in dry white wine and thyme freshly cut from the nearby kitchen garden,

taunted and teased her nostrils. Instead of making her hungry, she felt nauseated by the odor of the

simmering dish. All she could think about was how the dark red blood must have spurted and rushed out

from the bird’s neck after being killed, and then having its lifeless body suffer the humiliation of having

its feathers ripped out as the animal’s life had been sacrificed and offered up for a handsome price.

Should I tell her? Should I tell her I’m dying?

Amanda looked out the greenhouse window at her sister’s flower garden, an array of wildly-colored

perennials and annuals and fragrant heirloom roses in full bloom in the warm summer air and remembered

back when her doctor first told her about her condition around her 21st birthday. The garden reminded her

of the kaleidoscope her mother had given her for her seventh birthday. She played with it for hours that

day, studying the colors, thrilled by the changing patterns held in place by black lines. Eventually, it

bored her. Too many changing colors and it hurt her eye to stare through that small hole after a while. She

had forgotten what had become of the toy, and wondered if her mother had saved it along with the other

treasures from her childhood.

The doctor, Dr. Joe, was a kind-faced man. Sitting her down gently, he explained Type One Diabetes to

her and what affect it would have on her life.

“It’s your kidneys, Amanda, that are the concern. If you sustain too much damage to them, they’ll

fail. This means you must have the right diet and take insulin shots. Regulate your system, take good care

of yourself, and you’ll live a productive, fruitful life. Now, let’s talk about the pregnancy. From what

you’ve told me, you’re only 20, a full-time student, unemployed, living at home, and unmarried. Those are

emotional stressors that will affect this condition and the treatment of it. Those extra factors—especially in

addition to the burden of the pregnancy—will put too much strain on your system. It makes your body have

to work that much harder to cope. That’s overload for your kidneys at this point because you have yet to be

treated. It’s an unnecessary risk to your health. You understand that, right?”

“But I’ve always wanted to be a mother. I want this baby. I see this child. Can’t we find away to make it

work? The baby’s father says he’ll marry me. I can finish college at the same time.”

“This would be a therapeutic abortion—your life is in danger, here. Consider that. You can have other

children once you get this condition under control. Now is not an ideal time to take such risks.”

“I’m Catholic.” She pleaded quietly. “What about the father—he’d like this baby, too?”

“The Church makes exceptions when the mother’s life is in danger,” he reassured her, rubbing his hands as

if covered with invisible dust. “And, it’s not his choice to make. It’s yours. It’s your body, your health,

that’s all that matters. Understand that I’m not telling you to get an abortion, but as your healthcare

provider, I’m recommending it.”

“Give me time to think about this. I need time to absorb all of this, please.” She could smell antiseptic in

the air and wanted to vomit. Amanda slumped back into the vinyl examination chair. The tissue paper

cover had torn and the cold, slick, black plastic underneath stuck to her warm thighs.

“OK,” he said, peering at her pensive, washed-out face from above his small wire bifocals. He stared at the

purple circles under her black eyes, which had the appearance of bottomless pits. His coarse, white hair was

falling over his right eye and Amanda resisted the temptation to push it back. “When you’ve made your

choice, here is the number of a good doctor that will perform the medical procedure. Don’t spend too much

time thinking about this. The longer you wait, the more strain on your kidneys and the longer it will take to

get your condition stabilized.”

Hot tears began to fall softly from her eyes like steady spring raindrops on a window. She hated having to

make decisions. Alone now, she pulled at her long hair that flowed around her shoulders. A clump of it sat

in her hand. Instinctively, she rolled it into a small ball. She stared at the tangled mass. Standing up, she threw it away

in the garbage can, and left the gray, sterile box on Broadway Avenue and took the bus back to the trim, green box

on Virginia Street.

The abortion had been performed three weeks later. It had hurt like hell. Amanda felt her insides being

ripped out even though she had been given Demerol to numb the pain. At one point, she screamed with

such intensity that the doctor ordered her to please be quiet. Crying, she acquiesced and bit her lip to stay

silent. Afterwards, she holed herself in her room like a wounded hermit crab. She did not stop bleeding well

into the night. Bright blood came out of her in what felt like torrents. She was drenched with a cold sweat, her

head throbbed and pounded with pain. On her way to the laundry room to get a towel to sop up

her lost fluid the next morning, she saw her mother making spaghetti. The thought of the red of the

tomatoes made her stomach go weak. She didn’t want her mother to know about this, but when she fainted,

bleeding and burning up on the kitchen floor, her mother had to know the truth. In the emergency room

Amanda spilled her guts.

