by Bryan Healey
Sounds horrible...
"I never said anything to them. I just turned and walked away, to clean up and head home. It was the only surgery I had scheduled that day. When I got home, I cried all evening, like a little baby." He chuckles, ever so softly. "I never cried like that before, and I haven't since. I guess the first time is always the hardest." And he laughs again.
I can imagine it is...
"I will be sad when you go, Max."
I never knew...
"Good morning!"
Jenny! Good morning!
"Good morning, Mrs. Aaron."
"How is he today?"
"His vitals are surprisingly strong, although his pulse is weakening. We have a while longer to go."
"He does still look good." Brian.
I like hearing him, now daily, it seems.
"It's beautiful today," Jenny, now across the room, clearly looking out the window. I wonder if it's sunny today... "The snow is finally melting."
Melting?
"Everything should be greening up soon."
"I can't wait for the flowers to sprout."
Is it spring? How did I miss winter?
It feels just yesterday that Jenny was discussing a fresh blanket of snow and the impending winter cold. Where is time going? How is it slipping so quickly away from me, seemingly faster as it goes along?
"Pitchers and catchers report to spring training next week. I was thinking about heading down there to watch a few games this month." The sound of a chair moving, scraping across the floor. "Dad would have liked to have gone."
"I'm sure he would have."
I would have...
I never did get to see a Super Bowl...
"Mom, we should probably talk."
"What about?"
Jenny sounds concerned...
Have they been fighting?
"The funeral."
"No," Jenny squeaks. "I don't want to talk about that right now, Brian."
"Mom, we have to talk about it!"
"No, we don't!"
"Mom-"
"Brian, enough!"
"Mom, please, please listen to me, this is very important," and his voice is suddenly soft, almost condescending, like he was talking to a child and about to discuss something very unpleasant.
Jenny audibly, forcefully sighs. "Okay," she finally acquiesces. "What about the funeral?"
"We need to decide if we want to make a request for a military funeral."
"I don't think Max would like that."
"He doesn't have a life insurance policy. If we don't make the request, we'll be paying for everything ourselves. I don't think that's fair, and besides, dad deserves to be acknowledged for his service."
"Max hated the military."
"He did not hate the military."
"Of course he did. It ruined him."
"Mom-"
"No, Brian, that's enough. No military funeral, we will pay for his burial."
Burial...
Oh, my, I hadn't even considered the burial...
Intellectually, I know that when they put me in a casket, lower me into the earth and cover me with dirt, I will be quite dead, and be quite incapable of understanding what is happening. But yet the idea of being buried, of my body being encased in wood and put away, out of sight, to decompose and disappear as the world continues on without me... It's such an odd, slightly terrifying concept.
Soon enough, I will be nothing but dust.
"Mom, we don't have the money."
"We have enough."
"No, we don't, mom. You had to take a second mortgage just to keep paying dad's medical bills, and I don't have anything in savings. Funerals are expensive and I don't think we'll be able to afford it."
"Max, stop it." She is calm, detached.
"Mom, we need to be pragmatic."
"No, we don't, not now."
"When, if not now?"
"Brian," she starts, in her sharpest, motherly voice, a voice I hadn't heard in years. "You listen to me... I know I need to think of these things, okay? I'm not stupid, okay?"
"I never said-"
"But I'm not thinking about it now, you hear me? I'm just not. My husband is lying in front me, and he's not dead yet, and I refuse to think of him as dead until he's dead. Right now he doesn't need a funeral, he just needs new sheets. Okay?"
And Brian takes a deep breath.
"Let's go get some coffee."
"Okay," and then footsteps, softening, and then silence. It was only me, once again...
"Want a coffee?"
"Sure, thanks, dad," and my father emerges from the kitchen, onto the patio, where I was standing, enjoying the sunshine, trying not to think of the pain in my leg that was slowly emanating up into my stomach.
"Cream?"
"Black is fine," and he hands me the mug.
It was blue. I don't know why I notice that...
"You watch the game the other night?"
"No," I admit. "It seems they can't manage a win without me," I chuckle.
"I don't know that you would have made much of a difference," he answers with a laugh.
"You never know."
"So," my dad starts with a deep exhale, cupping his mug close to his chin, "how are you doing, Max?"
"Fine," is all I ever answer.
"You don't look fine," he admits.
"Thanks, dad. Tell me how you really feel," and I laugh, gently, trying to redirect the conversation.
"You know what I mean."
"Really, dad, I'm okay."
"You know," he starts, putting his mug down onto the deck table, looking out toward his yard. "It's not a weakness to admit when you're struggling."
"I'm not struggling, dad," I muster with a little more forcefulness, upset at the inclination. He coughs, takes another sip of his mug and wipes his lips, still not looking at me.
