by Dave Pelzer
From the right side of my shoulder I could feel a firm but gentle squeeze. I smiled, knowing Father had snapped out of his trance. “I’m here, Dad. I’m right here,” I said with a wave of relief. Patting the hand, I nearly jumped off the bed when I discovered it belonged not to Father but to the nurse Steve.
“We need to talk,” he said without the slightest trace of embarrassment.
“But my dad . . . ?” I asked, thinking I could not leave his side.
“I’ll stay,” Mrs. Turnbough said, as she now stood over my father.
When we were both outside of the room, Steve carefully closed the heavy oak door. “What’s wrong with him?” I demanded. Feeling my anxiety take hold, I pressed for hard answers. “What type of medication do you have him on? How come he doesn’t recognize me? Is it the drugs? How long will it be until he gets better and gains some weight? When do you expect him to be released?”
“Hey, man,” Steve said, raising his hand, “give it a rest. Didn’t your mother tell you . . . ? You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what? If I knew, I wouldn’t be bugging you!” I sarcastically shot back. “Just tell me, what in the heck is going on? Please!” I now begged, “I gotta know.”
Leading me down the corridor, Steve searched for a more private setting. At the end of the hallway, he stopped to offer me a chair. I refused, feeling the need to stand. “It was about four months ago when your father was admitted—”
“Four months!” I yelled. “Admitted? Admitted for what? Why didn’t anybody call me? Why now?”
“Please,” he interjected, “give me a chance. Your father . . . he wanted to keep things discreet. A lot of patients are like that. Anyway, it was only after we ran all the tests that our diagnosis was confirmed. David, your father has cancer. I’m afraid it’s terminal. He’s in the advanced stages. I’m sorry.” Steve reached out for my hands. “There is nothing we can do.”
“Hang on!” I said, stepping away from his gesture. “What do you mean, terminal? I don’t get it. . . .”
“David,” Steve said in a deliberate, slow voice, gripping me by the shoulders, “your father . . . he’s not going to make it.”
“You mean . . . you’re saying he’s going to die? My dad is going to die? No way!” I shook my head in complete denial. “Can’t you give him a shot of something . . . or I thought there’s some kind of chemo treatment. If it’s money you need . . . just don’t let him die. Not now. Please!” I begged, as if he alone decided the fate of my father.
“David, listen, chill for a sec. I don’t know, no one knows exactly how long your father has, but,” he emphasized in a strong tone, “the thing I do know for certain is this: your father is not going to make it. And there is nothing, nothing, that you, I, or anyone else can do about it. Come on, you’re not a kid. You understand these things. It’s a fact of life. Your father’s lived a full life, and now it’s his time.” Steve paused to collect his thoughts. Looking at him, I realized the immense strain he was under and how hard he was trying to help me. For a brief moment I wondered how many times a week he spent with others like me. I felt foolish and ashamed. “David,” he said, taking my hand, “I am sorry. I truly am.”
My thoughts refused to come together. Whatever reserves of energy I had left suddenly disappeared. Finally, at the one time I needed to be in control, to be strong, I found myself completely, pitifully helpless. I had so many questions, but it took everything I had to form a single sentence. I simply stood in front of Steve like a zombie. I wanted to release everything and cry. A heartbeat later, I suppressed the urge. “Four months?” I asked incoherently. “You’re telling me my dad’s been here that long? How long has he been . . . like he is now? Why can’t he talk? Is he doped up? I mean, he acts like he doesn’t even recognize me. . . . I don’t, I just don’t understand,” I stammered. “I just wanna know. That’s all.”
“Well,” Steve began, sliding a chair for me next to his, “as I was saying, your father checked in a few months ago. Since then his condition has rapidly deteriorated. The growth was primarily centered on the side of his neck, but has since spread to his throat. He is on medication, and under the circumstances I’m sure you can understand why. That is the reason he lacks discernment. If we take him off the ‘meds,’ his understanding might improve, but the pain would be unbearable.”
“So . . . he’ll never be able to say anything again? Ever . . . ?” I asked as my voice trailed off.
“That is correct. Not any longer,” Steve replied, nodding his head.
