Luca
When my mom was sick,she spent an immense amount of time at doctor’s offices or hospitals. Between chemo, radiation, and CT scans, it seemed she was there more than she was at home. I was so little when it all happened, I didn’t fully comprehend what was going on at the time.
Dad was the one who drove her to her appointments most of the time, especially near the end, when she wasn’t driving anymore. I tagged along with him plenty of times, simply because they didn’t have a sitter and it was easier that way.
I vividly remember the bitter cold feeling of the hospital. It wasn’t even that it was necessarily chilly, it was that death was creeping around the corner, waiting to take its next victim. You could feel the morbid end in the air, and that, along with the antiseptic smell, is something you never forget, no matter how much time has passed.
I watched her take her last breath when I was five years old, and I pray to whatever God is out there, that I’m not about to watch my dad die, too.
Every memory from her death is on replay inside my mind on the drive to the hospital. Branson is driving, and I feel like I’m on autopilot. We haven’t spoken a word since we got in the car, and I think he knows I need the silence. His hand is resting on my thigh, as if to let me know he’s here, and I appreciate him so much for it.
He’s freaking out too. I saw it in his eyes before the ambulance left, but he’s keeping it together. He understands grief and the loss of a parent as deeply as I do, and I know how much he loves my dad, and how he views him as just as much of a parent as he did his biological father.
We get to the hospital and find Sarah, who’s as white as a ghost, with mascara running down her face, looking existentially lost. She hugs us both at the same time, quietly whimpering against our shoulders. We stay like this, the three of us embraced tightly, in the middle of the hospital waiting room, for several minutes. We all need the connection, the strength, that we give to one another.
Moments like this really remind you how short life is and how it can all change in the blink of an eye. People die every single day from heart attacks. People recover every day from them, as well. We can’t possibly know which way our story will lead us.
We finally pull apart, Sarah wiping her eyes with the tissue in her hand. “They took him right into surgery as soon as we got here,” she tells us, in as strong of a voice as she can manage. “We won’t know anything for a bit.”
“How was he on the ride here?” I’m nervous to ask but have to know.
“He was very out of it. The paramedics think we caught it in good time, but we can’t know for sure yet.”
My throat feels clogged with layers of emotion and the back of my eyes sting with the unshed tears I don’t want to let fall. It’s natural for a child to cry during a time like this, but a large part of me feels like I need to be strong for Sarah.
So, I won’t cry.
Not yet, at least.
We sit in the waiting room for several hours, and it’s hard to stay still. The doctor comes out after what feels like an eternity, telling us that dad crashed several times on the table and he’s in critical condition. They gave him a cocktail of drugs to keep him knocked out, so his body and his brain can rest and heal. The news has Sarah breaking down again, and Branson and I wrap our arms around her as her legs give out beneath her.
Visiting hours are over, and because only Sarah can stay the night, Branson and I decide to get a room at the hotel that’s down the block from the hospital. We’re about an hour away from home, and we’d prefer to be close in case anything happens. I hate not being able to see my dad or know if he’s going to be okay.
It’s a little after ten by the time we get into our room. We’re both exhausted, but there is no way either of us will be able to sleep yet. We stopped and got some beer on the way here, so we each pop open a bottle and sit on the bed, side by side, with our backs to the headboard.
Branson takes a long pull from his beer and looks over at me. “You doing okay?”
“Honestly, not really,” I reply while avoiding his gaze. I feel like I’ll burst into tears if I look at him right now. “What about you?”
“I’m okay. I’m sure everything will be okay.”
“You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“Do what?” He gives me the most perturbed look, and if I wasn’t so damn exhausted and worried, I’d probably laugh.
“Pretend you’re okay when you’re not. I know you’re trying to be strong for me and for your mom, but you don’t have to be. You have as much right to break down as either of us. Plus, it’s just you and me here. You don’t need to be strong and brave and unbreakable with me.”
I’ve never seen Branson cry. Ever. I remember when we were teenagers—middle school age—we were dirt biking through Frog Mountain Trail, and he accidentally rode over a huge branch on the path and flew off the bike. He tore up his legs badly and sprained his wrist, but he didn’t even shed a single tear.
It takes me aback to see the tears pooling in his eyes now. He faces forward, as if not wanting me to see him like this. Reaching over and grabbing his chin between my thumb and index finger, I bring his gaze back to mine. “Don’t. Please don’t hide from me, not ever. We are in this together. You aren’t weak for showing emotion, especially not to me. Don’t hide from me.”
A tear falls down his left cheek, and he brings his bottom lip between his teeth. I’ve never seen him more vulnerable, and it’s beautifully heartbreaking.
He’s quiet for a while.
“Have I ever told you what happened with my dad?” His question startles me.
“N-no, you haven’t, but I would like to know. If you’re ready to tell me, that is.”
Call it intuition, but I know that his story cuts him as deep as my own. This is hard for him to think about, to talk about. I can tell by the subtle shake of his hands and his shallow breathing.
“I want to preface this by saying that my dad was a great dad for many years. I don’t even know why I feel the need to say that, but it feels important that I do.”
“Okay…” I’m honestly a little nervous about what he’s going to say.
“What do you know?”
“Not a whole lot, really. I know that he died of a drug overdose when you were little, but that’s about it. I was still so young when you guys moved in, so Dad didn’t tell me any more than absolutely necessary.”
“Okay. Yeah…” He sighs, taking a few long gulps from his beer before continuing. “He was an addict, but he wasn’t always. He got laid off when I was eight from a big factory up in Whatcom County. I can’t even remember the name anymore, and it shut down shortly after that. Thousands of people were part of the lay-off, including several of my dad’s friends.”
He finishes his beer, getting up to get another. “Want another?”
“Sure, thanks.” I quickly finish mine while he goes to the fridge.
“You know how my mom went to school to be a nurse?” he asks while opening both bottles.
“Mmhmm.”
“She worked her ass off to get it done when I was a baby. She only ever worked part time, so she could be home with me as much as possible. Plus, Dad made enough money to where she didn’t need to work as much.”
Another heavy sigh, another big swig.
“Anyway, when he was laid off, she obviously had to pick up the slack. The bills still needed paying after all, and part time wages weren’t going to cut it. She was working long hours, five days a week. She wouldn’t come home until like six or seven every night, and most days she would be gone by the time I woke up.