麻豆

鈥淣ovember 2024鈥�

By Riley Parkhurst

BPM, DNR, Jaundice, Leukemia, Brain Cancer, “Will you still be late to Riley’s graduation?” That was the question that brought my dad to the hospital to get diagnostics on all of his vital organs. It was that day that my mom, my brother Connor, and I, at the age of 17, found out that he was going to die.

To be honest I wasn’t entirely surprised. My dad had been battling various forms of cancer since I was 12, namely leukemia and more recently brain cancer, the treatment of which had caused him to lose feeling from the waist down. In the weeks leading up to that day we had known something was very wrong. His pale skin, once so tan from working outside everyday, began to take a sickly yellow hue, along with the whites of his eyes. My mom denied it, but my brother and I knew what it was.

Jaundice. Liver failure.

However, it wasn’t until he asked my mom if she would still be late to my graduation, which had never been discussed as it was not for another 6 months, that my mom became alarmed enough to take him to the hospital.

Connor and I took a day off school, and after that, things went back to normal. I did my best to ignore it all, to not allow myself to be affected by it. I went to all of my classes, to rehearsal, and then back home. I was part of a show, for which we had been planning arrangements for my dad to come see. That didn’t matter now. The show came and went and he was still alive in hospice.

My friend asked me and a couple others if we would help him put together a film for one of his classes, and of course we agreed. The morning of the shoot, my mom had left early to see Dad in the hospital, which wasn’t uncommon. In fact, most days she was there, either going in early or staying the night. There was, however, a strange urgency that she carried with her as she left that, for some reason, I did not think about until later that day. Not long after that I left for the shoot. I was just excited to hang out with my friends and to get away from my house.

Recording the film took a long time, but we had a few laughs along the way. About halfway through filming I got a text from my grandpa, telling me that I should go to the hospital to visit my dad. This struck me as strange also; my grandpa and my dad had never gotten along, ever. So, I told him I would be there in about an hour when the filming was over.

A half hour later, I got a call from my grandpa. He told me I needed to go now, and that he was bringing my brother too.

Connor and my Grandpa were already upstairs when I got there, and they said they would meet me to show me to the room. I had a little time so I decided to take advantage of the Starbucks they had downstairs. I knew something was wrong, I knew that my dad was going to die, I knew that it was strange that my grandpa had been the one to call me, that my mom had left the way she did, that she wasn’t the one who texted, but I don’t know why I didn’t act like it, why I didn’t go up the elevator myself and find them, why I sat at that Starbucks and waited for my drink to come.

As I picked up my drink from the counter, I noticed that they spelled my name wrong, Rylie instead of Riley. I texted my girlfriend I’ve unlocked a new spelling for Riley 💀 and then told her that I was just visiting my dad. Just then, Connor and my grandpa exited the elevator and I joined them.

I don’t remember how long the elevator ride was. I’m sure it was short but I feel like it must’ve dragged on in my head for ages as I began to truly think about everything that had happened thus far. The silence only added to it.

The elevator doors opened to reveal my mom on the other side, anxiously looking at her phone with tears in her eyes.

“Hey Mom, is everything alright?”

I didn’t need to ask that.

“We need to walk fast,” she said.

“Mom, what's happening?”

“Honey I don’t know.”

That short answer confirmed everything.

All of us knew, but no one wanted to say it, least of all my mom. The time was here.

We followed her as she walked down the hall, to the left, to the right, then to the left again, to a curtain pulled half way in front of a small room. In it was a hospital bed surrounded by medical instruments and in the bed was my dad breathing loudly and through his mouth.

“Dad?” I said.

He didn’t respond. His eyelids were shut but his eyes darted around visibly underneath them. I should’ve cried. But I didn’t. I always thought the sight of him, heaped on that bed, unconscious and conscious at the same time, dying, would make me cry, but it didn’t.

“How much time does he have?” I asked. I didn’t take my eyes off my dad.

“The doctors said he could have hours or days. They don’t know.” my mom replied.

He had three minutes.

Three minutes until his body would sit up in his hospital bed as if someone had woken him. Three minutes until orangey-yellow vomit would dribble out of his open mouth. Three minutes until he would collapse back into that hospital bed, as if he had fallen back asleep. Three minutes until a nurse would clean up that orangey-yellow vomit off of his face and clothes. Three minutes until she would check his vital signs to make sure nothing had changed.

Three minutes until she said the words “I’m so sorry.”

The tears followed soon after, from all of us. They came and went and came and went and hadn’t they said hours or days? You always reason with yourself, tell yourself there’s more time, and when there isn’t, you ask yourself what could’ve been if there was. It’s easy to lose yourself in the thought. But you can’t change things that are already done, can’t give anyone more time than they have. What’s important is how you let it shape you.