The phone rang, and I knew. And even though I have played this day in my head a billion times growing up, it just seemed so new and unrehearsed. After all, who doesn’t imagine their parents dying when they are kids? (and sometimes when we are not kids at all). We all know that it will happen some day and we allow fear and anticipation to paint different scenarios at one time or another. The only thing that is accurate is the notion of time stopping. No sounds, no memory of anything that is said after the initial sentence. “The cancer is back.”
I take the eleven-hour plane ride, disheartened, but when the doors open to the waiting area, there he is, my Dad. Nothing tells me that he has cancer nor that he doesn’t have long to live. His presence is majestic as always. His body still outpouring charisma and stature. And I want to be his little girl so badly that I convince myself that he is fine. That he is my strong, unbeatable, super hero father. That image of him is all I’ve known for thirty-seven years of my life. Nothing else. He is invincible to me. But apparently, just to me.
In the following days, we get a second and third opinion and they all sound the same. My Dad and I sit at a coffee shop and we sob together. We hug and his hug still feels the same as it has always felt. Strong, reassuring. He tells me that there is something that he wants to tell me and I don’t let him. I’ve regret it for the rest of my life.
The eleven-hour plane ride home feels eternal, but I reassure myself that I will be coming back. A month and a half later, I ride that plane again. This time with my family. Part of me wants to believe that we will be there for very long and that is why this move makes sense to me, even though it feels insane. Doctors appointments, passports, chemo, school tests, birthdays, blood tests, scans… it is all a tsunami wrapping me around and drowning me violently. I make myself believe that I’m surviving and I keep going. Chocking, pain, bad news, bad news, bad news, and a silent family ride to the hospital.
Somehow we all know it and the silence in the car is doing the talking. The pain is visceral. We all sit stiff. Some of us look out the window to hide watery eyes. My Dad sits in the front. Dress to a T. So typical of him. His starched blue shirt, matching shoes and belt, his tie and suit. Just perfect, as if we are going to an important event. He is the only one who seems to acknowledge that. He is dying, and it calls for elegance. This is the last time that he will get to dress himself. Or that he will be able to. His dignity all wrapped up in this one last outfit.
The room has tall ceilings. Ten or twelve feet tall. It feels empty; even with all six of us there. The window gifts us some Baroque light and sets the mood for the next fifteen days. The ambience is somber but calm and, as the days go by, it fills with exhaustion and pain. All kinds of pain. Most nights I sit next to him and hear his breathing, afraid because I know what’s coming. He squeezes my hand whenever he gets morphine injected and I try to remember this moment. Because even though I know that this is going to become a sad memory, I want to always remember his hand squeezing mine. Every second that is gone reminds me that the time left with him is for me to steal, so I try to make an accurate note in my mind of how his breathing sounds, how his warm palm feels next to mine… I indulge, almost. His eyes lost in thought. What are you thinking? Are you afraid of dying? I don’t want to make him upset, so I don’t ask that out loud. God! I have so many questions that I want to ask you, but it will re-assure you that there is not much time left. I will regret it. All my life. I talk to the doctor. I notice that the door to your room was left opened by accident and I fear that you’ve heard everything I told him. I walk in the room and you look and me and say: “Quality versus quantity.” We both know I said quality. You seem to be happy with my answer, but you don’t say anything. I just guess. But this is something that I don’t regret because witnessing you deteriorate has been extremely painful for both of us.
I play all of my childhood memories while I watch him sleep. Swimming in the ocean, learning to drive, him pushing the seat of my bike. I can’t sleep because I’m afraid he’ll die on me while I’m sleeping. I dose on and off. The room becomes cold and then dawn shows up in the corner of the old window. One more day. It feels like a victory. But is it really? I feel selfish because I don’t want to let go. I look at him and think: “Don’t go. Please stay with me. I know that no one will ever love me as much as you do.” And I’m certain because my love for him is just like that.
He starts to be quieter and quieter. I hold his hand now. I cover him with a blanket even though I know that it won’t make any difference. But it makes a difference to me. Did we try everything we could? Did I do enough? This is my father, nurse, and I don’t care that this is just your job. You will never know what he means to me. Stop telling me that he is gone. I know. Don’t rush me. I know I’ve been saying good-bye for a while, but I can’t move as fast as you want me to. Don’t wrap his head yet. You are messing up his hair. I cry and hold on to his legs. My body screams in pain and I don’t even know where that comes from. Why are you rushing me, nurse? Do you know who this is? He is my super hero. He was my father.