Going for the Record

by Julie A. Swanson

  I feel graceful. Almost lazy, as if to be getting these results I should be working harder, faster, more furiously. I know all these big-time coaches are watching, and that I’m on the same field with five or six girls who should leave my jaw hanging, but I feel like I’m all alone.

  Ten minutes left in the half and the horn blows for a substitution. Blue team. A girl runs toward me. Me? Our bench coach nods and waves me in, pats me on the back. “Great job. Go get a drink.”

  I’m standing at the water cooler filling up a cup, privately reveling in the most awesome game of my life, when someone comes into my line of vision and gives me a thumbs-up.

  Oh, my God! No way. Is that him? You bet your sweet bippy it is! It’s Austin Gillingham, the North Carolina coach, and he’s smiling at me. Cold water splashes over my hand as my cup overflows.

  I’ve run so fast I’m all out of breath. “Mom, hi, it’s Leah. Let me talk to Dad!”

  “Leah, Dad’s in bad shape. He’s taken a turn for the worse.” I swallow. “What happened?”

  “We’re not sure. He hasn’t gotten out of bed all day. He’s totally incoherent.”

  “You mean completely out of it?”

  “Most of the time, yes. If he isn’t sleeping, he’s staring off into space or hallucinating. I caught him talking to the rocking chair today like it was Paul. I can’t get him to eat or drink. I can’t carry on a conversation with him.”

  “Does he ever snap out of it?”

  “Sometimes he’ll make sense for a minute or two, but then he loses it again mid-sentence.”

  “He’s that different from the last time we talked?”

  “Night and day. This morning he woke up scared and disoriented. He didn’t know where he was. He couldn’t see clearly, said his legs hurt. Heather came, and he was able to answer a few of her questions. Turns out he hasn’t urinated in days. I feel so bad—I had no idea. He’s been changing himself. I don’t ask if he’s gone or how many Depends he’s wet. I checked the pack I bought him on Friday and he’d only used one of them. One, in four days!” Mom’s voice cracks, “He never told me.”

  “Mom. It’s not your fault.”

  It’s quiet, then Mom sniffles herself together.

  “Honey, we had to move him into the hospital bed. You should see how he thrashes about when he’s hallucinating. And how he—oh Leah—I think you’d better come home.”

  CHAPTER 18

  On the way home from the airport Paul tries to prepare me. “Don’t be shocked if he doesn’t recognize you. And don’t be offended if he waves you away. Heather says it’s withdrawal, part of the dying process.”

  “We don’t know he’s dying, Paul.”

  “Okay, Leah,” Paul says condescendingly.

  Then he changes the subject. “So how was it going in Colorado Springs?”

  “Great. I was playing my best ever. I would have made that team, Paul.”

  “Maybe they saw all they needed to see.”

  I wish.

  Mom leads us into the sunroom and I’m really scared I’m going to break down and be a mess in front of Dad. The room is crammed with stuff: a table on wheels, a TV and VCR, the walker and wheelchair, pillows, books, magazines, empty glasses. Gram, Mary, and Hugh are playing Scrabble at the foot of Dad’s bed. It’s like everyone is on sedatives—they’re all whispery and sleepy-eyed.

  Dad’s eyes are half open and his lips are moving, but I think he’s sleeping. He’s very thin. Even with the sheets covering him, I can see this. The dark, sunken hollows around his eyes. How small his neck is. The pronounced jaw and nose and cheekbones.

  He startles and his eyes dart around. Without his glasses he looks so strange, nothing like my old Pops.

  “You should put his glasses back on him, Mom.”

  “No,” she says, “he falls asleep and rolls over on them.”

  His eyes. They’re big, scared eyes, rolling around in their sockets. The skin has shrunken away from them, exposing so much more of the white than before.

  I go over to the bed and hold Dad’s hand. He smiles and says something in an airy voice I can barely hear, but then he says clearly, “How you doing, Weez?”

  “Good, but I wish I’d gotten in on this game of Scrabble,” I say clumsily.

  “Don’t worry, Weez, I’ll deal you in on the next hand.” Dad winks like he’s up to something. It’s good to see that familiar glint.

