denial

Driving through sterile suburbia, Fernando Ortega playing on the stereo, my father sitting by my side, still directing me as I drive.

A putrid pink hospital bucket in his lap; the windows rolled down, sun streaming on the window panes, the warm air blowing our hair out of place.

Silence.

We talk about everything but the thing we really want to talk about.

Death.

Staring us in the face.

Maybe if we don’t discuss it, we don't have to face it.

But we're driving to the chemotherapy appointment.

We sit in the waiting room; I work on economics. I try to concentrate.

Then we're called. The nurse leads us to a private room. We're given special treatment because my father is a doctor. A doctor who works there. A doctor who is fighting lung cancer.

I lie on a bed next to him -- countless tubes hooked up to him, fluids dripping. He goes in and out of consciousness. I pass the hours writing. Listening to music. Angry music.

We take a break for lunch.

Walk down the two flights to the basement cafeteria.

We sit and have lunch. Eating gross cafeteria food.

We try to pretend that everything is going to be okay.

Dad pushes away his food. He can't keep anything down.

He asks me to talk to him about anything on my mind; I refuse. In my stupidity, I refuse. I shut him out. And I hurt him. But it's too painful. He doesn't want to know about my life -- not when he's going to die. I refuse to burden him with the details.

We cry silently on the trip back. The way is too familiar. We've made this journey too many times before.

So weak, his daughter has to help him into the car. His hands shake. His body, decaying.

His eldest daughter, now the one who has to take care of him.

The roles reversed.

They know the days are numbered. But they refuse to talk about it. Maybe if they don't talk about the reality that is unfolding, it'll go away.

- Christen Patterson, written June 2005