Chapter 5

As a journalist, I have seen death and others that were close. I have witnessed the effects of trains crashing into cars, people attacked by animals and bodies surfacing after months of being in the water.

I don’t like it, of course, and never got used to seeing bad stuff. Luckily, most of those types of stories now go to younger people on the staff and I can avoid them.

So it’s not like I haven't seen some pretty bad things.

But nothing I had seen before prepared me for my father.

I expected him to be just sick. He was that, all right, and much more. My first glance at him convinced me this time the old man was not playing. He was sick, and in a bad way.

Dad has always been fairly healthy and active, except during his little sick spells. He walks almost every day and tries to eat right, aside from the nightly bag of microwave popcorn.

But the man lying in the bed before me is not the same person I saw and avoided at Christmas. Dad had lost at least 20 pounds that he really did not need to lose, leaving him all gaunt and boney. His eyes are sunken back into his skull and his skin looks like dried prunes that had been left out in the sun for too long.

His left arm is outside the sheet and appears to have no muscle or fat, just bone. Judging from the smell, Dad had not been able to make it to the restroom. It almost makes me gag.

He turns to look at me and it's like it takes all his energy. His mouth hangs open and it looks like his tongue is black, no longer pink or red. Dad slowly lifts his boney arm and waves me into the room, each long finger beckoning, followed by the next.

Mom is behind me, gently nudging me in the back.

“It’s okay,” she said.

I take slow, baby steps into the room, worried what I might see next. A chair from the dining room table sits next to the bed for my mother or other visitors to sit in and keep vigil.

The door closes behind me and I felt trapped.

“Hello, Michael,” he said, a wheezy voice that sounded like air was escaping from somewhere. The words are slow and appear to be difficult for him to say.

I make my way to the wooden chair. It has never been all that comfortable and I wished Mom had something else to sit on. That had to be pretty rough on her back. It's not like she has a flabby butt to cushion her back bone. As I sit down, the chair creaks and moans. A humidifier is at the foot of the bed, making a noise close to how Dad sounded with every breath.

“Hello, Dad,” I finally said. “How're you feeling?”

That was all I could say. It’s not like I could tell him he was looking good. That would be a lie. I also couldn’t tell him I missed him, since that would also be a lie. You didn’t lie to my father. He could cut through fibs like a hot knife through butter.

“You’re losing your hair,” he says, again barely managing to say the sentence. Of all the things he could say, naturally Dad mentioned the one thing bothering me the most. Yes, the old hairs had been leaving in quite a rush, clogging my drain in the shower every morning and showing more of my forehead every day. It was like telling a large person it looked like they were getting fatter.

“Yeah, I guess it’s that time,” I replied.

“You must get that from your mother’s side of the family. All my side kept its hair.”

Aside from his sister, Shirlene, I wanted to point out, but didn’t. I saw her without one of her wigs once and still have bad memories. She wears some of the most awful wigs imaginable and naturally wears them at all the family gatherings. I do not have this as documented fact, but Shirlene must buy the ones at closeout, the wigs so terrible nobody else wants to wear or buy.

She doesn’t think anybody knows they are wigs. But they are, bad wigs at that. Shirlene wears the same kinds of wigs everyday that most people would only put on at Halloween as a joke.

“I expected you earlier,” he added, then hacked out a bad cough. I could see the pain when he coughed. They continued for several seconds, so severe his body seemed to have mini-seizures.

He tried to grab a glass of water. It was a little out of his reach so I help him. He waits for the coughs to subside then takes a drink. I watch his Adam’s Apple go in and out as the water goes down his throat, making a gulping sound.

“Sorry,” Dad said, a word I seldom remember him telling me. “That comes and goes.”

“Are you okay now?” I asked.

He stared at me for a few seconds, the same way he always did when I said something stupid.

“Except that I’m dying.”

I nodded my head. Nobody could make me feel like a silly little kid the way he could. I always said and did the wrong thing around him. That’s one of the main reasons why I avoid him.

“So, what's wrong with you? Mom didn’t tell me.”

“I think the cancer got me,” he stated, speaking slow and seeming to think too long over every word. “Two weeks ago, I felt as fine as a fiddle. I hadn’t felt that good in years. One morning I woke up, felt bad and it just got worse. Now look at me. I look terrible.”

Yes, he did.

“Why aren’t you in the hospital?”

“You know I hate the hospital,” he spat back, causing a little color returned to his face. “I was too far gone and wasn’t going to take my last breath there. I plan to be right here when the time comes.”

He sounded like my father for a minute. But it took a lot out of him and I could tell he was tiring.
I sat in that uncomfortable wooden chair, looking out the window so I could avoid looking at him. His breathing slowed and wasn’t as loud. He had fallen asleep and for that I was grateful since it gave me the chance to leave.

I slowly got out of the chair and made my way to the door. As I turned the handle, I heard a voice from behind me.

“I’m glad you came,” the old man managed to say.

I turned around, fully expecting him to be talking in his sleep. But he was looking at me with those beady eyes, a look of sadness on his face I never saw before. He never showed emotion, other than anger at me, even during funerals of family and friends.

I felt some of the anger and hate that had been carried all these years leave, almost like it was dirt sucked up in a vacuum.

“Thank you.” I stopped and looked back at him until he turned away. A tear was slowly falling down his cheek and I watched until it reached the pillow.

I opened the door and walked down the hallway. As I turned the corner, I saw Mom talking to somebody. She nodded and they turned in my direction. After seeing the visitor, I had to grab the wall to steady myself.

“Hello, Michael,” she said, and my knees wobbled.


Chapter 6