Chapter 26
Duffy
My dad had a follow-up appointment with the pulmonologist the following week, and I was terrified. A big part of me wished my dad wouldn’t be at the appointment because I wanted to ask the hard questions, the ones I didn’t want him to have to face.
My brothers and I all got there at the same time—Joey drove my dad since I had work that I had to finish—and my dad looked good. Tired, but that was becoming more common.
And the oxygen didn’t help.
We got back to the office and the consultation was not what any of us expected. We knew that the scarring was permanent and there was no reversing that, but none of us expected the doctor to use the words “lung transplant.”
We weren’t there yet, and Dr. Sanchez said there were a lot of medications we could try, but I could tell he wanted to make sure we knew that it was a pretty severe situation that wasn’t going to improve on its own.
“Oh, for God’s sake, my lungs are better than a dead guy’s,” my dad said, waving a hand exasperatedly.
He made jokes, seemingly unfazed, which shocked the hell out of me when I just wanted to cry. We all joked along with him, though, because what else could we do?
“Are you taking him back?” Matty asked me when we left the office. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I said, crossing my arms while I waited for my dad to come out of the restroom.
“You guys want to get together later for some beers to talk about the reality of this situation?” Ty asked.
“Yes, please,” I said.
“The PNA at seven?” Joey said. “I’m going to call Dr. Sanchez and see if I can get some more direct answers.”
“That works,” I said, dreading the conversation. But I also knew we really needed to have it. I still wasn’t sure how bad things were going to get.
After I dropped my dad off, I drove back to work, but I couldn’t muster the energy to leave my car just yet. Instead, I called Connor.
“Hey,” he answered.
“Hey,” I said, clearing my throat. “It’s Duffy.”
“I know who it is,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “How’d it go?”
Things had become crazy-good with Connor since California.
As it so happened, the spontaneous night together in the hotel room managed to tie up all the What are we? loose ends. My brain cut the endless string of questions, checked out of the insecure friend-zone concerns, and settled into a blissful state of euphoria.
Because—I couldn’t believe it—Connor and I were truly, genuinely together.
Everything about the friendship aspect of our relationship remained unchanged. We texted constantly when we weren’t together, busted each other’s balls on the regular, and it made me too damn happy.
He was funny, charming, sweet—he was everything.
But in addition to that, he was needy in the very best way.
He texted the same message every morning:
Connor: You should come over tonight.
And I did.
Every day that week I went home, made my dad dinner, then went over to Connor’s. For the sake of my father, I didn’t sleep over (which was ridiculous because I was an adult, right?), but it was a technicality because every night I crashed with him and then snuck back into my house around four.
My dad wasn’t an idiot, so odds were high he was aware of all of it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it any other way.
And I found it adorable that Connor was the mastermind behind the ridiculous plan to sneak around. He liked my dad so much that he didn’t want to piss him off, and something about that was too endearing for words.
“I honestly have no idea,” I admitted into the phone, forcing back the emotion that threatened to creep out.
“It was filled with scary stuff like talk of lung transplants and how severe the situation is, but the doctor also told us different ways to treat it, like keeping him on oxygen and some medications we can try. So I’m getting together with my brothers tonight to try to drill down into how severe we actually think this is.
The doctor gave us a lot of worst-case scenarios, but I don’t know the genuine prognosis.
Joey is going to call him and see if he’ll give us some more information now that my dad isn’t with us. ”
“God, that sucks,” Connor said, voice sober.
“Yeah,” I agreed, feeling slightly numb. It was too much to process. “It’s not going to be a fun conversation, but if you want to meet me and my brothers for a beer later, we’ll be at the PNA at seven.”
“What the hell’s a PNA?” he asked.
“Polish National Alliance. A bar in a basement, basically,” I said.
“All right,” he said, not even pausing to think about it. “See you there.”
—
“So here’s what Dr. Sanchez said. He has no way of knowing the future but if he had to guess, he’s giving Dad five years before he might need a lung transplant.”
