My Reality.

I was seven-years-old when Thriller was released on MTV.  I remember it in vivid detail, going to my Aunt’s house with my Mom, sitting on the green shag carpeting in the living room eating popcorn, waiting… So excited.  And finally watching in absolute awe with my Mom and her sister at the 14-minute long musical spectacle.  It was something I’ll never forget.

And…somehow, I’m not sure when that was, either when his nose started to truly freak me out, or when he started getting hammered with pedophile charges… my fascination turned into absolute repugnance. I realize that he’s never been convicted… But comeonnow.  The dude was, at the very least, seriously off. (Keep your hate mail to yourself.  Or hell, bring it, I don’t care at this point.)

Then he died.  The details are sketchy, but it appears as if he had a serious addiction to prescription drugs.  And Propofol?  Seriously?  Propofol?  Do a little reading on that drug.  It’s used to knock your ass out.  Not just put you to sleep when you’re having a hard time catching some zzz’s (something I know ALL about).  It’s used in general anesthesia, folks.  You know, when you’re having surgery?  It’s not a pill you can get by faking claiming that you have fibromyalgia.  It’s hardcore stuff.  The fact that he managed to find someone to administer this to him, through an IV, IN HIS HOUSE… Wow.  I’m beyond words.  I’m just curious.  How many people said “no” to this man before he found someone who would say “yes”?  That in itself scares the hell out of me.

Yes, he died.  And he had kids.  And they’ve been through so much already, and now they are without their Dad.  It’s very sad.  He had tremendous talent and had a huge impact on popular culture.  And he was just fifty years old.  And that is also sad.  I’m not heartless, ya’ll, you know that.  I’m a lover, not a fighter… To quote a song.

But people flipped the hell out.  I mean seriously.  The second the word was let out that Michael Jackson died, his records started flying off the shelves again.  Folks were sobbing in the streets.  Every frickin’ radio station started playing his songs non-stop.  MTV started playing actual videos again.

And then there was the funeral.  I was working, by the way.

While celebrities were fighting to get on stage to sing “We Are The World”, I was checking out the paperwork and code status for a 50-year-old mother of six who was close to dying due to bad genes.  Myself and my partner were gently moving her to our stretcher from her hospital bed while 16 family members overcrowded the small living room.  We promised her spouse, her children, her grandchildren, that we’d take excellent care of her.  The Mother.  The Grandmother.  The woman who taught for 30+ years.  The woman who painted with oil paints (displayed proudly throughout the home) in her spare time.  The woman who made fleece blankets for the local children’s hospital.  The woman who was struggling to draw air into her lungs.

And you know what?  I was pissed.  This woman was REAL.  She was what I aspire to be.   This woman did nothing other than do right by her family and her community.  She lived her life the way it was supposed to be lived.  She was the same age as the Gloved One, and the only reason she was struggling for breath was because she had failing kidneys. Because she had bad genes.  Not because she drank to excess.  Not because she was a drug seeker.  Just because of… bad effing genes.

Yes, I was pissed off.  He did it to himself. She didn’t.

In the back of an overheated ambulance, I watched, sweating because my brand new partner didn’t know how to turn the mod power on and I didn’t have time or patience to explain it to him, holding my breath, as she took her last. I watched her lips, her face, her chest turn blue.  And there was nothing I could do for her.  Nothing.  And it broke my fucking heart.

For those of you who were sobbing in the streets, THAT is a reason to cry.  She didn’t even make it to Hospice.

I just hope her family had the chance to say goodbye.  For myself, I’m not crying.  Not for him.