3
His thin
lips and button ears look like mine. My dad’s, I mean. The ears look funnier on
his 6’2 frame than my 5’6. They are too small for him. Perhaps that’s why he
wears the glasses when he doesn’t need to. They distract from the ears. His
eyes open for a second—scan the dark room—and flutter to a close.
The eyes
open wide a moment later when he hears the sound of coughing. I hear it too. It
is me. I cannot feel the cause of the coughing—whether it is fluid in my lungs
or a tickle in my throat. But I can see it. I watch my chest jump with each
cough. My head jumps with it. Sparklets of spit fly from my mouth, only to
disappear in the darkness. Two bony limbs roll back and forth helplessly at my
sides.
My dad is cradling
me in his arms. He holds me tightly, rocking my frail torso back and forth.
“Take deep breaths,” he says. But my coughing continues. Every so often, he
dabs at the corners of my mouth and eyes with a moist cloth. I feel no pain,
but am scared. Don’t let go, Daddy.
One of the
most terrifying and incredible nights of my life comes flooding into my mind,
only dulled briefly by each cough. It was a night like this one, where fear
reigned. I was in so much pain. It was like the worst case of cramps, but I
knew it was something else. That’s what scared me.
I had told
my dad earlier that it was just cramps and to leave me alone. But when he
walked into the room at 3am and I was pale and writhing in pain, he swept me up
in his arms, put me in the car, and rushed me to the hospital. Thus began
several weeks of testing that confirmed what we were beginning to suspect:
cancer.
That night,
he stayed by my side as they medicated me for the pain and began the initial
tests. I was terrified, but he kept stroking my hair and squeezing my hand.
“Don’t worry, Kayla Joy, your daddy is here. And he won’t leave.”
A week
after I got the official prognosis, I graduated from high school. Already
drained by weeks of testing and bad news, I feebly put on my gown. I still had
the figure, but not the heart. I lost it at some point during the endless
arrays of tests. The robe fit perfectly. It covered me.
As soon as
I took my seat, I began to cry. I cried during the stupid speeches, the songs,
and the handing out of diplomas. Many people grieve the loss of their youth; I
grieved that my youth had already spent me. I grieved the loss of my adulthood.
Perhaps my life had already peaked.
It seemed
particularly ironic that the final words from the valedictorian’s mouth were
“Now go and embrace the endless possibilities of your future.” With each
passing day and new bit of news, another possibility was eclipsed by the shadow
of death. The shadow crept further and further across the fertile expanse of my
life.
It’s not
that I was giving in to my predicament. Many people give in to death because
they are resigned to death. I was resigned to death because it was taking life
from me. I would fight it for one, ten, or fifty years. But death would
inevitably make the final move. It would win. It always does.
Children
are incredible for a number of reasons. I know because I always list those
reasons off in my mind as I eagerly hope for one of my own. My own Baby. One
reason that stands out to me is how carefree they are. Death is but a toothless
abstraction to them. It barks from the grave of the occasional grandparent, but
it doesn’t bite.
That
illusion reigns in the mind of a child, much like Santa Claus, superheroes, and
fairytales. Parents allow the illusions to persist, knowing that children need
them to grow, dream, and hope. They are too young to earn Santa’s toys—only
grace can bring it to them. They are too young to protect themselves—they need
superheroes who can survive the worst of nightmares. They need fairy tales so that
utopia can drown the imagination, even as dystopia drowns the reality.
Try sitting
down and telling a four-year-old boy that his mommy and daddy will die soon
after he has his own kids. Try it. Tell him that they are waiting for their own
parents to die now, knowing that they will be next. Before long, he will be in
the same position—waiting for them to die. He will be next.
Sorry to be
so depressing. I long for my superhero too. And my Santa. And fairytales. Who
will protect me from this nightmare? And give me what I cannot possibly earn?
Where is the land of peace for this body of sin and decay? I lift my eyes to
the mountains—where does my help come from?
I look and
I see my daddy. He can comfort, but he can’t save me. He has tears in his own
eyes as my coughs continue. He continues to dab at my face. My eyes lock in on
the tissue as he pulls it away, a string of blood and mucus connecting it to my
lips. My heart stirs.
“Don’t cry,
baby, don’t cry,” he whispers to me. Though I don’t know it, my eyes apparently
betray my heart. I don’t want him to see my tears, but I am powerless to stop
them. I am powerless to do anything. But he is powerless too. I want to help
him. I want to let him know that I am alright.
You had
that nightmare, I am sure. You are pursued and eventually cornered. All of your
escape plans, weapons, and recourses have been exhausted. You are thoroughly
helpless. All that is left is to scream. Scream to the heavens and hope that
someone might hear. But nothing comes from your mouth.
I sometimes
wonder if in those nightmares, someone would come were they to hear your
scream. Perhaps that is the true nightmare. Not the knowledge that you can’t
call for help, but the realization that your call might be answered if only you
could issue it forth. The terror is found in knowing that help might come, if
only you could call for it. Your demise rests in your failure.
Eventually,
my coughing subsides. I still hear a faint rattle, but at least my body is
still. My dad gently lays me back upon my pillow and adjusts the IV. He leans
forward and kisses my forehead: “You’re so beautiful and sweet. I’m so blessed
that you’re my daughter.”
To be
known. And loved. I am both. I envisage myself in a field in the dark of night.
Lightning streaks across the sky; thunder claps; rain pours. I am not alone to
face the fury of this storm. My dad clings to my hand, eyes locked onto something
unknown in the distance. He will not leave me.
