No one can comfort either of us, Vic or I, but one another you can look at Greg and see what a tragic waste of a beautiful creature this is. 37 years old. I’m still waiting for him to call me.
In 2013 Greg Feazell got hit by a car. HIT BY A CAR. This luscious fact meant that I had to talk to Vic and I’dve rather had glass shards in my eye. I sucked it up and called him. “Greg is in Scott and White, hit by a car while on foot, brain surgery and who knows what else, you have to get down there and make sure they don’t kill him.”
Through it all that man was Vic Feazell.
I had the Vic of the Old Testament, mad, mouthy, uncontrollable, wrong, right, but always the fight.
We spent hours talking in the bathroom, whispering, plotting, planning, wondering what the hell would happen next and not wanting “them” to hear our intense misery and fear, that we kept together. Just me and him in the bathroom, three year old Greg asleep as we tried to keep the “vibes” down which of course became impossible.
“Get down there, you’re Vic Feazell.”
At the waiting room there are no hard feelings, when you sit through life and death and you hate one another there is a demilitarized zone. A Gardol Shield. You don’t talk you just wait to hear if your son’s dead.
Scott and White is a level 5 Trauma Unit and saved Greg’s life. Brain surgery and a scar from the top of his head to his ear that reminded me of a question mark.
This was the New Testament Vic. He walks in all Zen and graceful now, no boots, no western cut suit. He’s in jeans and just sits silent with his hands together waiting patiently for word.
When he receives a phone call telling him that the police have given a report stating that Figure A hit Figure B, and considering Figure A was our son on foot, suddenly the bookmark fell out of the Bible and the Old Testament Vic shot up out of the chair.
Yep, I knew something would get screwed up and as much as I was emotional about him, I perked up when the familiar, “Oh, hell no” look came over his face. Greg lived, took years for him to recover, Vic was Greg’s lawyer so they rolled over and so it went.
There was me and Greg.
There was Vic and Greg.
He referred to me to Greg as “your mother”. I followed suit by calling him “your father.”
Years, misunderstandings, unanswered questions, names, hate, never speaking, full blown war, your son has been dead two days in a motel room in Mexico dead on heroin.
The day he was born I waited to cry, I still did such things back then when I was sweet, I waited till Vic got in there and we got to cry our eyes out happy together. I would think of that at times and hate him.
When I found out my aunt was my mother, I almost called him. What the hell?
I never understood. I am formidable yet diminished. Did no one ever really know me?
The wife in me got over it, the best friend in me never did. How would I ever trust anyone ever again in my entire life. I hated myself. If I was so smart why didn’t I see it coming. Stupid stupid stupid. Embarrassingly stupid. I hated me.
My son died and my reflex was his daddy, Vic.
Do we have questions and a few hard feelings to work out, oh, hell yes, but we are suddenly willing because our world has collapsed, our son still lies in a Mexican morgue.
I am mean, I am terrible at times, not a Christian probably, more Agnostic, I am wrong and many times I like being wrong, I like an open mind and evidence, hell, learned that from the Old Testament Vic.
So now we have memories and shared stories and of course Netflix, who the hell knew.
We have an election, we have WOMEN running for Supreme Court of Texas, I don’t have all the answers, my heart is a melting glacier in more ways than one right now and I am ready to join Vic Feazell and others to rid ourselves of these terrible politicians we have.
2020 Let’s kick ass.