Gone Fishin'

I sighed heavy and arched the ache from my back, careful not to send the heavy book plummeting to the floor from my lap. The chair had been used in my mother's office, short as she was, and offered very little lumbar support, but it had to do. The room was crowded enough.

I set the enormous tome–an overview of nursing knowledge–on the ground and smoothed my baggy scrubs, which were doing a poor job hiding the nearly thirty pounds I had gained since fitting them last year. The master bedroom was cool, always shaded blue this time in the afternoon, light sneaking through the vertical shades from the glass-screened porch. Perfectly inviting except for the copious piles of medical supplies and clutter, most of which would be useless by the morning.

“Michael,” a whisper.

“Yes, dad?”

“Michael.”

Again, I answered, “Yes, dad?”

“MICHAEL!”

“YES, DAD,” I answered with equal volume, reaching out to grab the hairy arm of my father, soaked with his usual coat of muggy sweat.

His eyes popped open, his pupils beady islands surrounded by lakes of clear blue. Drops of water mopped back his close-cropped silver hair. He was sweating profusely.

“Oh, where did you go?” he asked.

“Nowhere, dad. I've been here all along.”

“Oh...”

“Are you doing ok?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “... thirsty.”

I reached over to the nightstand and helped him swallow a few careful sips from a straw. He laid his head back, satisfied. “Boy, that's some good ice water.”

I waited, knowing for certain the interaction wasn't over. I waited, and then it came.

“I need to pee.”

Like clockwork, I had been expecting this, I reached over and gently grasped his drenched arm. “Go pee, dad.”

“No, I need to pee. Let's go pee.”

“Go pee, dad. You can do it. You don't have to get up.”

“Let's go pee...”

I picked up the foley bag from where it hung on the bedrail in exasperation, lifted it up so my father could see.

“Remember,” I said, pointing to the bag and then the general area below the waistline of his shorts. “You don't have to get up anymore. This way is safer and more comfortable. You just have to pee. You can just let it go.”

His eyes studied the bag in a clouded daze. Finally, he blinked.

“You mean to tell me... that for the next twenty years... I'm stuck in the closet... with fake dicks?”

In spite of myself, the giggle escaped.

“No,” I said, hiding the much needed moment of laughter. “This is a foley catheter. It's not forever, it's just until I can get you better help.”

“Oh... so I can just pee?”

“Yes, dad, you can.”

“Oh,” he said again. I could tell from the tube leading to the bag that this time he had gotten the message. He seemed more relaxed.

“Man, it could always be worse,” he said, a contemplative look upon his face.

“Yes, it could,” I agreed. I truly didn't see how.

“I could always be grandpa.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said, ready to make a point, “look at him. I mean, it's clearly the end. I looked at him this last time and I thought, jeez, at least I'm not that bad. So... it could always be worse.”

This time the agreement was harder won. “Yes,” I slowly answered.

I had barely excused myself from the room to the kitchen before I had choked back a second glass of water in place of tears. I shook my head at my uncle, who had been eyeing me sympathetically from the moment I entered.

“How is he?” my uncle asked.

“The same,” I said, with a half-shrug and maniacal grin. “Hospice says any hour now. I hope for his sake and ours they mean it.”

He nodded peaceably, then, trying to make conversation. “So, Michael, how long ago did he receive his diagnosis?”

I heard myself reply, but I didn't think it. My thoughts were transported back four nights prior when a trip to the bathroom had ended with my father on the floor, his massive frame pinned between the toilet and the tub. Fortunately, my school training took over (lucky for us both) and I safely helped him to the floor, but his leg had landed in an awkward position.

And the pressure between his skin and the hard porcelain was rising.

“Don't struggle dad, I'm getting help!”

He was nodding painfully as I dialed 911. Ten minutes later, the house outside looked like Christmas.

“So what happened tonight, fellas?” the fire rescue captain had stated the question to us both, but it was obvious he was waiting for me to answer. I filled him in as a strong woman with biceps as meaty as my own hoisted my twice-her-size dad off the floor in a way I couldn't.