  He names the people around the table in his mind, talking out the corner of his mouth as if they might hear him if he talks too loud. “See the guy with the brown curly hair? That’s Dave Parker.” Dad looks up at me. “Remember him?”

  I have no idea who Dave Parker is.

  Paul pulls me aside. “It’s best not to play along with him. Heather says we should try to steer him back to reality. Say something like, ‘We’re not playing cards, Dad; we’re playing Scrabble.’ It humiliates him if he snaps out of it and realizes you’ve been talking to him like he’s an idiot.”

  I look over at Dad, and he’s still talking as if I were standing there. Even though he’s so out of it, he looks peaceful. And he doesn’t seem to be in any pain.

  I’m standing over Dad during his first lucid moment since I’ve been home. He squeezes my hand and says, “Stand tall for your mother, okay, kiddo?” He winks at me.

  Stand tall for Mom? I need somebody to stand tall for me.

  I nod, my nose prickling. I’ll try.

  He gets upset and starts to cry, too. I put my head down next to his on the pillow so we can both hide our faces. “You’re so brave,” I whisper to him.

  “Me? No, you’re the brave one.”

  “No, I’m not,” I squeak.

  “Yes, you are. You’re tough. And feisty. That’s why they call you Weasel…. Weez? I want you to do me a favor …”

  I nod. Anything.

  “Promise me you—” He catches his breath and winces. “I could rest a whole lot easier if I knew you—” The pain grips him again.

  I put my fingers to his lips—shhh, no more. For you, anything.

  “I’m going to go take a look at Notre Dame, Dad.”

  “No, Weez, that isn’t what I was going to say.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m going to make an official visit there. You never know.”

  “That would be great. But promise me one thing …” Dad pauses, his brow furrows. “Shoot, I forgot what I was going to say!”

  I laugh—a belly laugh like I haven’t laughed in ages—and Dad joins in. We laugh until we’re crying again. Until we’re weak. Until Dad falls asleep.

  After a late dinner, Mom asks us to walk down to the beach with her—Mary, Paul, Gram, and me. Hugh stays with Dad.

  We have a decision to make,” she says. “And, Mom, like it or not, you’re a part of this, too.”

  Gram nods.

  “Dr. Ross called this morning. He thinks there’s a blockage in the urinary tract. Left untreated, Dad will go into a coma and die within the week. All that backed up urea is poisoning him. Dr. Ross also said that there’s a very fine line between what’s done as a lifesaving measure and what’s done in the name of providing comfort, and he feels we’re on that fine line here.”

  “What does he mean by that?” I ask.

  “Dad’s signed a living will saying that no lifesaving measures are to be taken. But, technically, we would still be justified in doing something for Dad if it’s being done, at least in part, to make him more comfortable. Dr. Ross said that’s stretching it, though. He said Dad probably isn’t even cognizant of pain anymore. It’s been a couple days since he’s complained of any.”

  “That’s not true,” I say. “I saw Dad wince tonight.”

  “You did?” cries Mom. “That’s wonderful!”

  We all laugh.

  Mom blushes. “Anyway, Dr. Ross said it’s a judgment call, and he’ll leave it up to us.”

  “So what would they do to him?” asks Paul.

  “Well, first they’d put a catheter in. If that
doesn’t help, there’s another option, a relatively simple procedure. The doctors insert a scope that would make the entire urinary tract visible. If there’s a blockage high up in the ureter, they’d insert a shunt at the point of blockage. The way Dr. Ross describes it, it’s like a small section of drinking straw that would stand up to the pressure of the tumor and keep the ureter open. This can all be done without surgery, on an outpatient basis.”

  “Through the … ?” Paul cringes.

  Mom nods. “Our third option is to do nothing, to let things progress naturally.”

  “Well? What do you think? We’ve got to make a decision by tomorrow morning, or it may be too late.”

  “He wants to see his grandchild,” Mary says, looking at each of one of us for support.

  Gram shakes her head and puts up her hands, pleading to be left out of it.

  “Mary,” Paul says, “he’s signed papers saying no life-prolonging measures are to be taken. Legally, we have to honor that.”

