When I graduated from college, you were not there. A week later your heart stopped working.
Your kidneys stopped working. Your liver stopped working. Your bowels stopped working. You became permanently paralyzed. For months you’ve slowly teased us with death. Today, the medical team called us in for a family meeting.
I sit quietly while your wife talks about what a good man you are. Your wife, who has never had the decency to so much as ask for my phone number. Your wife sits in the meeting today with her back to me. I sit quietly while the doctor refers to her as my mother. She does not once make eye contact with me.
I sit quietly while everyone discusses your dogs- your “pride and joy.” I sit quietly and look away and do not show this hurts me. I sit quietly and pretend the medical team did not, up until I emailed them, think you had only two children.
I think that maybe it’s my fault. My sister is here at your bedside nearly every day. You have consumed her. My brother calls frequently. He dropped everything and flew in at the beginning.
I have come only a handful of times. I’ve only stayed briefly. I’ve spoken to you once since you’ve been awake.
I cannot expect them to understand why I don’t come. I can't explain how every time I enter the Cardiovascular Intensive Care Unit I feel like I’m having a part of myself taken away. I’m forced to lie about who I am and I’m forced to lie about who you are. I lose part of myself. My story is erased. I must bite my tongue. I must play a role.
And I'm good at that. You groomed me for it.
It’s not appropriate, my sister says, to correct them, when the medical team refers to your wife as my mother.
It would not be appropriate for me to correct the doctor when she says “your poor father,” and say something like, “I think he deserves this.”
I let them say these things. I don’t say, “My father was abusive, he terrorized my family for years.” I stare at the ground. I shrink into myself.
I don’t say, “My father hadn’t spoken to me in almost three years.”
You are such a good and selfless man, your wife says. You never did anything to deserve what has happened to you.
If someone really believes something is true, in a way, does that make it true?
I continue to bite my tongue. I try to be a better person. I try to find a way to make peace on your deathbed. I visited you after you woke up. Your room was covered with photos of my brother and sister, and, of course, your dogs. There were photos of me, but only as an infant. There were many photos of my sister’s college graduation.
I told you I graduated from college very recently. You were surprised. You asked what my degree was in.
I thought you were dying. I hugged you and kissed your forehead in what I thought was an act of kindness and mercy for a broken, dying man.
Today the medical team tells us they are cautiously optimistic. They think you are doing well. They are telling us you are not dying. I imagine smothering you with a pillow instead.
I drive home and break. I cry in the car. I sit on a brick wall in the park on the phone with my mom. My actual mother. I tell her about all the petty ways your wife has slighted me today. I tell her about how the medical team knows more about your dogs than your children. She tells me I need to let these things go.
I find myself doubled over sobbing. I thought you would die. I thought I could be free.
The last time I went to see you, I studied the room. This is the room you will die in, I thought. I left and I bought a plant at the grocery store. It sat on my kitchen table while I wavered. I expected you to slip away soon. I thought I could give you a piece of outside life for the room you die in.
They say kindness costs nothing. I’ve seen it on bumper stickers and billboards and coffee mugs. I am starting to believe, however, this is not always true.
The plant is still in my house. I’ve already given you so much. I don’t think I can give anything else to you.
Your kidneys stopped working. Your liver stopped working. Your bowels stopped working. You became permanently paralyzed. For months you’ve slowly teased us with death. Today, the medical team called us in for a family meeting.
I sit quietly while your wife talks about what a good man you are. Your wife, who has never had the decency to so much as ask for my phone number. Your wife sits in the meeting today with her back to me. I sit quietly while the doctor refers to her as my mother. She does not once make eye contact with me.
I sit quietly while everyone discusses your dogs- your “pride and joy.” I sit quietly and look away and do not show this hurts me. I sit quietly and pretend the medical team did not, up until I emailed them, think you had only two children.
I think that maybe it’s my fault. My sister is here at your bedside nearly every day. You have consumed her. My brother calls frequently. He dropped everything and flew in at the beginning.
I have come only a handful of times. I’ve only stayed briefly. I’ve spoken to you once since you’ve been awake.
I cannot expect them to understand why I don’t come. I can't explain how every time I enter the Cardiovascular Intensive Care Unit I feel like I’m having a part of myself taken away. I’m forced to lie about who I am and I’m forced to lie about who you are. I lose part of myself. My story is erased. I must bite my tongue. I must play a role.
And I'm good at that. You groomed me for it.
It’s not appropriate, my sister says, to correct them, when the medical team refers to your wife as my mother.
It would not be appropriate for me to correct the doctor when she says “your poor father,” and say something like, “I think he deserves this.”
I let them say these things. I don’t say, “My father was abusive, he terrorized my family for years.” I stare at the ground. I shrink into myself.
I don’t say, “My father hadn’t spoken to me in almost three years.”
You are such a good and selfless man, your wife says. You never did anything to deserve what has happened to you.
If someone really believes something is true, in a way, does that make it true?
I continue to bite my tongue. I try to be a better person. I try to find a way to make peace on your deathbed. I visited you after you woke up. Your room was covered with photos of my brother and sister, and, of course, your dogs. There were photos of me, but only as an infant. There were many photos of my sister’s college graduation.
I told you I graduated from college very recently. You were surprised. You asked what my degree was in.
I thought you were dying. I hugged you and kissed your forehead in what I thought was an act of kindness and mercy for a broken, dying man.
Today the medical team tells us they are cautiously optimistic. They think you are doing well. They are telling us you are not dying. I imagine smothering you with a pillow instead.
I drive home and break. I cry in the car. I sit on a brick wall in the park on the phone with my mom. My actual mother. I tell her about all the petty ways your wife has slighted me today. I tell her about how the medical team knows more about your dogs than your children. She tells me I need to let these things go.
I find myself doubled over sobbing. I thought you would die. I thought I could be free.
The last time I went to see you, I studied the room. This is the room you will die in, I thought. I left and I bought a plant at the grocery store. It sat on my kitchen table while I wavered. I expected you to slip away soon. I thought I could give you a piece of outside life for the room you die in.
They say kindness costs nothing. I’ve seen it on bumper stickers and billboards and coffee mugs. I am starting to believe, however, this is not always true.
The plant is still in my house. I’ve already given you so much. I don’t think I can give anything else to you.