The guilt lay like a rock in my heart, a lump in her throat. I thought I was brave enough to try to deny my sins and forget them to go on with the daily affairs of life. But that hasn't been the case. I tried to rationalize my behavior, placing part of the blame on others to make me feel less guilty. I often wonder why we engage in guilty pleasures, knowing that guilt is a demon. It is an awful, horrible sensation that eats away at your mind, consuming you if you let it, eventually leaving you emotionally drained. For several years now, I have been fighting not to let the guilt tear me apart and learn to cherish nothing but pleasurable memories. While longing to tell my story, I resolved to squirrel away my remorse, hoping that you would see it in a different context because even I sometimes feel pleasure outweighs guilt.
I've been blindsided by remorse on many favorable and supposedly pleasurable occasions. I am not a pundit to analyze those feelings or tell the difference between one another - at least on one occasion that I will tell you.
I grew up in a somewhat typical family, but my father was away on a UN peacekeeping mission around the time of the incident, which led to my unforgettable memories. Despite being underdeveloped for my then age 18, I was a normal guy. I wish I could boast of being six feet tall, lean, and handsome, but the truth was far from it. I must have inherited my maternal grandfather's genes to be barely 5'7" with boyish looks instead of from dad's side. My friends, peers, and girls I knew accepted me as a nice guy or cool guy, but that wasn't enough for me to be a chick magnet or at least good enough to attract a single girl to date. I often wondered what it would be like to get a hand job, blow job, stick my cock in a girl's wet pussy, and so on, as imagination knew no bounds. But the truth was that I was desperate to try anything with a woman.
It all started when I came down with stomach flu. I missed three days of school due to diarrhea and vomiting but fortunately got over it without other complications. A few days later, one morning, I found Mom complaining about diarrhea and stomach cramps, etc., that I had experienced just a couple of days earlier but dressed to go to work anyway, saying that she could somehow manage but was forced to change her mind when she vomited a few times just after her morning coffee.
That afternoon, I remember coming home from school to find Mom in the family room, lounging on the couch sideways, facing the TV. She had a trash can nearby, and from the first glance at her, I knew something was wrong with her. She looked up to meet my eyes as I entered the living room, then immediately sat, bringing the trash can to her face, and then started vomiting. I watched in dismay as she kept at it. Then she knelt on the floor with her face down to the trash can, gagging. Her jaw went slack, and a drool trickled slowly down one side of her chin. Her eyes looked completely dead before rolling back as she crumpled to the floor in a fit of violent retching and gagging.
I dropped my backpack to the floor and rushed to help her. Mom looked groggy and disordered, but I managed to bring her to her feet and help her get to bed before calling the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Nicholas, for help; fearing that Mom needed instant care, Mrs. Nicolas immediately took her to urgent care at the nearby hospital.
Hours later, when they returned, Mrs. Nicolas told me that Mom had caught the same stomach flu that I had, which, without a doubt, I knew. The doctor had prescribed her an antibiotic, medicine, and a couple of over-the-counter flu medications for the flu and nausea. She further advised me to feed her broth, crackers, and other non-dairy drinks for a day or two till she became better. Mrs. Nicholas stayed until about 9 pm, making sure all was well around the house before she left giving me instructions to look after Mom.
"I'll be back around 11.00 in the morning after the meeting at my church. You take good care of your mother," she said as she left.
The bowl of chicken broth that I gave her took a long time to finish; Mom appeared as she regained some of her strength after having the broth and medications. I helped her to the bathroom, and she showered without assistance. So, I left her in her room to rest and watched TV for a while before showering and getting ready for bed. Then, thinking about Mom, I went to her room to check on her before hitting the sack myself. Upon entering her room, it became apparent that her condition had worsened within the short period since I last tended to her. I found her in bed, covered with a blanket yet shivering as a fish out of the water. She complained about stomach cramps and being very cold. She whined, sobbing in discomfort, turning side to side and holding the blanket with her hands as she turned. I knew it was too late to call Mrs. Nicolas, but I had no other option since I didn't know what else to do.
I dialed Mrs. Nicolas hesitantly and explained Mom's condition to her. After listening carefully, she asked me to take Mom's temperature and call her back.
After monitoring Mom's body temperature, I called Mrs. Nicolas to report that the reading was nearly 102. She instructed me to remove all covers and blankets from Mom and give her the flu medication and as much Seven-Up as she could drink. She asked that I retake her temperature in an hour and call her if it hadn't dropped. I followed her instructions and gave Mom her flue medication with Seven-up that she drank, holding the glass with her shaky hands.
"Mom, Mrs. Nicolas asked me to take blankets and comforters away until your fever drops," I said, taking covers off her bed.