  “But, Paul, is this a life-prolonging measure,” says Mom, “or is it merely humane? You heard Leah; she saw him wince.”

  “Oh, come on, Mom, admit it; you want him to make it until Mary’s baby is born. And who do you really want that for, him or Mary?”

  “Paul, I admit I want him to see Mary’s baby. Of course I do. I want that for all of us. Most of all for Dad. Maybe this will buy him a little time, give him a chance to meet his first grandchild. And to say a proper goodbye to his children.”

  Paul looks at me. “Leah. You have a say in this. What do you think?”

  I think we should do anything we can to keep him alive, but then I remember that day when Dad told Heather he didn’t want chemotherapy anymore, when he begged Mom to make him stick to his guns.

  “I think you know him better than anybody, Mom,” I say. “You know what he would want. I think you should decide.”

  I’m not sure if that makes it three against one with a no-vote from Gram, or if everyone just concedes their vote to Mom, but Mom says, “Let’s try the catheter. If that doesn’t work, we’ll revisit our options. How does that sound?”

  We all look at Paul.

  “Everybody acts like I’m the fricking ice-man,” he says. “Shit, I don’t want Dad to die! But this isn’t about me. This is about Dad and about what he wants. And he told us what he wants. He signed a living will!”

  “He changed his mind once, Paul,” says Mary, referring to Dad’s decision to try the experimental chemotherapy. “Who’s to say he won’t change it again?”

  When we go back in, we’re all so exhausted that we get ready for bed right away. Mom asks me to sleep on the daybed with her, in the sunroom with Dad. We pull it out and make the pop-up bed I’m to sleep on. It’s one, two, three across the sunroom—me, Mom, and Dad—three mattresses in a row.

  CHAPTER 19

  Friday, August 8

  I squint at the curl of tubing in the weak gray light. It can’t be six yet, but I’ve woken up one too many times to be able to put myself back to sleep. The urine’s flowing in a slow but continuous stream, silently trickling down into the bag clipped to the side of the hospital bed. I watch it fill the bag, plumping it out and creeping up to the 800-ml line. Time to empty it. Again.

  It’s incredible. We must have emptied fifteen bags last night. When Heather put the catheter in yesterday the urine shot out like tap water under pressure. She had to drain the hose into a bucket instead of some little old bag. I bet Dad’s lost thirty pounds, all water. All backed-up pee.

  I’m glad the catheter’s working and we won’t have to weather another discussion with Paul about the outpatient procedure.

  The tube moves, startling me out of my trance.

  “Pops!”

  “Weez?” he rasps. “Could you get me some water?”

  “Sure.” I’ve never been so happy to fetch anything in my whole life.

  I thump Mom on the head. “Dad’s awake.”

  She bolts up.

  When I get back with the water, Mom’s emptying the bag.

  “Pete, this catheter saved your life. You have no idea. Do you remember any of it? Leah, his mind is clear! Can you believe it? We have him back!”

  “You really scared us, Pops.”

  Mom pulls the sheet aside to check his legs. They’re the scrawniest things I have ever seen. The knee is larger than the thigh and the skin hangs all wrinkly like an old man’s. This is what’s been underneath all that swelling? A leg can atrophy that quickly?

  Mom quickly pulls the sheet over them.

  “How do they look?” asks Dad.

  “The swelling’s down.” Mom flashes him a smile, but her face has gone bone-white. “Leah, go get Paul and Mary and Grandma and tell them the good news.”

  Saturday, August 9

  I go over and turn on the TV for Dad; Gram says there’s a Packers game on he might enjoy.

  “Turn that off,” snaps Dad. “I’m so turned off by professional sports right now. Pro football!” he scoffs. “The way they pay those guys you’d think they were gods. Huh! You’ve got an ex-con out there, a wife beater, drug addicts. When I think of all that money, of all the good it could do …”

  I wonder if he’s turned off by soccer now, too.

  Dad is so much better mentally, almost like his old self.

  “Paul, get some paper,” Dad orders. “I’m going to make a list of everything I’d like you to do around here to get ready for winter.”

  I clear out of the sunroom to go fix myself a smoothie in the kitchen, where I can overhear their conversation without looking nosy.