I sat on the edge of the wooden chair, rubbing my hands together, wondering what I could do to comfort Father. For once in my life, I was actually glad when I thought of Mother. With all her diabolical, scheming tactics, she would know how to deal with Father’s situation.
Breaking the silence, Steve spoke up. “Ya know, when your dad first checked in, I don’t think he fully understood the seriousness of his condition. A great deal of patients are like that. They won’t allow themselves to be examined until it’s almost always too late. Call it embarrassment, ignorance, ego, whatever. But please know that we did all that we could for your father. It’s important for you to know that.”
“Yeah, I understand. Thanks, but,” I probed, “was he able to speak when he first came in?”
Steve barely nodded his head.
“So, why didn’t he call anyone?” I inquired.
“He did.” Steve frowned. “He must have, right after he was admitted, ’cause his other son, your brother Ronald, came over to visit. They spent a few days together. I guess he’s in the military, too.”
Ronald? I gasped. Ronald, the oldest of my four siblings, who I hadn’t seen since my rescue in 1973, had finally escaped Mother’s wrath a few years ago by joining the army as soon as he turned eighteen years old. I hadn’t thought of Ron in years. “He was able to talk? I mean, talk to Ronald?”
“Well, as much as he could. Your father was in a great deal of pain. It was soon after your brother’s visit that he lost his ability to speak,” Steve gently explained.
“How long ago . . . I mean, when Ronald came to visit?”
“Uhm, I have to say about two, almost three months ago,” Steve answered.
“What about the others? Mother and my brothers, Father’s firemen buddies? Were they able to talk with him? I mean, my father was coherent? He knew who came to see him?”
“Hey, man,” Steve interrupted, “what others? Ronald was the only one who came to see him. No one else saw your father.”
“But Mother, she must have seen . . . ?”
“No one,” Steve adamantly stated. “And I mean no one. We didn’t even realize he was married until we rechecked his admission papers. I understand, after talking to your father, that they’re not exactly in close contact. There is a chance, knowing how your father guarded his condition, that your mother doesn’t even—”
“Oh, she knows,” I objected as my entire body suddenly tensed.
“I’m sure if she—” Steve countered.
“No way,” I said. “You don’t know. You don’t know her.”
“And how do you know?” he asked.
“Come on, Steve, think about it. Who do you think called my brother Ron and Mrs. Turnbough?” I returned.
Steve paused, then switched the focus off of Mother’s total lack of compassion. “Well, right now, since you’re the only relative available, you need to be thinking about your father’s arrangements.”
I still refused to admit I could be losing Father. “So . . . what can I do?” I asked. I somehow wanted to uncover something, anything that the staff had forgotten or overlooked which might be a cure to Father’s disease. Everything was hitting me at once. “So! Why doesn’t he look at me? Does he know, I mean, is he capable of knowing I’m even here?”
Steve sighed as if growing tired of my endless stream of questions. “For the most part, it’s fifty-fifty at best. He seems more coherent in the morning but, for the most part, no more tha
n a few minutes at a time. He’s at the stage when he drifts off quite a bit. Part of the reason is due to his meds. Again, this is all normal for his condition.”
The more the nurse talked, the more I began to feel a crushing weight bearing down on my shoulders. My mouth hung open as I stared upward at Steve.
“I know it’s a lot to deal with,” he stated, shaking his head, “but first things first. Spend time with your father. That’s priority one. I can walk you through the paperwork and all the other things you need to do when the time comes. For now, just spend time with your dad.”
“But . . . I, ah, I don’t know what to say,” I replied. “I mean, he doesn’t even know that I’m with him.”
“Well, David, he’s been in seclusion for nearly the entire time since he checked in. Your father doesn’t show it, but he’s scared. He knows he’s not going to make it. Anything you can do would mean the world to him. He’s all alone in there.” Steve gently scolded, “You have to do this! Just . . . just reminisce about all those good times you spent together. Keep him ‘up.’ He’ll know.”
Yeah, all those good times, I said mockingly to myself.
