Chapter 7 Elias #2
The old me would have said no. The old me would have run as far away as possible if it meant caring about someone again. Caring is so hard when it hurts.
I’m tired of hurting.
“That actually sounds great. Thanks. For being so kind.”
“You’re welcome. Find me later. Okay?”
“You got it,” I say, smiling at her as Jackie practically skips away.
There’s a warmth in my chest, spreading through my veins, and I realize it’s happiness, maybe even relief, or hope. All positive emotions. Emotions I’ve only felt while living here in the city, working here at this hospital, texting Miss Wrong Number, meeting Olivia.
All of it has zapped life into me again, and I refuse to allow my father to take that away from me too. I’ve lived far too long telling myself I’m not allowed to enjoy life. I deserve to learn how to rewire myself to experience joy.
The only way I can do that is if I listen to Nurse Jackie and find Dr. Washington.
I head toward the wing where my father is admitted, knowing Dr. Washington is there somewhere since that is her territory.
“Hi.” I nod to a passing nurse. “How are you?” I ask another, keeping my strides long and quick. I want this moment to be over with.
My shoes scuff against the white tiled floor, the bright fluorescent lights above making everything seem brighter. By the end of the day, I can’t stand lights. When I’m home, I have a few lamps that radiate a dull yellow glow, just enough light to let me see my way through my house.
I see Dr. Washington’s tall frame at the nurses’ desk, looking over a patient chart.
“Dr. Washington,” I call out to her with a smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Carrington and—”
She closes the patient’s file, her eyes wrinkling at the sides when she grins. “I know who you are, Dr. Carrington. You’re one of the best. Doctors know who the best are. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Her happiness fades and I know the look she’s wearing.
She has bad news. The way her lips press together, and her brows rise slightly, followed by a small sigh, tells me whatever news she has isn’t good news.
“I left you a message about your father, actually. I’m assuming that’s why you’re here?”
I reach into my pocket and check my phone, groaning when I see a notification of a voicemail.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t get it. I’m horrible at checking my voicemail.
I actually came to talk to you because of Nurse Jackie.
She told me to find you but wouldn’t say why.
I’m assuming my father isn’t going to be walking out of here anytime soon, then?
” I sound bored, calloused, and maybe slightly annoyed mixed with exhausted.
What I’m not, is surprised.
The only thing that surprises me is that this hasn’t happened to my father sooner. He’s been a wreck ever since Mom died. I think he’s been trying to kill himself somehow. Slowly. Torturously. Wanting grief to kill him.
“I’m afraid not. The drinking has damaged his liver beyond repair. He’s in liver failure, and he will need a transplant.”
I blow out such a big breath, my cheeks puff. I know he won’t be able to get on the donor list. For anyone to receive an organ, they have to sober for six months.
“I’m assuming you know the rest and why a transplant isn’t an option.”
“Right. No, I know. I know.” I drop my face in my hands, angry at him for doing this to himself, angry that I’ll be blamed for this too.
He’ll blame me for all his drinking, all the choices he’s made, all the sorrow he feels, and if he dies, that will be my fault too.
Fuck. That.
I refuse to be the shoulders he adds his burdens to. I’m sick of carrying them. I have my own to carry.
“I’ll get tested to see if I’m a match. If I am, we can schedule the surgery.”
Her big brown eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Are you sure? You need time to think about it? This is a big decision, and it’s clear that you don’t have a great relationship with your father.” She points to the black eye I’m sporting.
“Yeah, you’re right, but that isn’t reason enough to let him die. I refuse to live with that. Can I see him? Is he awake? And without the transplant, how long does he have? Weeks? Months?”
“Of course you can, and he probably has around three months left to live without the transplant, but anything can happen between now and then. That’s just an estimate.”
“I’ll get tested today,” I decide, not wanting to waste any more time.
A part of me wonders if he knew how sick he was when he stumbled in here.
It makes so much sense. He only ever comes to me when he needs something, which only doubles the amount of fury whirling in my gut.
He always has some sort of plan to get what he wants.
He’s always been like that, and he doesn’t care who he has to use to get it.
Typically, he uses me, because he knows I’m always there for him, no matter how much he’s never around when I need him.
