She was a little small for a five year old, but she had enthusiasm to spare. Her bobbed hair bounced as she nodded emphatically to his procedural disclosure. She gripped as many tools as she could hold in her small hands, clutching them to her chest and dirtying her favorite red shirt. Truthfully, he had all the tools he needed in his shirt pocket, but he needed to occupy her hands. He didn't require a helper to wire the phone jack, but she followed behind him like a loyal puppy. She listened to every word and watched everything he did, then recalled it a dozen years later in order to rewire the phone jack in her bedroom after he disabled it as punishment. His hand trembles, fumbling for the edge of the sheet and tugging at it erratically. He has a reason for doing it, but she'd been unable to extract any meaning from the action for the last two hours. He has something to say. There's something he wants. Yes, he's hot, but just a little. Yes, he'd like some water, but hates the suctioning. Where is his wife? He was appeased momentarily when her voice filled the room via speakerphone and announced she'd be arriving in two hours. Not twenty minutes later, he was devastated to hear that she'd changed her mind and wasn't coming. She's tired, she said. Wasn't he tired too? He has something to say, but nobody understands. He wants something, but nobody can give it to him. She desperately wants to help... and can't.His hand has several dark, purple-brown bruises that snake their way up his thin arm. They've been there for weeks, but they're not fading. There's no yellowing. They're not healing. He's not healing. Gowned, gloved, and masked, I drag the chair to his bedside and settle in, a poor substitute for my mother. Sometimes, he holds my hand. Sometimes, he pats it. He alternates holding and patting, occasionally lifting my hand toward his chest and then pushing it away. Once, out of frustration, he slapped my hand hard, which he followed with a moment of gentle caressing. This is how we interact, for the most part. He moves the only limb he has control over and I silently cry while trying to accommodate him. He's dying. I'm dying too. We're all dying, every day that we live. His dying, however, is accelerated. God, I hate feeling so helpless. How selfish is that?
Can you imagine it? He's been confined to a hospital bed for eight months, to the day. In that time, he's lost three organs, had a heart attack and a stroke, and gone blind. The ventilator and tracheotomy have silenced his voice. Multiple infections are ravaging his body. His medical team convened a meeting with the Ethics Board and determined it was unethical to continue treating him. Still, my mother refuses to acknowledge the reality of his situation.
My father is being held prisoner and tortured by his own broken body.
I feel just as paralyzed and voiceless as he actually is.
Two o'clock, Dad. It's an hour drive back home. When you picked her up from school, you always arrived early so you'd be waiting in the best parking spot. It's time to go pick her up. We'll come back up when we pick The Voice up from work. We'll be back in three hours or so, Dad.
I lied to a dying old man.
To my dad.
In my defense, I don't know the area well and we honestly did get lost on the way back to the hospital. Still, we could have gone to visit him. We should have. Instead, we gave each other a dozen excuses. My brother has been a veritable saint these last eight months and here I am, corrupting him. I've steeled him against our mother, whom is most frequently referred to as "your mother" when I discuss her with him. (Sometimes, he shoots back, saying, "She was YOUR mother first." He's right. Epic win.) I've encouraged his independence by facilitating his acquisition of a driver's license. I've given him a home and helped him recognize his options. The worst I've done, though, is telling him that he doesn't have to be Superman. Dad's dying. It's okay, if you don't constantly maintain a bedside vigil. It's okay that you're not dying right alongside him. It's okay that we go home and laugh out loud at horribly inappropriate jokes. It takes what it takes to get us back in shape for the next visit. None of this means that we don't love him.
It wouldn't hurt like this, if we didn't.
Comments (5)
you tell your brother that some random xangan completely agrees with you. he does not have to be superman. and you, AE, make sure you take your own advice. you don't have to be superwoman. keep laughing at jokes that are inappropriate. keep doing normal life. you're right. you have to do what ever it takes to gear up for the next visit.
glad you're back! i've missed you!
(((hugs))) or whatever thee needs/wants. thank you for writing this. anything i could say seems meaningless.
It's been a long time. Nice to see you back.
No, it wouldn't hurt if you didn't love him. You do. That doesn't mean that your needs go away. It's dissonant, and it hurts, but it still doesn't make you a superman.
*hugs*