12 Daddy
Bzzz.
Click.
…
Beep, beep, beep.
…
Pshh.
…
Shhushh.
…
Beep, beep, beep.
The room has one bed and 6 chairs. All are occupied. I am tucked into a corner by the window. It’s not well insulated over here, at least 10 degrees cooler than where by dad lays.
My fingers are laced together and I keep searching the faces of my family for answers.
Beep, beep, beep.
It’s not an alarm, maybe an alert of some kind. My younger brother starts to pace over by the sliding glass door, he glances out, trying to see if someone is coming. The moments he stops pacing and restlessly pulls on the door is the same moment a nurse magically appears and charges into the room intently. She is carrying an armful of medical supplies: gauze, tubing, small plastic bits that look like miniature parts of plumbing. She approaches my father in the bed, looks him over and checks the monitor. No expression at all passes over her face. Before the machine can beep again she hits a flashing button. With sure, practiced movement she starts replacing a hanging bag that looks empty with a full one.
It’s been a day and a half since my older brother called. Hes lives in Virginia and I live in Indiana. We are both shocked to find ourselves in the ICU of a hospital in Brunswick, Maine. I tell that mom had called the prior Sunday to report that Dad had been doing so good he was out driving by himself.
When he opens his eyes and can focus them, his grand children cry in relief. They’ve been pumping his hand for hours in the hope of some reaction. His first word is, “Hey,” and we can all tell that he has no idea where he is or why all his sons are in the room.
It takes me an extra day to say more than, “Hey Dad, you need anything?” I had debated whether I even wanted to come. What decided me was that I didn’t want to see him next in a coffin. I wanted to say goodbye while there was still a semblance of life in his body. I’d been hating him full-on for so long I wasn’t sure what else to do.
When we finally do speak I clear the room and take his hand. It’s been 40 years since we held hands like this. He holds my hand so tightly I am both comforted by his strength and terrified that I won’t be able to pull away. I tell him everything about my current situation. He doesn’t know. My mom never told him. In the end, I am in tears and I’m not sure he understands what I’ve said.
“I’m sorry Joel.” He says, and then he says is again like it’s a totally different sentence with new meanings and bigger implications. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. “I’m sorry Joel.” And I can breath again in his presence. I pull my hand out of his grasp and motion the nurse and my brother back into the room. I can’t stop crying, but no one sees me as I turn away and walk out of the room. If this is the end, somehow I think I can handle that.