“Multiple myeloma, huh? How long has he had that?” the captain asked.

“Four and half years,” I said.

“Hmm... well you know the statistics regarding that cancer, don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ok... Well, he doesn't seem to be hurt. Are you ok?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ok, well, be safe. If you need us again, just call, ok? Seriously, you did the right thing. Call again, ok?”

I thanked them for their help and nodded my goodbyes to the crew. My dad was safely back in bed and now appeared to be asleep. I couldn't blame him one bit.

“Michael?”

“Yes, grandma?” The lights and crew had disturbed her rest. I told her the story and hugged her goodnight. Grandpa slept through the whole ordeal.

Eventually, I was resurrected to the present by the ever persistent buzzing of my phone. I idled through the chat threads: homework, homework, group project due Monday, the big exam we had tomorrow. Blah blah blah, same old bs. Then...

How is he today? :)

I shrugged stupidly to myself as I typed: About the same :(

Oh :(... Well, this will cheer him up!

She proceeded to tell me how my father's old church was dedicating this Sunday to him and how they were livestreaming the service so he could join remotely. Here's the link so he can watch. Starting soon!

I sighed again, disgusted by my cynicism, but knowing, like I had known my dad's bathroom request from before, what the likely outcome would be.

I clicked the link on my dad's phone and propped the screen so he could view it from bed. A few flickers of video buffering later, the link went live.

“Many of you remember Bill Thompson, who was our senior minister here at Florida Nicholson Church not too many years ago. Before he left, Bill was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a terminal cancer and has been fighting ever since. You'll also remember Tina, Bill's wife of thirty-five years, who also bore her own struggle.”

“Well, Tina can't be with us today, but I've been informed that Bill is watching via our livestream,” small smatterings of applause broke through,” and we'd like to dedicate the service today to them. Sing with me.”

And the worship minister began. He strummed the first few bars of my mother's favorite song and was soon joined in singing the words by the entire unseen congregation–

“TURN IT OFF!” my dad yelled.

I didn't argue. The livestream was instantly cancelled.

“It's off dad.”

“Thank you,” he halfway moaned, as if a boulder had just slid from his chest. He was instantly back asleep.

I returned to the refuge of my phone.

Did he see it? Is he still watching? :)

It was half-past five when hospice finally called. The ambulance had been dispatched, but would still be another hour. My dad was awake again, and this time his eyes showed more of the man I knew.

“Dad, I have something to tell you,” I began with dread.

“What is it... son?”

I breathed, than began.

“Hospice is coming to take over your care. They'll be here in about an hour. It doesn't have to be permanent,” I lied. “It's just that they can care for you there better than I can here at home. They can keep you more safe.”

He looked at me, but his gaze was wondering again.

“Dad, do you understand? Hospice is coming,” I reinforced. Then, shakily, “The place where they took mom.”

At this, his eyes widened and he seemed to look about the room with a renewed perspective. Silently I felt the weight of the extra twin bed looking back at me from its sidelined place in the corner, its sheets and bedding stripped months before never to be replaced again.

“You mean,” he started, gathering his thoughts. “You mean... the place where they don't serve ice cream anymore?”

“Well, actually,” I cajoled, “you can have all the ice cream there you want, but yes. That place.”

My father laid back in bed, his eyes still wide, his pupils still specks in their private oceans of blue. “Oh...”

“I tell ya,” he finally added, “I'd much rather be gone fishin'.”

“Yeah, dad. Me too,” I said.

And as I did, I turned away from the man in the bed and studied the walls surrounding us. The walls were full of memories, all good, of holidays and birthdays and happy days now long past. My eyes settled on one picture, hanging by a tiny nail in a tiny frame. The picture was him as a young man in the army, dressed in his uniform, clutching the saber he received upon graduating West Point; and the smile he wore with it, so serious and carefree, as much a ghost to him now as it was to me.

I looked back at him and managed, “Yeah dad. I'd rather be gone fishin' too.”