"When you were seven years old, I took you down to Crow Hill to teach you how to swim. Do you remember that?"
"I suppose so," not knowing why.
"You were so excited," and he laughs, shaking his head, thinking of that moment, so long past. "I remember, the whole drive you were bouncing up and down on the front seat, asking me how much longer, generally driving me crazy. It wasn't even that long of a drive, maybe twenty minutes."
"Yeah, I never had much patience," I laugh.
"No, you didn't. But it didn't bother me much. When we got there and parked, you jumped out of the car and ran toward the woods. You didn't even know where you were going, but you found your way to the beach and the water just fine. You always had a good sense of direction."
"I suppose." Why was he telling me this?
"When I got you in the water, you were so happy, you immediately starting heading toward the deep end. I had to physically grab you and keep you in the wading area so I could teach you."
"I never liked waiting to learn."
"No, you like to barrel ahead, learn by doing."
"Probably not my best quality."
"No," he shouts. "It is absolutely your best quality, Max. It's how you learn so quickly and so well. It's the only way to learn, as far as I'm concerned."
"It's dangerous."
"Life is dangerous." He shrugs, takes another sip of his coffee, and shakes his head again. "Anyway, you spent about twenty minutes with me, doggie paddling and learning to hold your breath underwater. You were a natural," and he finally looks at me, puts his hand on my shoulder and smiles. "I really enjoyed teach
ing you, you know?"
"I enjoyed learning," I smile.
"You asked me, can I jump off the rocks?"
"The rocks?"
"There was this group of older kids taking turns jumping off this small jetty, doing cannon balls, trying to make waves. They were laughing and pushing each other and just generally being kids. You saw them and wanted to join them." He laughs again. "You always wanted to join the big kids."
"I suppose so," not fully agreeing with him.
"I said no, you're not ready, the water is deep at the end of the jetty and you needed more practice. You agreed with me, telling me what I wanted to hear, and you kept practicing with me. Soon after, you told me you had to go to the bathroom, and so I sent you into the woods. I watched you leave the water, run across the beach, up the hill and into the trees.
"While you were out of the water, I decided to do a few laps, really get wet and enjoy the warm day. I went out to the far end of the pond, to the left and up to the dam, and then back to the shallow end. When I got there, I stood up, wiped the water out of my hair, and looked around for you. But you weren't back yet.
"I remember thinking it was odd, it shouldn't take that long to piss, but I didn't worry about it much until I looked over and saw you on the rocks, lined up to jump. The kids were cheering you on."
"I don't remember this," I frown.
"Well, I do. I watched you run down the rocks and my heart skipped a beat. You hit the water and just disappeared. I raced out to the water as fast as I could swim, and by the time I got there you had finally came to the surface and were wading."
"I was always a little... disobedient." I couldn't think of a better word. It fit well enough.
"I tried to scoop you out of the water, in a panic, but you kept thrashing, insisting you were fine, that you could do it, that you could swim without me. So, I let you go, and you just stayed afloat, kicking, keeping your head above the water.
"I was so impressed, after only one lesson! But you were spending a lot of energy, kicking pretty hard, breathing heavy. I kept waiting for you to get tired and ask me to bring you to shore. But you know, you never asked. You just stayed there, kicking."
"What happened?"
He laughs. "After a few minutes, you went under, hands reaching for air. I pulled you up, and you looked me square in the face and told me that you didn't need my help, and to let you go. I let you go, you kicked a few seconds more, and went under again."
"Yikes!"
"I finally pulled you up and dragged you to shore, you still thrashing, telling me to let you go. When I got you to the shallow end, you were pouting and asking if you could jump off the rocks again."
"I was so stubborn."
"You still are! I told you then that you need to know your limits and be smart. Always try to do your best, but know when to ask for help. And you listened, but I'm sure you didn't agree, because you still don't know your limit. You still don't know when to ask for help. You think you can do everything on your own, no matter how deep under the water you are."
I drop my coffee to my hip, my eyes now wide and my mouth agape. "What?"
It was all I could think to say...
"Max," and he put his hand on my head. "I know you're strong. You're one of the strongest men that I know, and I'm proud to be your dad. But you need to know when you need help, and there is no shame in saying so."
"Dad, I don't-"
"You need help, Max."
"I don't need help, dad. I'm clean."
"I don't mean the drugs."
"Then what? What do I need help for?"
"For your mind, Max. You need to get control of your mind, or else you'll never be happy."
"There's nothing wrong with my mind."
"Max, I know all your faces. Your happy face, your sad face, your frustrated face, your angry face, your stoned face, your drunk face, your scared face... This face, the one you've had on since you got home... that's a whole other face."
