"How did he manage?" I knew all about pain and keeping it under control. You had to stay ahead of it. Once it first started burning hot, you were fucked.
"Drinking and basically not being functional for days on end until we could get the new medication." She’s avoiding my eyes now, sorting through miscellaneous papers on the counter.
"Jesus, Beth."
"It sounds worse than it is."
"No, it sounds pretty rough on all counts. How long have you been taking care of your dad like this?"
"I think my mom left when I was sixteen so...A while, I guess."
I realize in that moment that I am staring at a woman who has had to grow up a hell of a lot faster than I ever had to.
And I am awed by her.
Chapter 27
Beth
I'm far too used to the hospital. They let me into the back when I return with Dad's things. Noah waits outside. It's easy to see he's got issues with hospitals. I'm not surprised given his history. I'd like to ask him about it, but how do you even start that conversation? “Hey I noticed you were freaking out back in the ER. Want to talk about it over coffee?”
Those conversations don't generally go well. Like hardly ever.
I'm alone in Dad's room. One of the nurses stops in. "He's getting an MRI."
"What's the plan?" I ask. I hate that I cringe at the thought of how much an MRI is going to cost us. It’s worth it. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, it will be true.
"Let me get the doc to talk to you."
I hate that non-response, but I understand that they've got their scripts they need to stick to.
I'm alone for only a few minutes - a miracle if I do say so myself - before the doctor walks in. He's young and dark-skinned with sharp features and kind eyes.
"I'm Doctor Zahid." His hand is soft and strong all at once.
He flips through my dad's chart, pausing to read whatever it is he was looking for. “You’ve got things pretty well lined up. Your dad gave you a medical power of attorney?”
I press my lips into a humorless smile. “That was fun trying to find a lawyer to actually prepare it. Something about a teenager making medical decisions for a grown man made a lot of them uncomfortable.”
“So you’ve been doing this for a while then?” he asks. I don’t answer and he doesn’t force me to. He seems like he’s got a good read on the situation. "Your dad has had a pretty rough go of it lately, hasn't he."
I smother the urge to say something smart. Alienating the doc isn't a good way to get stuff done. "That's one way of putting it," I say.
"There are a couple of things going on with him."
I brace for the list because it will be a list. A "couple" is never just two issues when you're dealing with chronic pain and everything that goes along with it.
"Well for starters, there's the back pain. Why hasn't this been treated surgically?"
I offer a tolerant grimace. It's supposed to be a smile, but I'm too worn down for that tonight. "It's a long story that involves the VA and about three years' worth of canceled appointments and surgery being classified as elective as opposed to medically necessary."
Dr. Zahid blows out a hard breath. "I've heard stories like that. I'm sorry. Your father's problems don't need to be this bad. The surgery is two-day inpatient at worst." He looks down at his chart. "Have you talked to any of our caseworkers here? There are programs designed to help fund cases like your father's."
I shake my head. My hands are sweating. "I did when we first got here, but they said that because he was a disabled vet, he had to go through the VA. They couldn't help him. Then the VA told me he was lower priority because he wasn’t 100-percent disabled. And the runaround began."
"I think we can do something about that," Dr. Zahid says. "I want you to call this number and set up an appointment. Give them my name and tell them I referred you. I think they can help."
I tuck the card into my pocket. It's not the first time I've been promised help, and just like every other time, I'll follow the lead, just to make sure it's actually bullshit. Because maybe, just maybe, one of these times it won't be.
"The second thing going on is that I want your father admitted. For several reasons. First, we need to make sure whatever caused the seizure isn't a physical condition."
"That tells me you already think it isn't."
"I think it's a drug interaction. Tramadol and Flexeril are a commonly prescribed combination, but we're starting to realize that it's more dangerous than previously thought. Plus, switching him from Oxycodone to Tramadol was a risky transition to make without medical supervision. If we're going to transition him to Tramadol, then we need to make sure he comes off the Oxycodone in a controlled manner. Third, his pain is being poorly managed."
"Try not at all," I mumble.
"And we can do better," he continues, ignoring my interruption. "I want to schedule him for surgery here. In this hospital."
I look up sharply. "We can't afford that."
"You can't afford to keep using the emergency room as primary care, either."
I'm having a hard time breathing. "So that's the plan?" My lungs are tight, thinking of the medical bills. But he's right. We can't afford to keep using the ER as primary care.
"It will get him in the system and get him fixed. And his problem is fixable, Ms. Lamont. The lack of access to care is exacerbating it."
His words burn, and I want to scream at him that he's telling me things I already know. But he's trying to help. He's either offered me a lifeline or another road leading to false hope and a dead end, but it's better than standing still.
"How long will he be an inpatient?"
"A week. Maybe more while we transition him off the opiates."
"So he's really an addict."
"I think you already know the answer to that." He makes a note on my father's chart. "Your father will always be an addict. There is no cure for this. But he's got one thing that many other addicts don't have. He's got a supportive home environment."
