and the only thing keeping him alive right now are the machines hooked up to him.
It’s time, the doctor said, time to turn everything off, to say our goodbyes and yet, I don’t know what to do. Do I really just tell the doctors to shut off the machines that are making my dad’s heart beat? End the breath of air going to his lungs? Do I tell the doctors to call it quits when my dad never ever quit on me?
I know there’s nothing the doctors can do. There is no miracle in the works that could help me hear my dad’s voice one last time telling me he loves me, or seeing his eyes shine bright with pride when I walk into a room.
This is it.
I have no other choice than to say goodbye.
With a shaky voice, I say, “Aunt Carol, can you give me a second?”
“Of . . . course,” she answers, looking as pale as I feel. I help her out of the chair and she places a gentle kiss to my cheek before walking out of the hospital room and quietly shutting the door.
Instead of walking over to the hospital bed right away, I stand from a distance, observing the breathing tube inserted down my dad’s throat, the IVs poked in his cracked and crinkled hands, and the liver spots scattered across his arms. He’s so young and yet looks ancient . . . because of me.
I take a step forward, my legs feeling weak, my chest heavy with torment, and my mind berating myself for the thousands of practices and personal trainings my dad paid for to give me a chance at becoming something.
All for a dream.
A life lost for my goals.
Taking a seat on the bed, I stare at him and take his hand in mine, the feeling of his calluses across mine nearly sending me into a tailspin, the truth of what those calluses stand for splitting me in half.
On a sob, I lie across my dad’s chest and hug him. Cheek to his frail frame, I cry into his hospital gown. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t meant to leave me.
“I’m so . . . sorry,” I say, my throat so tight it feels next to impossible to speak. “I wish you would have told me, said something to me. I would have worked while training, I would have helped. I wouldn’t have . . . fuck.” I let out an ugly sob. “I . . . fuck, I wouldn’t have asked for so much. That new bat? I didn’t need it. Those replacement batting gloves? I could have used the ones with holes. I didn’t need the team sweatshirt in high school, nor did I need the spending money in college. I needed . . . you.”
I break down, my chest rattling, my shoulders shaking, my tears falling one right after the other. I can feel it, the numbness taking over. I can hear the cracking of my breaking heart.
“Instead of the latest bat on the market, I wanted you at my games. Instead of saving to send me and my friends to the amusement park over the summer break, I wanted to be on a lake with you fishing. Instead of you working two jobs, I wish you’d explained that it’s not about the brand glove or newest technology available to perfect your swing, because I would have gotten where I am with or without it. But I can’t go where I’m headed now without you.”
I never had him in the stands, but he’d always been a phone call away. Now, I won’t even have that.
No more replaying the game with him.
No more short emails, sharing an article he read about me.
No more random texts telling me how proud he is of me . . .
I wipe my face and lift up to look at my dad. I stroke his thinning hair to the side, evening out his part. “Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?” I whisper. “If I’m drafted, who will they show in the stands when I have my first major league game? Who’s the camera going to pan to when I get my first big league hit? You weren’t in the stands growing up, but I was hoping you’d be there when I could finally provide for you. But you won’t be there." I sob. Fuck, I hate this. “You won’t be there . . . because of me.”