So today is Clive Barker's 70th birthday. It's weird because Stephen King just turned 75 last month, still alive despite struggles with addiction and having gotten brutally hit by a van. I've mentioned it elsewhere, but I'm of the firm belief that King is the best he's ever been now, and considering the beloved classics he gave us once upon a time, that's saying something huge.
But it's hard to think of Barker at 70. I imagine (Imajica?) he's more or less retired from writing, considering his ill-received The Scarlet Gospels. I liked it, but I understand why most everyone despised it. I met him a couple of times and enjoyed both experiences. I know he's had some struggles of late what with the toxic shock incident, but it's good to know that he's still around.
So when I was in high school my mom was in a coma. I know that sounds like an odd transition, but I promise it will make sense soon. She was in a drunk driving accident so severe that she lost a year and a half of her life in the hospital.
I only have a teenager's memories of this, so I might have the details wrong, but she had been partying at a bar and got a ride home from a guy who was also pretty drunk. They wound up crashing into the back of a UPS truck at full speed. I'm told the car looked like an accordion. The driver was OK. Mom was not because she had a lifelong habit of not wearing her seatbelt properly. You know the part that's supposed to go across your chest? She always put that behind her back because it irritated her, she always said.
So instead of protecting her, the seatbelt destroyed her guts to the point that she had to have her belly open for about a year. The doctors had to keep going in for surgeries, and sewing her up would defeat the purpose. She lost a lot of her insides because of this. The nature of her injuries was pretty singular, and the doctors who treated her wrote her case up in medical journals. All in all, it was a pretty grim situation.
I visited her every night with my family. We would spend hours at Loyola, usually in her room, but a lot of times the doctors had to get inside of her, so they asked us to wait elsewhere. The caf was kind of awful, but the waiting room was decent and comfortable enough.
I forget who gave it to me (I want to say my dad's friend, Garth, but I don't recall for sure), but I had a gift card for the local B. Dalton. Remember those? If you don't, they were a chain of bookstores. Not too long after the accident I went into that B. Dalton to cash in the card. They had a bunch of Clive Barker books, and I'd heard a great deal about him and had seen Hellraiser (and possibly Nightbreed, but I can't be certain), so I bought the first three Books of Blood. I would sit in the hospital room and the waiting room and even in the dreaded cafeteria reading those books.
So my earliest memories of Barker's fiction will always be entangled with my mom's coma. See? Toldja I'd wrap it up in a nice bow.
Happy 70th, Clive Barker! And many more!
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