A/N: This came to me whilst listening to a song recently released in the UK. It is not a songfic; I have no idea about the rules of posting the names of songs as such? I do not want to take the risk. You may know it, you may not, it is not essential. Thank you for reading.
19th April, 2006 - Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy.
I am Dr. Rodney McKay and yesterday I turned thirty-eight years old. I am a highly successful and might I add, brilliantly intelligent astrophysicist. I am the Chief Science Officer on the internationally co-operated endeavour to the lost city of Atlantis, which so happens to be in the Pegasus galaxy. Naturally, I think big. I guess the Milky Way could no longer contain my brilliance and I was destined for greater things. This 'journal entry' (in inverted commas as this is the first and last time I am writing in this book, so can it actually be a journal if one does not keep a personal, constant and regular account of anachronistic occurrences?). Dr Heightmeyer this is for you, please be grateful and take it as a peace offering that I did not put the Dr prefix in front of your name in inverted commas. Now, that is beside the point. Please take into account whilst reading the following 'entry' that it's over, done and dealt with. If you so wish me to write then I shall to appease you. Understand this or read no further. Done? Understood? Yes then, on with it.
I am, as previously mentioned now thirty-eight years old. I have a broad knowledge of death that I never wanted to have. I love knowledge but something's I'd prefer if I was in the dark. Ignorance is bliss - a contradiction of my whole being, but yes I wish I knew less about death.
We have talked in our sessions about my past, about where I grew up and what my parents were like. As you know I wasn't an entirely happy child, I was intelligent beyond my years and I found it hard to interact with children my age. My parents argued - a lot. My mother saw me as a useless piece of dirt, I was not understood. She couldn't see why I wasn't out with the other kids scraping knees and getting grass stains. I was in my room, reading books, doing math. Repeatedly running over in my mind the old videos my dad showed me of Neil Armstrong landing on the moon. My obsession began with those videos. I was born with the space race, a one year old growing up with the ideal of further exploration into the expanse of space.
My dad, he was my hero. Yes, he argued with my mom, he defended me he stuck up for me. I loved him so much for it. Then I hated him so much so suddenly, it made my stomach churn. Eleven and half years old, sitting at the kitchen table, he explains the degenerative effects of Hodgkin's lymphoma, the disease he had just been diagnosed with. I remember the conversation well. Even then my mind was clinical, he understood this, every word spoken was underscored with such a factual air that it did not sink in immediately that my dad had just told me he was dying.
I learned everything I could about the disease, who it was named after, what it did to your body, I researched hour upon hour, I was far too intelligent for my age and yet, it was so frustrating that I could not find a cure that somehow a doctor had missed. Talk about the naivety of the young. Now though, I look back and I realise I would give up everything I have if he could have lived six months longer. Like I said, he was my hero.
I woke up everyday and I'd go downstairs, he'd be sitting at the kitchen table, reading a paper, work long since had to be given up, and yet he always had a smile for me. A ruffle of the hair and a kiss on the cheek before I went off to school. Everyday I'd get home and he would have packed away more of his stuff, taking away everything I had to remember him by. A book in a box to a charity shop, a scarf given to an old friend, because dad sure as hell would need it when he was six feet under this winter. I was so goddamn angry. I wanted to scream what are you leaving me? How am I going to remember you in ten years time? Twenty years? Why do you have to die you selfish son-of-a-bitch? They were bottled up inside for so long.
Jeannie had shut down. She was mom's girl but he was her dad. She was older than me, she left the house in the evenings, a sixteen year old could escape. She was good with people; she had friends to talk to. I had no-one. Mom was a whole different story. She acted like dad was an inconvenience I half expected her to say, 'I know I vowed till death do us part, but do you mind if I come back after you've parted? Really honey the stress is bad for my complexion.' Yes Dr Heightmeyer, my relationship with my mother was not something I like to remember, she was not in periphery of what I needed. We didn't get along, it was mutual, conversations were succinct, interactions were limited.
We were eating dinner one evening, mom was prattling on about something some neighbour had done to her front room, I wasn't listening. About five minutes in to her tirade my dad, raised the index finger on his right hand and calmly stated: 'Darling, I'm dying. I do not wish to talk about the neighbours drapes. I go to hospital tomorrow and I doubt very much I'm going to leave. This is my last meal at home so would you be so kind as to shut up for ten goddamn minutes?' I think it's safe to say I inherited my bluntness from that man. I hope I didn't inherit anything from my mother. Her reply to his statement? She went on about how he interrupted and how I always did the same. The arrogance of the finger raised, breaking into the conversation the 'lower beings' were having. In that moment it struck me. There was nothing of his I could hold, nothing to talk to, no photos of him, I had tried since he told me he was dying to memorise his face every wrinkle, every line. I was so goddamn scared of forgetting. The interruption, the finger, the arrogance and yes, the jutted chin were a clear definition that I was his legacy. He left me behind to remind the world of a great man and I knew I had to do him proud. Later it would bring a smile to my face, he left me behind to remind me of him. I suppose that's where the ego began.
Two weeks later he was gone. I had never gone to church when life was good, when things were normal so I promised myself I wasn't going to be someone, who struck with grief, turned to God renounced their sins and took up going to church every Sunday. I immersed myself in work, trying to get on with it. I think if God does exist I'd earn his respect for this.
Jeannie withdrew, by no means went of the rails but I hardly saw her. Mom never even cried. He'd gone and she pretended nothing happened. As I've grown older I've come to understand that maybe she was dealing with the grief in her own way, but as an eleven year old boy I wanted nothing more than a hug and a whispered reassurance that the pain would go away. They had nothing to remember him by. It had angered my mom for so long how like him I was, characteristics inherited the chin jut, the interruptions, and they all remind me of him. I know I'll never forget him. I felt so bad they didn't understand I was there to remind them of him.
Dr Heightmeyer, it's been a pleasure as always. I hope this has been candid enough for you. Oh, I wouldn't worry to much if you voodoo doesn't work, I'll go see a priest, a rabbi and a protestant clergyman, dad always said best to hedge your bets. I suppose that's why I made a nuclear bomb opposed to a model volcano for a science project. Hedging my bets. So yes, I'm going to go back to work, doing something useful. The wraith will no doubtly be here soon, the not so perfect dinner guests. I guess, I'll come up with some genius plan to save you all but if I don't and heaven exists, I think he's saving us a few seats. I wish I could believe it you know. For now though, I'm still trying to make him proud and if he was here today, he wouldn't come up with a solution to our impending doom but he sure wouldn't stop laughing. And we'd all be laughing with him.