  “Dad, while you’re making your list, there are some other things we need to talk about, too. Legal things, financial things.”

  Is that all that matters to Paul? Money?

  “It’s all taken care of,” says Dad. “Everything’s in the safety deposit box at the bank.”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes. And I’ve thought about what to do with the restaurant. If you want it, it’s yours.”

  Paul opens his mouth to talk, but Dad doesn’t give him a chance. “Mary gets the jukebox; she’s loved that thing since she was a kid. And you get the Minnesota Fats.”

  “No, Dad. It’s worth way too much. Mom might want to sell it. Besides, where would I put it?” Paul’s acting like he wouldn’t think of taking that pool table. Give me a break. Everyone knows he’s been lusting after that thing for ages.

  “I’m sure you can figure something out. Buy yourself a bigger house. And Leah. I want Leah to have my Jeep. She’s going to need a car when she goes away to college. Which brings up another point—her education. She’ll probably get a scholarship, but just in case she doesn’t, go ahead and sell the extra lot.

  “The house is paid for. But it does need a new water heater. Both chimneys need to be cleaned. The gutter over the front door needs to be fixed. Get your mom set up with a plow service for the winter, if you would. Also, could you order a couple cords of wood and stack it where she can get to it easily? Oh, and I really want to put in an electric garage door opener for her.”

  Sunday, August 10

  I stand on our beach watching the sunrise light up the opposite shore.

  Let’s see, what day is it? Saturday? No, Sunday. I heard a church service on Gram’s TV this morning. Sunday, the last day of national camp. They’ll all be flying out of Colorado today.

  I start to run, just above the waterline where the sand is smooth and dark. I wish I could shake this feeling of being cheated.

  Double-days start this week. Hard to believe it’s the first time all summer I’ve even thought about it. When I was a freshman, it was all I thought of—getting to play high school soccer, trying out for varsity.

  Hey, who’s that? I’m coming up behind another runner. It looks like Kristin, the way the feet kick out to the side.

  “Hey, Blaichek,” I yell. “Wait up!”

  She turns, jogging in place while I catch up to her.

  �
��How’s your dad?” she asks as we run in tandem.

  “Pretty good. We had a real bad scare a few days ago, but he’s okay now.”

  “That’s good. Ready for double-days? They start Wednesday, you know.”

  “I know.” I don’t dare tell her I haven’t given it a thought until today. Still, I’m insulted that she’d think I’d forget. “I’m ready.”

  “Coach asked me to call and remind you, just in case, with all that you’ve been going through.”

  “What, are you kidding? Me forget double-days? Not on your life.”

  She laughs in a relieved kind of way and gets all gung-ho on me. “We’ve got to push hard, Weez; it’s our last year. We’re going all the way.”

  I wish I could believe that, but our high school team is a joke. Sure, we beat everybody around here, but we get creamed downstate. Not one of my teammates works on her game off-season.

  Paul and Mary are preparing to leave when I get home.

  “I hate to leave Daddy like this,” Mary whispers, wrapping her arms around Mom’s neck.

  “Nonsense. You have a life of your own. You need to get back to it.”

  “But what if I never see him again!” Mary bursts into tears.

  Poor Mary—all those hormones racing through her. “Don’t worry,” I say, hugging her. “He’s doing so much better.” She pats my head and gives me her crooked little dimpled-chin smile.

  “Come on, Mary,” says Hugh. “It’s time for you to say goodbye to your dad.”

  She comes out twenty minutes later, all red and teary-eyed. She’s out the front door and in the car so fast it’s as if she’s trying to outrun this goodbye.

  Paul goes in as soon as Hugh and Mary are gone. He, too, comes out tear-streaked and mottled. He grabs a whole box of Kleenex on his way out the door. The Iceman has melted. It’s twisted, the joy I feel seeing him this way, but it’s nice to know he has a heart in there.

  Mom and I collapse on the couch and cry until we are exhausted. Our eyes are scratchy and red and swollen. Her head must be pounding as hard as mine.

  The phone rings as we’re blowing our noses clear. Mom looks at me, begging.