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I think about all the time spent trying to make him proud, all of the lost time that he never showed me any affection. I think about the great strides we'd made that are such a contrast to the cold, distant, demanding father I remember from childhood and right up until his accident.
Now I have to wonder if the things that we've discussed were actually him, or if they were just signs that his brain was shutting down from infection. I already know that sepsis causes delirium. Maybe he’d lost it and those conversations were a product of that.
The machines around him continue to beep, their cold rhythm a song on repeat that I don't want to hear. I just want him to be better, to come home. The thought of him wasting away and then dying in a bed that isn’t his leaves me feeling ill.
Instead of dwelling on whether or not all of his recent revelations were a result of delirium, I decide instead to just feel comfort in knowing that he cared. He just didn't know how to express that he loved me. He didn't know how to be a father.
He wasn't perfect, but he's the only dad I have.
The man is practically a living legend, a brilliant lawyer, respected leader, a feared opponent in the courtroom. Other lawyers whispered to clients that he was a force of nature, that he was a Titan, and now he's in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines, barely breathing, barely alive, and slipping away by the second.
I'm not ready to lose him, but I know I don't have a choice in the matter. As my heart breaks into pieces, I realize I can’t handle this loss, the pain, the stress of what’s going to happen next.
I’m not ready to bury my dad.
How am I going to get through this?
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and at first I ignore it. But the buzzing continues several more times, and I pull the device out of my pocket and look at the screen. Emma is texting me.
Hello again!
How are you holding up?
How is Anton?
Need anything?
Her rapid fire of texts would usually bring me comfort, now they only bring pain. I’m not ready to share this news. I don’t even think I could bring myself to say or type them. As much as I want to talk to Emma and find some comfort in our bond, I don’t think I can.
I try to think about what words I can say and what I should tell her, but every time I type a message, I push the back arrow and delete all the words.
What do I say? How do I tell her my dad’s dying? I can’t even honestly answer her questions.
How am I holding up? I’m not.
How is Anton? Dying of sepsis.
Need anything? For my dad to not die.
There are no good, honest answers, and I feel exhausted. I don't want to burden her, or worry her, or make her feel she has to do something when there’s nothing that can be done. Telling her means she'll feel just as helpless as I do. I don't think I want to involve anyone else in this absolute shitshow of a situation. And right now, I don't think I can deal with her pain or emotions while struggling with my own.
Maybe it's time for me to make a decision.
A very difficult decision that I've been struggling with for a while now.
With my dad dying, it's time for me to put the firm first, before my happiness, before my wants, before anything that might take my attention away from the legacy my dad built.
Even as his words about selling the firm echo in my head, I can't bring myself to let go of this empire he sacrificed so much to build from the ground up. He put blood, sweat, tears, and countless hours into that place, giving up time he should have spent with my mother and with me into work instead.
Now it’s my turn to make the hard decisions.
It’s time for me to choose him.
Another text comes in as I think about what to do and say next. I hope I’m not bothering you. I just want to check in. Please give me a call when you can, I’m worried about you.
I wonder if she can sense that something isn't right. As I stare at the screen, I feel a surge of emotions, guilt, fear, sadness. I don't know what to do or what to say. Except I do, I just don't want to.
With a deep breath, I compose my message, stopping to read it before hitting send.