“Okay. We can set that up. Come find me after you see him?”
“Sure. Sounds great. I won’t be long if you want to stay around here. Or if you can,” I add, not wanting to seem like I’m demanding her or forcing her to stay.
“Sure. I’ll be around here. I have a few patients I need to check in on.” She pats my shoulder as she walks by. “He’s in room 1450.” She points down the hall, a tunnel with no light at the end from my perspective.
“Thanks, Dr. Washington.”
“No problem. I’m sorry for giving you bad news.”
“It’s alright. You have great bedside manners. It made it much easier to hear.” Bad news doesn’t shock me when it comes to my dad. Bad news follows him everywhere and he always makes sure he brings it to me.
Maybe I’m bitter. Maybe I should care more.
I know that sounds so fucking bad. I can’t believe I’m thinking it.
There was a time when I was a child that my father loved me, I think.
But there’s only so much someone’s child can take.
I’ve learned over the years that being someone’s child doesn’t entitle them to love if all they do is abuse it.
Doing this transplant will allow me to move on with my life once and for all.
I’m at his door, standing directly in front of the threshold. The door is open. The TV is on. Machines beep and hiss. One step. That’s all it’s going to take. One step and I’ll be closer to letting go of the pain that has held me back since I was a teenager.
“Son?” His voice travels in the room, echoing in the darkness since the lights aren’t on.
“Dr. Carrington,” I correct him before I can stop myself.
I suppose I’m not the bigger person after all. There’s too much rage after all the patience I’ve given him over the years.
I step forward, breaking the last boundary that has stopped me from seeing him.
He looks so small in that bed. I remember a hulking man growing up.
He’s skinny now. His skin has a yellow hue.
His hair has thinned and I can still smell a bit of alcohol on him somehow.
I barely recognize the sickly body in the bed.
My eyes dart from machine to machine, wondering how the hell he’s let it get this bad.
I know it’s because he doesn’t care, and if he doesn’t, then why should I?
Three months is being generous. Dr. Washington is being kind about the estimate of his remaining life.
“How are you?” he asks, scratching his left arm, a common symptom with liver failure.
The more his liver fails, the worse the symptoms will become. He could even hallucinate, and I can only imagine what he’d see.
“You look good, son. You look real good.” His eyes become misty, as if he’s holding back tears. “Catch me up. Tell me everything. Do you have anyone special in your life? Any kids?”
I grip the end of his bed, biting down on the inside of my cheek as all the emotions I’ve buried for so many years try to bubble their way up my throat.
The words he wants to hear, I can’t seem to find. My mind is blurred from years of taking his abuse.
“How did you get that black eye? Did a patient hit you?” He sits up straighter, as if he’s going to do something about that.
I chuckle and the sound isn’t one of humor, but of irony. “You know, it was a patient. It was you.”
“What?” He gasps, expecting me to believe he cares. “No. I wouldn’t…I don’t remember doing that.”
“Of course you don’t,” I hiss, slamming my fist into the base of the bed.
I try to regain control and patience. I’m at work.
I can’t lose my temper. “You were wasted. You stumbled into the hospital drunk and embarrassed me in front of all my new coworkers. Are you proud of yourself? You always have to do that. You always find me to make an example out of me and, Dad, it stops now. I’ve let you come in and out of my life, using me, talking down to me, hitting me, milking me for money, blaming me.
Always with the blame. I’m done. I’m done with it.
At last, I’m done.” I rub my eyes with my fingers, hating that they betray me by welling up.
“No, no. Elias. Listen to me, I’m going to get better. I’m going to get clean. I’ll get the transplant and we can start over. Just us. We can have a real relationship. I want to know you. I want to…I want to know everything about you.”
I shake my head because there’s nothing to tell. I have no one in my life who loves me. I have no children. I have nothing but my job and my skill set.
“No.” I look out the window, clenching my teeth together so hard, I know I have to be close to breaking a tooth.
The sun is beginning to set, variants of red and yellows painting the sky, the clouds spreading out and stretched like wings. I always find it so interesting how the world continues to find a way to be beautiful when so much ugly happens as the Earth spins.