"And what face is that, dad?"
"Guilt."
I snap my head, blink hard, twice, shake my head. "Guilt? What am I guilty over?"
"That you came home."
"Dad!" I shout. "What does that mean?"
"You feel guilty that you survived, that your friend died, and that you came home safe, home to your family, home to tell Jason's dad that his son wasn't coming home. You feel guilty that you're here and they're not, and you don't know how to handle it."
"Dad," I mumble and turn away.
"Max, please talk with someone."
"I don't need to talk with anyone. I'm fine."
"Max," and he takes hold of both my shoulders and turns me, forcing me to face him. My eyes are red and sallow, but there are no tears. I wouldn't allow it. "You are not fine, and you know it, but you won't admit it. Why won't you admit it?"
"Because," I shout, "if I do, then I'm admitting that I'm broken, that my mind can't take what the world has given to me, and that I'm not strong enough to find my own way! I'm not weak, I can take anything thrown at me, and I am fine!" I am shouting, almost furious, far more angry than is deserved. My hands are shaking, I notice. Shaking almost uncontrollably.
I put my coffee mug onto the patio table.
"Max," my dad says softly, hands still firmly gripped onto my shoulders. "The only weakness is in refusing to admit your limits. That is not strength, that is cowardice, a lack of self-awareness. I did not raise a coward, I raised a hero." He slaps my shoulders. "Be that hero, Max. Get help, get healthy, and get back to being you, to being a father and a husband."
"Dad, I-"
"Get help, Max. Just talk with someone."
"I don't-"
"You can handle anything, but with two sets of hands, you can lift twice the weight. Talk with someone, and get healthy. Please."
I stare at him, moments ticking away, his eyes fixed to mine, needing an answer. I finally, slowly, nod, agreeing to speak with someone. He smiles, pats my shoulders, and grabs his coffee.
Not another word is spoken...
"I missed you yesterday," says Sarah.
I feel ill...
Brutally hungry, weak...
Weaker even than usual.
"You don't look so good tonight."
I don't feel so good.
"And you're sweating."
Am I?
"And very warm," suddenly very close to me.
Is she feeling my forehead?
"Go to sleep," I hear my mother say, her hand on my forehead. "You're sick, you need rest."
"But mom, I don't want to sleep! I'm not tired!"
"You need to sleep, Max. It's the only way you can get better. You want to get better, don't you?"
"No," and she smiles...
"I'll get you a wet cloth," Sarah says.
And I hear sheets ruffling.
"Did you miss me last night?"
Were you not here last night?
I can't differentiate between nights, even more so recently, my mind seemingly slipping with each day that I slide closer to death.
Jesus, I hurt...
"You know, I wonder if we would really get along if you were awake. I don't really know that much about you. I know that you're married and have a son and that you've been here for a little over six years."
Six years?
Such a great time wasted...
"That's a long time."
Certainly is...
"But I don't really know you. I wonder what you were like, what kind of man you were."
I hope I was a good man, mostly.
"I do know that you were in the war."
That I was.
"I wonder what that was like."
You do?
It was war! How do you think it was?
"If only I was able to really talk with you."
What would we talk about?
"I told Michael about you. He laughed. He said it sounds just like me to fall in love with a man who is brain dead. And married. He asked to see you."
Fall in love?
"I wish I could bring him in here, but I don't think they would let him in."
Did you say you were in love with me?
"And if I snuck him in, I'm sure I'd get fired."
How can you be in love with me?
"Although that might not be so bad."
You don't even know me, Sarah!
"I'm so sick of this job. You're the only reason I come back these days. Working at night sucks, and I don't really like working around sick people."
She laughs.
"Listen to me," she mumbles.
You really need to find someone, someone who is unmarried and is able to talk and walk and take you out to dinner and treat you well...
"Maybe it'll help me to get away."
I think it would.
"But what am I going to do? A nursing degree is really only useful to a nurse. And what good is a nurse that doesn't like being around sick people?"
Did you always want to be a nurse?
"I should have changed my major. I wanted to. I was going to study journalism. I wanted to travel, see the world, report on injustice and violence and try to bring it to an end, to help people. I even talked to an advisor about switching majors, but he told me not to."
Why would he do that?
"He said there was no money in journalism and that I should stick to nursing. He said there was always a demand for nurses and that I'd always have work."
Your counselor said that?
"And I guess he was right. What good is taking on all that college debt if you can't make good money."
That's absurd!
Life should not be all about how to get the most money! What a waste that would be! What good is money if you're not happy? I understand a need to make a living, to be able to afford food, shelter, a little fun, but all of it is meaningless without giving your life the peace you need.
