31. Omar
Chapter thirty-one
Omar
I sat in my room, still decorated with all the youthfulness of a teen boy who attended boarding school, which meant it was about as sterile as the hospital back in Atlanta. Mother would never allow posters of movie characters or superheroes. I wasn’t even allowed those bits of childhood as a youngster. The furniture was made of sturdy wood and covered in soft quilts whose patterns flowed like the English countryside.
It wasn’t unpleasant. It just wasn’t me.
After nine days living under my parents’ roof, we had still not discussed Father’s health or the C-word bomb Mother had dropped some months earlier. Mother refused to discuss the topic. If I raised it, she would shoot me a withering glare, raise a hand like a traffic cop, and walk out of whatever room we happened to be in at the time. No words were exchanged. They served no purpose.
Father spent most of his time settling into his new office, meeting with ambassadors from other nations, attending parties and receptions, and doing whatever else was required of the official representative of our country in a foreign land.
Teto tried to talk about it, but the thought of her “baby boy” dying sent her into fits of uncontrolled wailing. Mother scolded me a few times, insisting I stop upsetting the old woman, saying her son’s health weighed heavily enough without me bringing it up.
Between the three of them, they were a perfect case study in classic British avoidance. It would have been unseemly to express our emotions, undignified to mourn where others might see or hear—never mind that those “others” were the very family who was supposed to support each other in such times.
Midway through my visit, I stopped trying. With one day remaining before my flight home—because Atlanta was home for me, not London—I’d given up on learning anything useful or being able to obtain even the slightest bit of closure. With the greatest regret, I accepted that Father would die while I was a thousand miles away without us ever having said our goodbyes.
As Matty would say, “That sucked ass.”
I was midway through packing my suitcase when a knock at my partially opened door brought my head up. Mother was standing in the doorway, her hair back, her dress immaculate, her arms crossed.
“Mother,” I said in greeting with all the warmth I could muster.
Her expression softened—a little. That was like asking stone to melt, but I took what I could get.
“Omar, may I come in?”
Fucking formalities. I wanted to scream.
“Of course. Would you like to sit?” I asked, following the script.
She stepped inside and lowered herself onto the corner of the bed, crossing her legs sideways like she was riding a horse in a lady’s saddle. I watched as she swallowed, looked away, picked at one of her fingernails, then looked up at me.
She was uncomfortable.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her flustered.
“Omar, we need to talk about your father.”
I eased myself down by the pillows and leaned back against the carved headboard. Socked feet followed me up as arms hugged legs against my chest. It had been many years since I felt like a boy, but in that moment, I couldn’t have been older than six or seven.
My heart couldn’t decide whether to race, pound, or still altogether.
“Um, okay,” I said inelegantly.
Mother eyed me a moment, then rose, rounded the bed, and sat next to me. In the most motherly gesture I’d experienced in decades, she placed a hand on my arm.
“I took him to the doctor again yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” I blinked in surprise. “He told me he had meetings all afternoon . . . and some event to attend.”
She nodded. “There was a reception for him at the French embassy, yes, but we cleared his schedule of those meetings. The doctor insisted.”
Shit. Doctors insisting on seeing patients was rarely a good sign.
Mother gulped again, then squeezed her eyes shut. If she had been any other woman, I might’ve expected a tear to fall any second. But this was my mother. That wasn’t possible. Some ice never melted.
And then a tear fell.
And her other hand flew to her mouth.
And her composure, carefully constructed of stone and mortar over decades of public service, shattered into a thousand pieces. We were in each other’s arms faster than I knew what was happening.
My own tears came next.
Then Teto, who had slipped into the room without either of us noticing, added her weathered arms to the embrace, her own sounds of loss contributing to our sorrow.
How long did we sit like that? How long did we hold each other? How long did we weep?
At last, when our eyes would rain no more, Mother stirred, and Teto sat back. The three of us wiped our faces and drew in deep, calming breaths. Mother groused about her mascara as Teto shook her head.
