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I nod my head. “Thank you for being so straightforward.” I appreciate their willingness to share this information with me even as pain grips my heart and squeezes so hard I can barely breathe. “Can I go see him? Is he awake?”
Once again, the doctors glance at one another. Then the one that had been very straightforward nods his head cautiously and speaks in a gentle voice. “He's in rough shape, so prepare for that.”
I take a deep breath and push open the heavy wooden door to my father's room. My once robust father looks small and frail hooked up to various beeping devices and machines. His face is pale with bruising and blood along one side, his hands are swollen and are simultaneously red, purple, and pale in a marbled pattern that leaves me aching. His eyes are closed, and I wonder if he’s sleeping or unable to open them due to swelling and the severity of his injuries.
Gone is the powerful, confident lawyer who built an empire with his law firm. I feel a surge of emotion, a mix of fear, anger, and guilt, as well as a deep-seated need to make him proud and to carry on everything he worked so hard to achieve. He doesn’t deserve to go out like this, and I’m not ready for him to go.
Despite all of our difficulties and issues, the man is still my father and I still love him. I could always count on him, even if his support came with strings attached, and now it’s my turn to be someone he can count on.
There are so many questions I wish I could ask him. But the one that comes to the forefront of my mind is that I wonder if he's proud of me or if he regrets pushing me so hard to follow in his footsteps.
But thoughts like that aren't going to help me in this moment, so I try to shove them into the corners of my mind and focus on my next steps.
My nose tickles with the scent of disinfectant and cold sterility. I hardly noticed the bland white walls or the dim flickering lights. Over the beeping of machinery, I can hear people shuffling around, walking while talking in hushed voices, and a muffled, distant sobbing.
I zero in on the beeping of machinery, the fragile sign of life that has me clinging to hope.
Unsure what to do now, I pull up a chair and sit by his bedside, gently taking his cold, swollen hand in mine. I just want to be there for him. I don't have any words to say; I just hope he can feel my presence and knows that I'm at his side.
I'd hoped that in this moment all the good memories of our lives would crowd my mind, but that's not what happens. Instead, all of the angry arguments, the times he criticized me, made me feel like I wasn't good enough shout at the forefront of my brain.
Actively pushing those thoughts away, I try to instead think about all the times he praised me, how he supported me, the times that he showed me he cared; I could always count on him to be there for me when I needed him most, even if his support came with strings attached.
I have no doubt that he was just trying to prepare me for the harsh realities of the world and to shape me into a better person and a stronger lawyer.
The door of his room opens and I glance up in time to lock eyes with Emma. “I'm sorry,” she says, sounding flustered. “I can leave if you'd like privacy.”
Seeing her makes me remember our time together and brings an overwhelming sense that any potential future we might have shared is gone now. I want to ask why she's there, but she seems quick to tell me as she reaches into her leather satchel. “I have his will and power of attorney information.”
“Please tell me he doesn't have a DNR,” I said, the words flat.
Her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline and she shakes her head, obviously unsure why I’d ask that. To be perfectly honest, it was a weak attempt at a joke, but I'm not feeling any humor.
“Sorry, it was a bad joke.” I don’t have the energy to explain further than that, but she nods her head as if she understands.
“Grief makes us act strange sometimes; you don’t owe me or anyone else an explanation.” She walks over and puts her hand on my shoulder. I let my father’s hand go and stand up, turning to her. She lets out a little sigh, then throws her arms around me in a tight, comforting hug as she whispers in my ear.
“I’m so sorry, Clifton.”
Her support makes me want to cling to her and never let go, but I need to put some distance between us because everything is different now. But before I can say anything, I hear a faint voice. I turn and see my father’s eyes are open, and he’s watching us with a weak smile.
“Clifton, Emma, you’re here.” His words are barely audible, and I drop back into my seat and gather up his hand.
“Of course, we’re here,” Emma says, and I’m grateful because there’s a lump in my throat stopping me from speaking or breathing easily.
He nods, his gaze locked on me as he gives my hand a gentle squeeze with the little strength he has. “I’m sorry for how hard I pushed you. In my work desk, bottom drawer, there is something for you. In case I don’t pull through this.”
He knows he’s teetering on the edge of survival, and that almost breaks me.
“You pushed me to make me a better man.” I understand his reasons, even if I didn’t agree with them.
“I pushed too hard. Drove a wedge.” He hesitates, coughing and wincing in pain as the beeping on one of the monitors speeds up.
“You did your best and I don’t fault you for that.”
He offers a weak smile. “You better remember you said that when I walk out of here.” Despite the false strength in his voice, I can see in his eyes that he doesn't think he’ll leave this bed. And that stabs into my heart like a poison-coated dagger.
“I will,” I whisper as his grip on me fades. “I love you, old man,” I tease, but he’s no longer awake. Only the beeping of the machines tells me he’s still alive. A sense of peace fills me and I glance up at Emma. Responsibility courses through my veins and I accept the weight that rests on my heart. I’m left to carry on his legacy and honor his name, and there’s no honor in breaking the rules of the company my father built.
