Goodbye
II.II.I
GOODBYE
Things were going great. I had finally got my routine down, I was in love, and I was about to embark on my third year of studies. This meant finally going around the hospital as we started our clinical rotations and getting to see a little bit of everything. Basically, a dream come true!
But as fate would have it, a week before university started, my dad had to be taken to hospital. He had been going in and out all summer long – being discharged as soon as he’d be stable, only to deteriorate after a couple of days or weeks. “What’s the point?” I’d ask myself. I would’ve offed myself the minute it became all about surviving rather than living if it were me. Why put up a fight if it’s a lost cause anyway? Is it out of fear of death? Is it out of duty to family? Or is it out of delusional hope, perhaps? Either way, no reason seems good enough to justify all that suffering to me.
And you want to know the cold, dark truth? The one that everybody going through something like this always thinks but rarely admits? It’s that death will not only bring relief to the dying, but also to their loved ones. His death would end all of this. I hated myself every time that thought crossed my mind. I was wishing the guy who sacrificed his entire life for me dead. After all, I was where I wanted to be because of him. I had everything I needed because of him. And there I was, acting as if none of that mattered.
Any other son would have been simply grateful for the opportunity to repay their debts. But me? I wanted out. I wanted out so desperately. I couldn’t take it anymore. Every cough, every yell of pain made me cringe. All of it was a constant reminder of his suffering and my powerlessness. I’d resent him for interrupting my studying. I’d loathe him for taking up so much of my time. But most of all, I’d hate myself. I’d hate myself for even allowing those thoughts to infiltrate my head.
And the worst part? I felt all alone. I was too proud to ever accept help from anyone. It had taken me over six months after he had been diagnosed with cancer to tell my closest friends. My rationale was that the minute I’d tell them, they’d start looking at me under a different light – one of pity. I still remember the night I told them about him. I remember it so, so vividly.
We had been drinking all night. Everyone laughing and having the time of their lives. And I couldn’t even bear to smile. It had been a particularly bad day for my dad. It was his second round of chemo, and he had spent the entire day vomiting his guts out, moaning in pain, crying. I had never seen my dad cry before. That was all I could think about. I wanted to get that out of my head, to get away from it all. Instead, I ended up thinking about everything even more.
One of my friends, of course, could tell something was wrong. It didn’t take much gauging for me to break down. I had never cried in front of anybody else back then, and there I was, bathing his shoulders in tears. That moment… that moment felt like coming up for fresh air after being underwater for so long. What to him must have seemed trivial is, to this day, one of my fondest memories.
Needless to say, the following day, I pretended as if nothing had ever happened. Brave, strong, stoic Marius was back. Every time they’d ask me about him, I’d just play it off as if everything was fine – as if I were fine. But I wasn’t. In hindsight, I can say I really wasn’t. Most of the time I wouldn’t even know it, but then I’d go out and drink, and all those feelings would resurface yet again. But I’d hold it all in. For years, I had held it all in.
I held it all in, and I persevered. I did everything I could do for him. I kept him company and was by his side. I helped him eat and wash up. I helped him with his meds. I helped him in and out of bed. I’d rub his sore bones and whatever was left of his muscles – the only thing that would give him relief. Harder still was making him smile. I’d tell him all about my studies, we’d talk about his beloved plants and our dogs – anything that would take his mind off the pain. I did everything I could do for him. I might not have done everything he needed, but I did everything I could. And looking back, that’s just as much as anyone can do.
The morning after he had been admitted, I got a call from my mother telling me to rush to the hospital. “It’s time,” she said, in a dramatic, almost movie-like tone. How naïve of me to expect relief instead of sorrow.
It wasn’t exactly sorrow either that I was feeling. It was emptiness. I felt as if that news had deadened every single fibre in my body. Before then, I thought I had handled grief well. I thought I was over it. Just five stages, no? Denial, check. Anger, check. Bargaining, check. Depression, check. Acceptance, check. But man, was I wrong.
Somehow, I managed to drive to the hospital and get to his room. But it wasn’t him I noticed first. Standing right there, next to my mother and dad was… my uncle? “What the hell is he doing here? Seriously? We don’t get to be alone with him now of all times? And where the hell is my brother?” But I didn’t make a scene. I mustered enough composure to ask them to give me a few minutes alone with him. Up until then, I hadn’t even looked at him. I couldn’t afford to break down right in front of them.
They left, and I was alone with him. There he lay – his skin yellow, his breathing laborious, his eyes staring at the nothingness in front of him, rattling. Have you ever heard the expression, “there is no dignity in death”? It’s something you’ve got to see in front of your very eyes to understand. I had no idea how much a person could lose. For four years, we had seen him turn from a stallion of a man to something resembling a bag of bones that would constantly moan in pain.
I knew it was too late for me to say goodbye. Whatever life was left in him was definitely not enough for him to listen to what I had to say. But I had to try. I had to tell him all that I couldn’t before. I grabbed the sides of his head, and while sobbing, I told him everything I had been too proud to say before. I thanked him for all he had done for us… for me. I thanked him for never looking back on the extraordinary life he gave up for us. And most of all, I thanked him for being the best dad I could have ever wished for. I told him to go, to get the rest he so deserved.
With his last breath, I felt a relief unlike any other. I went outside the hospital, lit a cigarette, and for the first time in months, I could feel a smile forming on my face. “You finally get to rest, huh? Goodbye, Dad…”