“What did the doctor say?” I managed to ask.
Mother had pulled back from our group hug, but one of her hands remained fixed on my leg. Teto lay on her side next to me, one hand wiping her tears, while the other stroked my other leg.
I was the cream in a maternal Oreo.
That errant thought made an awkward laugh slip out. Both women’s heads cocked at the same angle.
“Sorry, it was . . . I am a little overwhelmed. That’s all.”
Teto’s stroking turned into a squeeze I relished as a boy.
Mother’s eyes narrowed a second, then relaxed. “The doctor wants your father to try an experimental treatment. There is a trial in one of the teaching hospitals. This therapy could extend his life by as many as ten years.”
“Ten years?” I breathed out. Then my training kicked in. “With what odds? Trials are just that, unknown experiments hoping to prove something new. Did they discuss side effects? What about—”
Mother raised her palm. “None of that matters. Your father refused.”
Teto’s grip tightened again.
“What? What do you mean he refused? What kind of trial are we talking about?”
“The odds for success were small, and the cost in quality of life . . .” She trailed off as a fresh round of tears flowed. A moment later, she gathered herself enough to say, “Your father believes, if it is God’s will, he will prove the doctors wrong. If not, then God calls him home, and that is wonderful, too.”
Religion.
It strengthened so many. It offered hope and peace and guidance in a cruel world. There were so many things positive about faith. I had seen several cases where the positive mindset brought about by a patient’s faith gave them a stronger will to fight and live.
Father’s faith was absolute. If he had decided God’s will trumped medical knowledge and skill, nothing would move him. Short of a miracle, his days with us grew short.
My head fell against my folded knees.
I didn’t cry again. I don’t think I had any tears left. In fact, I don’t even think I was sad in that moment.
But anger bubbled beneath the surface.
“Is he not even going to try? Is he giving up? He’s given his whole life to serving others, to serving our country, and now, when he needs for others to serve him, will he toss his hands in the air and yell, ‘ Inshallah ,’ at the sky?”
“Omar—” Mother’s hand retracted from my leg.
“Don’t Omar me, Mother. He’s being a stubborn fool. If the doctors think they can help him, he should let them try.”
“Son, you don’t—”
“I am a nurse!” I shouted loud enough for even Teto to pull back. “I know what all of this means. And I was the boy Father put in the back seat while he lived his life for everyone else. Will he abandon me again? Will he just let cancer win and leave me here alone?”
The two women who I knew loved me more than anyone on Earth gaped.
“Why am I surprised? He hasn’t even cared enough to talk with me directly. He sent you two in here to tell me what is happening.”
Mother’s face grew stern. “Omar, your father—”
“My father is being an intractable old goat, and you know it. Is this what he wants? To just go away? Does he want to die?”
Teto surprised both Mother and me with one word, “Yes.”
Both of us turned to my grandmother. She closed her eyes for a long moment. When they opened, her voice was calm yet firm.
“This cancer is not new. Your father had fought this battle for many years, more than you know. There has been much pain, and more nights filled with worry and doubt than you . . . He is not making a rash decision. He is ready to lay down his sword. It is his time, Omar.”
Mother’s quiet sobs filled the room as Teto and I stared at one another, her eyes filled with the love and tenderness only a grandmother possessed.
“He seeks only to live his final days with peace in his heart and the dignity of knowing he served others well,” Teto said. “I know this is hard, hafed , but this is what your father wants, and we must respect his wishes.”
My mind reeled.
I wanted to argue, to fight, to scream at the sky and blame Allah or God or whoever was up there, if there was anyone up there, for their cruel curse upon our house. What loving deity slaughtered loyal servants or allowed them to die at the hands of a cruel disease?
How was that divine charity? How was any of this within some grand plan?
But Teto was right.
I knew it in my heart.
Father deserved the dignity of his own path, his own choice. He deserved to be honored, even in death.
I just wish, with his backbone steeled for his final days, he’d had the courage to face me in honest dialogue. Didn’t a son deserve as much? Didn’t I?