Preston
Losing Shannon was the single worst thing that ever happened to our family. It was a shock, blindsiding us all.
But if I had to pick the second worst thing to happen to our family, these past few weeks are a definite contender. It hasn't been one single calamitous event, just a constant, steady stream of bad news on top of more bad news.
My parents' crushing meeting with their lawyer where they were told they'd burned through their retainer and would need to find more money before he'd take another step.
Dad's doctor telling him the new medication wasn't working and they were running out of options.
And me?
My headaches are now a daily, constant thing, and my vision has seriously deteriorated, it feels like almost overnight, to the point where I've lost most of my peripheral vision, and what's left in front of me blurs the moment the light drops.
The doctor warned me that this could happen.
But me being me, I took my vision holding up and there being stretches of time when the headaches went away as signs that maybe it wouldn't. That maybe, through some miracle or misdiagnosis, my sight would hold up for a lot longer, or maybe not even worsen at all.
Wishful thinking, which I'm starting to realize is something I need to let go of. It's not helpful at all.
"You have to eat," Mom insists, pointing to the barely touched bowl of oats in front of Dad.
"I have," Dad argues.
"Two bites is not eating, Eric."
"What do you want me to do? Make myself sick?"
I've been using voice-to-text to message with Andre from the day spa, and I stop, taking in my frustrated, tired, and emotionally drained parents. They're way past the point of happy la la, so it's time for me to step in and do something.
"Mom, why don't you go out this morning? You've got errands to run. Take your time, grab a coffee somewhere, and just…relax and take some time out for yourself. I'll stay with Dad, and I'll make sure he eats something."
Mom drops her head into her hands and bursts into tears.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she keeps repeating as I get up from the table, cross the tiny kitchen, and wrap her up in my arms.
"It's okay. You're doing your best. We all are."
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Dad's feeble frame struggling to push out of his chair. He makes his way over and wraps his arms around both of us.
"It's ten all. Come on, Dad. This next point decides who wins."
He looks at me with a sad smile. After her mini breakdown, Mom's gone out to do a few things.
Among all her errands, I made her book herself in to get her nails done, too.
Despite protesting about it being a waste of money they don't have, I managed to convince her to go.
I also slipped a fifty into her purse, so I expect to hear all about that when she gets back.
But I don't mind getting in trouble for that.
She's been focused on Dad for so long now that she's been neglecting herself.
A set of acrylic nails isn't going to do a damn thing to stop her husband from wasting away before her eyes, but at least it might give her a few minutes to not be consumed by it.
"You ready?" I ask, and Dad nods feebly.
He's humoring me, I know it. Even a game of Table Tennis Touch on his trusty iPad isn't enough anymore to get him out of his funk.
But it's the best I can do with a monster headache pressing into my temples so hard it feels like my skull wants to break out.
At least the high contrast and the size of the ball means I can still play it without straining, which is more than I can say for most things these days.
I hit go and, after a few plays, let him win. "Congratulations!"
He manages a small smile then tucks the iPad away. "Thanks, son."
I glance down and blink at my watch.
There's an unread message notification I assume is from Andre, but I leave it for the moment.
It's almost twelve. Dad really should have something to eat.
I promised Mom I'd make him something, but at the same time, I don't want to nag him.
It's so weird seeing the man who used to be so big in my eyes, a firefighter, my own personal hero and role model, wasting away, weak, a shell of the man he used to be.
"I'll make you a deal," I say, getting up. "I'm going to make myself a sandwich for lunch. I'll tell Mom you had the whole thing if you eat at least half of one."
His smile grows a little. "The two of you, I swear."
I stick my hand out. "Do we have a deal?"
He slips his into mine. "Deal."
I make the sandwiches, appreciating Mom's homemade large-font labels she's stuck on everything—the jam, the peanut butter, the mayo, the cheese—while Dad reads the news on his tablet, grumbling about something under his breath every couple of minutes.
"Anything interesting going on?" I ask.
"The world's on fire."
I pick up a tomato Mom pre-sliced and cover the bread with it. "Ah, so the usual, then?"
He chuckles as I place two sandwiches in front of him. "What's this?"
"One's a PB&J, and the other is a twist on one of Vadim's favorites, thinly sliced kielbasa with tomato but on white bread instead of rye since I know you guys only eat the white stuff."
"How are things with you and Vadim?" he asks, taking a small bite. I smile. Any bite's a win in my book. "Must be hard being away from him for so long."
I take a slow chew of my own sandwich to stall for more time.
With everything that's going on in my parents' lives with the lawsuit and Dad's worsening condition, it's given me a slight reprieve on the Vadim front.
They know about our nightly calls, and Mom asks after him every morning, but I've somehow managed to avoid getting into any deeper conversations about him.
Or us.
The real, actual truth is that we're closer than we've ever been. But that's only because prior to me moving in with him for a few days, we were complete strangers. I can't reveal that to Dad, but maybe I can share a little of the truth with him.
"It's actually not too bad. We're still pretty new, so it's nice continuing to get to know each other just by talking."
"I'm glad to hear that. I've been feeling guilty I was taking you away from him and your whole life back in Reno."
I stop eating and reach across the table, placing my hand on top of his. I stare deeply until I'm focused on his hazel eyes and say, "Dad, this is where I want to be. Don't you feel guilty. Not even for a second."
"But what about your studies? You're so close to finishing."
"What's the point? Last time I checked, there isn't a whole lot of demand for blind physical therapists."
His breath catches in his throat. "Preston."
"It's true, Dad. Let's be real. I was completing the course as a distraction, to help me put off dealing with my inevitable reality for a little while longer. It stopped being about becoming a therapist a long time ago."
He takes another tentative bite. "Have you told Vadim about your…situation?"
"No." I shake my head. "I-I'm not ready to deal with that."
"Are you worried about how he'll react?"
"No." It's strange to say, but for a guy I haven’t known all that long, I'm certain he won't react badly. "I just want to have one last area of my life that this thing doesn't bleed into."
I can see him wrestling with what to say next. He takes another tiny bite, which I sense has more to do with taking a page out of my stalling tactic playbook than anything else.
"I can relate to that."
"You can?"
"Yeah. I keep a lot of what I'm feeling from your mother.
The bad stuff, you know? I'm constantly nauseous.
I get dizzy spells. My chest and my back hurt all the time, and I can't get comfortable no matter how I sit.
And my breathing's gotten worse. Even walking to the bathroom leaves me winded.
Normally, she picks up on it anyway, but as much as I can, I try not to burden her with it. "
"Dad, you should tell her if you're feeling bad. We want to help you."
"The same way you're telling us how you're really feeling?"
"What?"
"Come on, Pres. You've been hitting your meds pretty hard. I can tell by your face the headaches are back. And you're squinting a lot, too."
So much for me thinking I was flying under the radar.
"Does Mom know?"
Dad nods. "She sees you doing that happy la la thing—"
"The thing I got from you, I might add.
He lets out a small, hollow laugh. "I guess you did, yeah." Then his tone turns serious. "We're both running out of time, Pres. We should probably stop pretending everything's fine."
His words slam right into my chest.
He's right, of course. I've put off dealing with my situation for way longer than I should have, way longer than any normal person probably would have. I still don't feel like I'm ready or equipped to deal with it, but I'm also starting to realize that I don't think I ever will be.
"We'll get through it, Dad. We're strong." He nods his head in agreement. "And well done," I say, pointing to his plate. "Two more bites, and I won't have to lie to Mom about you eating a whole sandwich."