I thanked Steve for the umpteenth time, while he assured me that he would stay in close contact. But even as I reluctantly returned to Father’s room, I somehow believed that my dad would miraculously pull through.
As I cautiously reentered the Lysol-scented room, Mrs. Turnbough turned and flashed me a bright smile. “Your father and I are having a nice chat. I’m just telling him what a fine young man you’ve become,” she said as she patted Father’s hand.
“Oh, my God! He can talk?” I nearly screeched.
“Oh, you don’t need to blabber away to hold a conversation, right, Mr. Pelzer?” Alice returned in a smooth tone, as she continued to smile at Father. “I’m gonna leave you two dashing gents alone for now.” She laid down Father’s hand and eased out of the room.
Not knowing what to say or do, I felt paralyzed. For the first time in nearly two years, I finally had the chance to be with my father. As I stared at him, I suddenly realized I knew nothing about him. As long as I could remember, my visits with Father had probably amounted to less than ten, maybe twenty hours together, so now I wondered, had I been caught up over the last few years craving to love Dad, hoping he may love me in return? As a child, I so badly wanted to be with him, but watching Father’s body writhe as he struggled to breathe, I so desperately wanted to flee. Without warning tears began to swell in my eyes. “I, ah . . . I tried to write. I mean, I wrote . . . but I wasn’t sure of your address.” I shook my head, knowing I sounded like a complete idiot, but I stammered on. “I got your letter when I was stationed at the base in Colorado. I didn’t—I mean, I couldn’t find your address. I’m sorry. I truly am. I didn’t know. I would have come sooner. I just didn’t know.”
I turned away to compose myself. The last thing I wanted was to lose it in front of my father. My focus had to be his needs rather than my sorrow. After a few minutes of silence, I remembered Steve’s advice about keeping Father uplifted. Out of nowhere, a memory of Father and me, when I was a preschooler, sprang from my mind. I sat on Father’s bed while tucking the sheet under his frail back. “You may not remember,” I began, “but when I was four, maybe five, all of us went to the Russian River. . . . Early one evening, after dinner, you stepped out for a walk, and I tagged along behind you. . . .” The more I spoke, the more that fragment of time crystallized. “I snuck out and walked behind you, tracing your steps. I had those little Forest Ranger boots, and I tried to keep up while being as quiet as I could. I think I made it five, maybe ten feet away from the cabin, when you heard me. You spun around so fast I thought you were going to bite my head off, but you—” I stopped for a second to smile at Father’s face. “You simply extended your giant hand and scooped my fingers into yours. . . . Then, without a word, you let me walk with you.
“I have to say, as a kid that was pretty cool. At the time, between Ron, Stan, and me, to be able to hog a few minutes alone with you, well, back then that was all I talked about after our walk. It was that summer when I knew that’s where I wanted to live. The trees, the river, the smell, those precious moments with you, that’s when I knew. Back then, with you, I was safe. Back then you were my superhero; you were my Superman. I know it sounds kinda dumb,” I scoffed, “but that was the only time you held my hand. When you wanted to be with me.”
I stopped for a moment to close my eyes. As I did, my vision with Father faded away. I could feel my insides swell up. As a teenager in foster care, I couldn’t wait to become an adult so Father and I could work through our past. I had somehow hoped it would bring us closer together. I had no intention of making him upset or trying to use what happened to pin the blame on anyone. I simply thought if I had the answers, I would free myself from being doomed to repeat the tragedy of mindless hate and violence. Looking down at Father, I felt that Mother had deliberately manipulated this situation, calling me only after Father was unable to utter a single syllable.
“When I was at The House, I remember all those times you’d come home from the fire station for just a few minutes to check in on me. Mother didn’t know it, but I made sure I timed your arrival when I was washing the dishes so I could actually see you. Sometimes I got too far behind with my chores and . . . well, you know Mother . . . I paid the price when you were gone. I knew she’d never allow you to go down to the basement, so I’d wash the dishes over and over until I heard you open the front door.” I paused to stare directly into Father’s eyes. “You saved me. Even though it was only for a few seconds alone in the kitchen, it made all the difference. Sometimes if you brushed against me, I’d breathe in your Old Spice cologne. You were my invisible force field. I’m just sorry you, the boys—everyone—had to deal with so much crap. I somehow thought I’d be able to make it up to you—to everyone.