"You don't know that. I could be stealing his pills and selling them to my classmates for drinking money."
He is clearly not amused. He stares at me for a moment and I brace for a stern talking to but he does not justify my sarcasm with a response. It's probably just as well. "He's going to have a long recovery, even after the surgery."
"You say that like this surgery is a foregone conclusion. I don't have that much faith left in the medical system left."
He grips my shoulder then. The human connection is unexpected in the sterility of this environment. "I understand your frustration. But we've got resources to help. When your father leaves the hospital in a week or two, or however long it takes, he will have a list of appointments and his surgery will be scheduled."
It sounds too good to be true, but I'm too tired to fight, to explain that I've heard this all before. We've gotten so close to surgery that we'd went through pre-op at the VA, only to have the surgery canceled the same day. No explanation. Just we'll try to reschedule you as soon as possible.
"Thanks, doc."
When I’m alone, I sit there trying to absorb everything he's told me. Trying to find hope in the fact that someone, at least, believes that my dad can be fixed. That it doesn’t have to be this way.
I'm not convinced. Maybe I've run out of hope. Maybe I'm just overtired.
But right now, waiting for my dad to come back to his room, there's a plan. Which is more than there was this morning.
It's all I've got. It's got to be enough.
Noah
She steps out of the hospital and my world tilts beneath my feet. Seeing her penetrates the fog in my brain like a green laser pointer aiming at the stars at night. It's like she's been discharged from the bowels of hell, a place I cannot follow her. I hate that I'm too fucking weak to stay with her while she's in there.
"So what's the verdict?"
"They're admitting him. And I have to call this woman because the doc swear
s there are programs to help people like my dad."
She looks defeated. "That sounds like it should be good news?" I ask cautiously.
"I've heard it all before. They'll figure out that he's not eligible for one bureaucratic reason or another."
I wrap my arm around her as we walk toward the garage where my car is parked. I don't know what to say. How do you tell someone at the bottom of the well that things will get better?
She's silent on the ride to my place and I leave her to it. Mostly because I don't know what to say. She's been through a hell of a day. Her pain is echoing off mine, stirring up memories that I’d rather forget, or at least bury beneath the pills. I’m dancing on the knife’s edge and it’s taking everything I’ve got to keep my shit together.
I carry her backpack into the house. "Go take a shower. I'll get dinner going."
She offers me a tired smile. "I'm not really that hungry. Don't cook on my account."
"You act like I'm getting ready to start a four-course meal. I was mostly thinking of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup." I brush my lips against hers. "Just relax for a little while.”
"I don't even know what that means." She's swaying on her feet as she shuffles toward the bedroom.
The fatigue weighing on her is practically a physical thing. She's been dealing with so much for so long by herself that I'm not sure she even realizes the ways that it's rewired her normal. She was completely functional today in a situation that would send most people into a tailspin. Civilians don't have traumatic experiences every day. They damn sure don't find their fathers face down in a pool of blood.
But she did, and she didn't fall apart. She functioned until the ambulance got there. And she is functioning still.
But the crash is coming. It always comes after the adrenaline burns off. LT taught me that the crash was inevitable, and that you needed to plan accordingly. Which is why I sent her to take a knee.
I don't hear the water running. I slide the grilled cheese off the burner and pad down the hall.
Beth is asleep. Curled on her side, her phone dangling dangerously from her fingertips. Her lips are parted, her face relaxed. The stress of the day is gone, at least until she wakes up.
I take her phone and cover her with a sheet. She can eat when she wakes up, which with any luck will be in the morning. A good eight hours of sleep will do wonders for her.
I dig through the front pouch of her backpack and pull out her phone charger and plug it in next to mine on the kitchen counter.
The silence of my kitchen is oppressive. I have homework but I can't shake the sick feeling in my guts. I've been so worried about her crash I forgot about my own.
The panic is back, twisting like bad food in my stomach. I lower my head to the kitchen table and just breathe in and out. Wishing that I didn’t know how this ends.
It ends with a sleeping pill. It ends with me sinking into oblivion while Beth is here. I won’t hear her if she gets up. I won’t hear her if she needs me.
I will hear nothing in Princess Ambien's warm embrace, and that's exactly how she likes things. I am her slave, and there is nothing that I can do about it if I expect to keep functioning.
I step outside into the cool darkness. There's a single patio chair on the front porch, left over from the previous owners. I put my feet up on the rail and rest my head against the side of the house. The stars are brilliant points of light in the night sky.
The burning starts deep in my chest. The tightness squeezes the air from my lungs. My vision blurs and the stars are no longer bright but fuzzy. The war is circling close to the surface tonight.
"Ah fuck, LT, why can't I just let the war go?" I wish he was here to talk to. I could use some advice. I scrub my hands over my face. "I mean, I came home. I'm relatively okay. Why can't I just accept that?"
I stare up at the night sky. It's quiet. I don't actually expect a response from wherever LT is now.