“Oh my God,” I said, stunned. “Five years? So do we need to start figuring out things like getting on lists and what his insurance covers? That’s not a lot of time.”
“Wait,” Joey added, shaking his head. “He prefaced it by saying Dad could respond really well to some of the medications and steroids, so that could slow down the decline dramatically.”
“So, what…we just roll with it?”
I reached for my beer, the words “five years” playing over and over again in my head.
“I think so, because get this—he said Dad called him. Dad called him for a prognosis and he knows all of this.”
“He knew before today?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Joey said, nodding. “He set up today for us.”
“Oh shit,” I said. “What does that mean?”
“Dr. Sanchez said Dad is very okay with everything. He had a lot of questions and he’s just, like, Joe Cool about it and is all Let’s see how the next five years go.”
“ ‘Very okay.’ What does that mean? Like he’s ready to go meet Mom or something?”
My voice shook as I spoke because I hated this. I didn’t want my dad to be Joe Cool about something he shouldn’t have to be Joe Cool about. I wanted him plowing our roads in the winter and telling me about the pH levels in the water supply and busting my chops every time he had the chance.
I didn’t want him to be sick for the rest of his life.
And I was a selfish, terrible daughter, because in the midst of all the sadness over what my dad’s reality might be, I couldn’t help but think about how this played into my life. If his health was going to decline over the next five years, I couldn’t move out, right? I mean, I would never.
Which meant I was just going to be living at home with my dad forever.
“Fucking unlikely—it’s Dad we’re talking about,” Joey said, shaking his head. “He’s stubborn and strong as shit. Him saying ‘Let’s see how it goes’ just means he’s accepting his issues and rolling with the punches, Duff, come on.”
I nodded, slightly reassured, but fixed my gaze at my lap, where my hands were clasped in worry. When I looked back up, my heart jumped at the sight. Connor was walking into the PNA, looking like the most beautiful giant I’d ever seen.
“What’re you drinking, Cunningham?” Ty asked when Connor approached us.
“Heineken,” he said, grabbing the empty stool beside Matty. “Thanks, man.”
“You just missed the depressing part of the conversation,” Joey said, grabbing his Manhattan.
“Did you talk to the doctor?” Connor asked. His eyes were still on Joey, so I was surprised when he gently coaxed my hands out of their death grip of anxiety and nestled my left hand in his.
Joey’s eyes narrowed, like he was surprised I’d told Connor. “I did, and we’ve got a guesstimate of five years before he needs new lungs.”
“Oh shit,” Connor said, looking as stunned as I felt.
“Oh shit, indeed,” Joey said. “But the consensus is that medication could keep him kind of where he’s at for longer than five years, so I think we’ve collectively decided to play it by ear and not make ourselves crazy.”
“That sounds wise,” Connor said, nodding. He leaned closer to me and asked, “You okay?”
I nodded, swallowing hard because his concern made me feel a tightness in my chest. “I am. Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” he said, and as I looked into his worried gaze—worried about me—the moment felt slightly overwhelming.
It was foreign, this feeling of leaning on someone, and it kind of felt like something monumental was happening between us, the way he was included in this pivotal moment for my family.
The tightness in my chest blossomed into a comforting warmth as he slid his fingers into mine and squeezed my hand, and in that wordless gesture, I understood what he was saying: I’m here for you.
—
I knew I was in deep already, but then I questioned if I’d ever get out at all after he sent the text.
THE text.
Connor: I’d like to take you out on an official date next weekend.
I replied: I’m listening…
Connor: You up for some zombie hunting…with paintball guns?
My boyfriend—my amazing fucking boyfriend, ladies and gentlemen—found a pumpkin patch that had an “extreme zombie experience” add-on. We were going to be dropped off in the woods with only our backpacks and paintball guns, wherein we would hunt, and be hunted by, a team of rabid zombies.
I wasn’t sure if a more perfect date had ever been suggested, and if the excursion turned out to be even a fraction of the fun I was imagining, I would surely never be able to look at another man again for the rest of my life.