“You see, Dad, I knew. I always knew you came back to the house for me. And now, no matter what happens, I’m here for you. No matter what anybody says, I’ll protect your honor.”
From behind me I heard Alice close the door. Without breaking my train of thought, I nodded at Mrs. Turnbough and continued talking. For the first time in my life I was actually opening up to my father.
“As a kid, I was always proud of you being a fireman. I . . . I, ah, remember when Mom was a den mother for the Club Scouts and she drove the pack down to your fire station on Post Street. You looked so cool in your dark blue uniform, leaning against the polished fire truck. I think I was maybe in the first grade. It was then that I knew I wanted to be a fireman. That’s why I joined the air force.” I abruptly stopped. I didn’t have the guts to tell him the truth: I was a pathetic “Food Service Specialist.” Even if I lied, I knew Father would hear it in my voice. I so badly wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted to prove to him that I was not a loser, that I would not end up like . . . like . . .
A flash of embarrassment washed over me. The more I gazed at Father, the more I saw myself as a hopeless creature that, no matter how hard I tried, would not amount to anything.
As I cleared my head, my mind flashed to Father’s fireman badge. “Dad,” I asked, “Dad, do you . . . do . . . do you still have your badge? Your fireman’s badge?”
I pictured the time he had blushed with pride as he displayed his silver badge, with his identification numbers stamped above the seal. “It’s the only thing he has,” I said to Alice in a soft voice, “that showed what he did. After everything, it’s all he has. . . .”
“David!” Alice gently whispered. “Your father, look!”
My head snapped back toward Father. His head continued to twitch, but now more to the right, while his eyes strained as if telling me to look into . . . “The closet!” I exclaimed. “You want me to look in the closet?”
I searched Father’s face for any type of reaction. It seemed as if he was committing whatever strength he had on leaning toward the closet. I jumped from the bed and flung open the door. Neatly
hung were a pair of worn pants, a pressed shirt, and a heavy overcoat. My eyes darted to the bottom of the closet. I searched for Father’s Pan Am travel bag he had used to pack his belongings when he worked at the fire station. All I could find was a pair of scuffed shoes, brushed off and placed neatly together. An odd sense of fear began to overtake me as I flung open the drawers, only to find a pair of white socks. No clothes, papers, wallet, and no fireman’s badge. I turned to Father, shaking my head. In a moment of stillness, as he kept his eyes locked onto mine, I understood what he was trying to convey. I gave Father a slight nod before my hands patted down his coat. Part of me felt jittery for invading, of all things, my father’s privacy, while a deeper side couldn’t wait to find his prize. I found a set of official-looking papers that I stuffed into my back pocket without thinking. I could read them later. The only thing that mattered was Father’s badge. After two attempts, I slowed down my pace. I used the tips of my fingers to trace every outline, for any opening, while I studied Father’s face. I felt a small bulge. Without looking I yanked out a small, black-leather casing.
“Is that your father’s—?” Mrs. Turnbough began to ask.
“Yeah.” I interrupted as I opened the small case, revealing the silver emblem inches in front of Father’s twitching face.
Immediately his breathing eased. While holding his badge, I began to feel the magnitude of what it meant to him. The only thing that represented Father’s adult life—besides his broken marriage—was what I now held in my hand. Father shut his eyes as if in concentration. I then noticed his lips quivering. I bent my head down, but much as I tried, I could not decipher any sounds escaping his mouth. When his eyes blinked open they again locked onto mine. Out of fright I shook my head. “I don’t know!” I snapped. “I don’t know what you’re trying to . . .” Suddenly I felt the slightest sensation on my right hand. Glancing down, I saw Father’s bony crimson fingers wrapped around my hand clutching his fireman’s badge. As my hand began shaking from Father’s trembling, he sealed my fingers around the black leather case. Searching his eyes, I understood. I whispered into his ear, praying he could hear me, “As God is my witness, I will protect and keep your badge. I will carry it as a sign of honor.”