"I don't know what to do." I double over, fighting the grief that threatens to break me every time I stand at the edge of this abyss.
"I wish you were here to tell me what to do. How do I unfuck this? If I stop taking the pills, I can't function. If I don't..."
I know the rational answer. Take the damn pills and stay functioning. I can't fall apart on Beth right now. Not when she's dealing with all of this shit with her father.
"I know how this story ends. We both saw it so many times."
I can't sit here alone in the dark. I go inside, grab my phone and send Josh a text. Can you meet? Having a hell of a time tonight.
Say where.
I leave a note for Beth in case she wakes up, but I can't stay here alone right now. I'm dancing as fast as I can on the edge of a pin, and tonight, that pin is about to stab me in the ass.
Chapter 28
Beth
It takes me a minute to figure out where I am when I wake up. Warm smells remind me that I fell asleep in Noah’s bed. I reach out, only to find that I am alone.
There is a light on in the hallway, casting shadows in the dark. The house is quiet. I'm not used to this kind of quiet. There's always traffic around my house. The silence is actually a little unnerving because it accentuates the silence of being completely alone.
A note near my cell phone confirms my worries.
Went out with Josh. Needed to clear my head.
Part of me is disappointed that he isn’t here, but I get why he left. Hell, I basically crashed on him for - I look at my phone - six hours. It's three am. Lovely. There's a tiny seed of worry, but Noah's a big boy. He's been to war. I'm sure he can handle going out in our tiny college town.
My stomach rumbles. He’s got bread and a toaster. It’ll hold me over. I’m not particularly fond of the idea of tearing apart his kitchen looking for something to eat. I need something other than butter, though. Hopefully, he's got some peanut butter stashed somewhere.
I open the cabinets and stop short.
Standing in a neat row like little soldiers are bottles of pills. My heart stops in my chest. I can hear nothing but the pounding of blood in my ears. It's none of my business. I'm not snooping. I just stumbled across them because he keeps them with the...peanut butter, right below them.
But what if is an insidious whisper on my shoulder.
My hand trembles as I reach for the first one. Oxycodone. Tramadol. Flexeril. Klonopin. Wellbutrin. Behind them, Vicodin. Percocet. A big bottle of Tylenol Three. Some with his name on the bottles. Some not.
Okay, so he's got medication.
I bite back tears because this isn't a few pain pills. Maybe on their own, each one isn’t too bad, but combined, these are heavy duty. I wish I was some vapid idiot who could ignore them and not have a clue about what it means that they're here. But I know. I fucking know what these drugs do to a person.
He's been lying to me the entire time I've known him. My hand is cold over my mouth. I’m biting back a sob. My cheeks are wet and my heart, my heart is breaking in my chest. I am so goddamned tired of crying over the men in my life.
I can't stay here. I can't do this. Not tonight, after I've almost lost my dad. I can't deal with the knowledge that Noah is...I can't even think it.
I pick up my phone and call Abby.
"Hey, what's wrong?" She's clearly not asleep. Which makes me curious about why she's awake at this hour, but now isn't really the time. I'm on the edge of falling completely apart for the second time in the span of a day.
"Can you come get me? I need to get home." Abby is like me. She has a car but she doesn’t drive when the bus is easier.
"Where are you?"
I love Abby just a little bit more right then. I tell her the address.
"I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Thank you."
"Do you want to tell me what's going on while I drive or when I get there?"
I cover my mouth to keep the sob restrained. "I think I better wait." My voice breaks.
But my heart is already broken.
Because I am an idiot and let myself fall in love with an addict.
Again.
Noah
I didn't mean to start drinking, but the next thing I know, Josh and I have a bottle of Jack on the table between us and we're going shot for shot.
"This isn't going to end well," I say. I think I'm slurring already.
"Never does."
Josh is bigger than me. Well over six feet. He's got the tolerance of a bull moose.
He raises his glass. "Halfway down the trail to Hell..."
I raise mine in response. I know this song so well. I might have ended my career at Bragg, but I damn sure started out in the First Cavalry Division at Hood. "In a shady meadow green..."
We finish the first chorus together. "Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped, Near a good old-time canteen. And this eternal resting place is known as Fiddlers' Green."
I toss back my drink, blinking hard because goddamned everything hurts tonight.
I lean forward, covering my mouth with my hand, trying to get everything locked away. The booze is hitting me hard because I doubled up on the Klonopin before I left the house.
"You ever wonder why we went?" I look over at Josh, who's busy pouring us both another shot.
"Drink. If we're drinking, bottoms ups, brother."
"How are we getting home?"
"Cab, how else? We can crash at my place later."
There's a reason I need to get home to my place, but it dances at the edge of my brain. Teasing me. I frown, staring into the glass, but I can't remember. Fuck, it'll come to me. It feels important, but the harder I chase the thought, the further away it gets.
Damn it.
"And yeah. It surprises me sometimes," Josh says.
"Huh?"
Before I Fall Page 17
