Last One Standing

Cubby

     When I was young, my nightmares always ended with my escaping the creepy old haunted house but I could never manage to save my sister or brothers.  I remember one time I thought I had rescued my sister, only to have her head pop off like a porcelain doll.
     While I knew that these dreams were inspired by the B rated scary matinees I had watched that day, the feeling of being the last one standing haunted me.  I can still remember the guilt I felt at surviving when I couldn't save my brothers and sister.
     Then when they fell into the bottomless pit of mental illnesses and addictions one after the other, I struggled to understand why I had been spared.  Sure I had learned to avoid the obvious triggers of drugs and alcohol, but I had balanced upon the precipice myself quite a few times. 
     Now I can clearly see how I justified such bizarre actions as befriending cocaine addicts and holding onto mentally abusive relationships way too long, but back then my false sense of bravado carried me though from one crisis to the next.  When I look back on my days of going into risky clubs and waiting outside strange apartment buildings late at night while my friend scored his latest fix, I'm amazed I didn't end up on a missing poster.
     Yet somehow, no matter how much debt I put myself in trying to bail my friends out of the problems they constantly created, I always managed to bounce back.  At support groups, I was always the cautionary tale that made others feel their lives weren't so bad after all.
     Today I am battered but still standing.  Every day I visit my brother in the nursing home, bribing him with strawberry shakes to change his shirt and pants or to cooperate with his physical therapist.  Then I go to the hospital to visit my mother, who is recuperating from a TIA from all the stress of worrying about my brother.  Finally I come home to feed the cat and change his kitty litter, wondering how this became my life.  I really prefer dogs.