The clinical white walls feel like they’re sapping every ounce of my courage as I rush down the hallway.
“His fingernails were blue. I should have known.” Sally wrings her hands as she keeps up beside me toward wherever we’re going in this maze of hell.
“How could you have known?” I ask but don’t really pay attention to what I’m saying because being here has transported me back to three years ago. Back to when the doctor told me my brother, Ford, had died. How after hearing those words, I felt like every ounce of blood had been drained from my body and all of the oxygen had been sucked from the room. The sadness that was nothing short of crippling. The emptiness inside that felt like it went on without end.
Snap out of it, Scout. This is Dad. Not Ford. And he’s going to hang on longer. He has to hang on longer than this.
“I found tissues with blood on them. He said it was because he cut himself but . . . I should have known he’d coughed it up.” A tear slides down her cheek and I know she cares about my dad. The next-door neighbor turned best friend turned to we-never-discussed-their-relationship. Deep down I know love is involved and at this point and time, I wonder why I never pressed to ask more.
The things you choose to think about when you don’t want to think about the now.
“You couldn’t have known, Sally. This isn’t your fault.”
STAT codes are called over the PA system and shoes squeak on the floor as nurses and doctors rush to save another person, another life.
And yet I know my dad’s can’t be saved.
“The fluid built up in his lungs. They call it a pulmonary—”
“Edema,” I finish for her. I’ve researched this disease every which way from Sunday since he was diagnosed and know the signs, the symptoms, the ladder of demise.
“The cardiologist changed up his blood pressure medication to help clear the fluid out. She said once it lessens, he’ll be able to head home.”
A wail of “No, please no,” floats out of a room across the hallway and every part of my body twists in despair. I know what that helplessness feels like.
“I shouldn’t have called you in such a state of panic. But the ambulance came and I was afraid that it was—”
“Don’t ever apologize for calling me, Sally.” I pull her into me and we cling to each other in the middle of the hallway, trying to find comfort in one another even when we know the man we both love is losing his fight.
Day by day.
Hour by hour.
Bit by bit.
And when we release each other, both with eyes filled with tears, I turn to find we’re where we need to be, room 412. Fear, hope, desperation, guilt—all four run a tyrannical rant inside me as I prepare myself to see him. To apologize in person for the angry words I said to him last week.
When I gather the courage, I enter the room with Sally’s hand on my shoulder in support, and my heart lodged in my throat. My dad’s lying in the bed, leads are attached all over his chest and he looks like he’s hooked up to an army of machines. His face is pale and eyes are closed. I notice how scraggly his hair looks—longer, unkempt—and I’m immediately brought back to when I was younger and he would wear his hair longer as was the style.
When he was healthy. Invincible.
Not wanting to disturb him, I walk forward and sit in the chair beside him as Sally steps out and gives me some privacy. I lay my hand over his, study the still slightly blue nail beds, and revel in the fact his skin is still warm, not cold like the last time I held Ford’s hand. I stare at him then, memorize the new lines etched in his face and wonder if this is how it will end for him. In a hospital with unfamiliar surroundings. Or will it be at home in his sleep overlooking the field he loves full of the memories we made together?
The tears come at the thought. Of the sadness wrapped in bittersweet.
His hand moves beneath mine, and I whip my eyes up to meet his weary ones.
“Hi.”
He nods his head ever so slightly and closes his eyes for a very slow blink before opening them and looking back at me. “No crying,” he demands in a quiet rasp.
Unbelievable. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“You’re going to have to leave if you cry.”
I chuckle, astounded when I shouldn’t be. He’ll never change, even when he’s like this. “You’re in no state to tell me what to do so you need to just lie there and rest, while I sit here and worry. Or cry. That’s how it’s going to be, Dad, whether you like it or not. Got it?”
He stares at me for a moment, eyes hardened steel, but he doesn’t have enough strength to keep them that way for long. They begin to soften as the disease saps his strength and causes him to relent.
He nods softly and closes his eyes. “Thank you for coming, Scouty-girl.”
And with those words, I know we’re okay. He’s forgiven me for the things I said to him.
I squeeze his hand gently. “I’ll always be here, Dad. Get some rest.”