“Mom, please, don’t tell her anything, please.” Amanda pleaded. “I don’t want her to know about this.”

“Oh, baby girl,” her mother crooned as she cradled her limp, fevered youngest in her arms. “ I promise,

Marigold won’t learn a thing. We just need to focus on getting you well again.”

“Thank you, Mother. I love you,” Amanda whispered back into her Mother’s tender, lined face. “ I’m so

sorry, Mom. I thought I did the right thing. I didn’t know that this might happen”

What Amanda didn’t know was that the doctor had perforated her uterus scraping out the unwanted tissue.

He hadn’t realized that it had happened, either. When he finally removed the suction tube, he told her she

was good to go. He moved rapidly after the procedure, washing his hands and taking a quick look at himself in the

mirror. Amanda thought she saw him smile at his visage briefly. His cornflower blue eyes and sharp,

chiseled features told him the look was worth it.

“Come back in two weeks for a check-up,” he told her cheerfully over his shoulder as he walked out the

door to his next patient.

When all was said and done the ensuing infection had damaged her kidneys beyond repair. Now there

would never be a child. Whether to have a child would never be a choice Amanda would ever have to

make. She accepted this final verdict without resentment: she had been dealt this hand, and now she must

learn to live with it. The only effect it seemed to make was that she started wearing black. Its empty color

soothed her. The only person to notice was her sister.

“My, God, Amanda, you look like an old crow,” Marigold would say over lunch or during family dinners.

“Do you have to wear that depressing color all the time?”

“Yes, I do” Amanda would reply stiffly and without emotion. “It’s none of your business. And, it makes

me look thinner—which should silence you, but for some reason, you persist. Why is that?”

“Because I care. I’m only trying to help you find some happiness. Which you seem to be so lacking in”

Marigold shot back.

“Leave her alone” their mother would pipe in. “Let her be.”

This monotonous dialogue went on for several years. The relationship with the boyfriend came to an end.

Amanda couldn’t bear any reminders of what might have been. She closed herself off from other ones. That

line would never be crossed again. She lost interest in school and quitting seemed to be the best option.

Instead, Amanda found a job serving food at an assisted living center. Wearing a white smock over her

black uniform, she served soft, unpalatable, goopy food to these withered people. Amanda studied their

faces. Every one had missing teeth, watering eyes, thinning hair and deep, deep wrinkles. They moved

slowly and cautiously, many in diapers, shuffling along as if every move was one of calculated pain. Some

were smiling in spite of their failing, dilapidated and broken bodies. Others emanated bitterness and anger,

taking their sustenance scowling. Every once in a while a brown-spotted hand with bulging purple veins

would reach out and touch her hand gently.

“Thank you, dear,” the shriveled person would cry out. “How are you today?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Her words moved like the second hand of a clock. Her rote response

would never alter.

The insulin shots worked to regulate her blood sugar levels, but Amanda’s kidneys were failing.

“There was too much damage,” her new doctor told her one morning in the late fall near her 29th birthday.

Dr. Joe had died three years previous. “Your options at this point are dialysis and a transplant. I’m sorry,

Amanda.” His voice poured out like honey, soft and liquidly.

“And if I don’t choose those options?”

“You know the answer to that. If you want to live longer, this is the route you must take. No getting around

it.” He said with no mercy.

“Would that be such a bad thing, to die without further treatment?”

“It’s your canvas, Amanda. You’re in control of it—no one can make you do it.” His answer was exactly

what she had wanted to hear.

Amanda looked at her doctor. He was young and tanned. His dark hair rode down his neck thickly to the

edge of his white buttoned-down shirt, curling at the ends. She wanted to run her fingers around the curves

of those dark lines. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but his gold-flecked hazel eyes shone with a

knowledge that went beyond his 30 some-odd years. She leaned closer in to him. Amanda could smell the

faint aroma of some man cologne. She wasn’t sure what the scent was—it had been so long since she had

been in close range of all things male. She studied him, noticing a wide gold band on his ring finger and

wondered how often he made love to his wife. Jolting herself from her daydream she carefully ran her

fingers through her own dark hair. It was dry and brittle and falling out more than it should. The diabetes

and weakened kidneys had taken a hard toll on her body. She stifled a yawn. The clock said half-past four.

It was getting cold and late and she was ready to go home, wrap herself in her soft white robe, have a beer

and then go to sleep. That sounded good. She rose from the black vinyl chair and looked towards the door.

“Then I won’t take it.” She said finally.