America, Present Day
I’d checked in at a nearby hotel, but I spent little time there. Instead, I’d brought most of my things to the hospital and made do with the oversize chair. It had been over a week, and with the intravenous fluids and antibiotics, I had expected my father to start getting better. He’d gotten worse.
The teal blue gown hung two sizes too big and washed out his already pale complexion. My heart twisted at how gaunt he’d become. He wasn’t eating and only took water through a straw, and even then, only in sips. And while medicine settled his chesty cough, it made him drowsy and increased his wheeze. My father was slipping away, and no one was doing anything.
A quick knock, then Pops’s door opened, releasing a ribbon of fluorescent light. A nurse my father liked walked through. Natalie? It was hard to keep track of names when I could hardly keep track of the day.
“Hello,” she whispered, trying not to disturb my father. “I’m here to check on our guy.” Her ponytail bobbed as she set to work.
It was always our guy, our friend and we think this or that. As if the hospital staff were one collective consciousness instead of a mass of individual souls. Perhaps a necessity. Our guy allowed an emotional distance. But our guy was my father, and he had a name. I wished they’d use it.
“Do you think you could get my father some oxygen?” I asked before she could slip away. Pops’s congested breathing had shallowed, sometimes with long pauses between. “I don’t think he’d want tubes, but you have the mask kind, right?”
“Dr. Amon is on his rounds, so he should be here any minute.” She shut the door, taking the answers and the light with her.
When the doctor finally appeared, I leaped up from the chair and herded him back into the hall.
“What is happening?” He craned his neck toward the room, alarmed.
“No, sorry, he’s fine. I just wanted to discuss other treatment options. The antibiotics don’t seem to be working—he’s getting worse.” Once I started, it was full steam ahead. I clenched my fist and pounded through my concerns and suggestions one after the next: the antibiotics, the resistance to them, his lack of appetite.
“Please.” The doctor held up his hands. “I understand—”
“No. You don’t understand.” I pointed inside. “That is my father, and no one is doing anything.”
“Please...” he said again, and guided me from the hall back inside the room. “Let us include your father in this discussion.” He flipped the dimmer up. Harsh light shocked the room. “Mr. Kovač?” Dr. Amon leaned over him. “Hello, Mr. Kovač. I am sorry to disturb you.”
Pops blinked, squinted and inventoried his surroundings.
“Yes. Hello, Mr. Kovač, hello.” Dr. Amon took a small step back, motioned to me. “I’m afraid your daughter is most upset. It appears you haven’t talked with her about your medical decisions, and I recommend we do before the others arrive.”
“What others?”
“Mr. Kovač?” Pops rubbed at his eyes, confused, so Dr. Amon repeated himself. My father shifted his head on the pillow in my direction, then gave a nod to Dr. Amon.
“Yes? Okay.” Dr. Amon spun to me and pushed back his shoulders. “Against my wishes, your father requested we not share his recent medical decision with you.”
“Wait, back up, what decision? And when did that conversation even take place?” I’d only left once or twice for the hotel. I got coffee a few times. Ice.
“After the CAT scan results.” Pops’s words crackled as he tried to prop himself up.
I wanted to help, but my feet rooted in disbelief. “Okay, so you want to make your own medical decisions, which is fine, but you didn’t want them to share anything with me?” I scrutinized Dr. Amon. “It’s not like his cancer is a secret.” I eyed my father, spoke louder. “Pops, that’s why we came here, remember? To discuss treatment options for your cancer.”
“Doc...” My father furrowed his brows. “Please.”
“Yes, all right.” Dr. Amon drew his palms together in thought, rested them under his nose, then flipped them free with his words. “Your father and I discussed palliative care after he received the test results, and as of this morning, your father informed me that was his decision. Do you understand this?”
I didn’t. My silence said as much.
Dr. Amon dipped his chin. “Your father has chosen not to continue treatment and opted for end-of-life hospice instead.”
“What?” The punch of his words was so quick and sharp it drew tears from the shock alone. I stepped back in disbelief.
Dr. Amon clarified that aggressive therapies would prolong suffering. He explained the interventions to provide symptom relief for a patient without curative options. He said other things, indistinguishable doctor things of what to expect, but my mind fixed back to my father’s words upon our arrival. My ship. That’s where my life began... Who’d have guessed it’d end there, too?
My father didn’t guess, he knew. And maybe underneath the tea, the vitamins and even the last desperate appointment with a specialist, I did, too.
That night I didn’t sleep. Instead, I peered out the hospital window and watched the sun break through the haze. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.
The storm was just ahead.