Father's Day

I see Dad. He pauses outside my hospital room. My eyes are closed but I can hear him outside the room. Our relationship has been tested these past months. I am fourteen. Our interests have been diverging for a while, but cancer has driven us further apart.


Travelling Dad

When I was diagnosed he believed everything would get better. He believed hard enough that I was afraid to not believe.

"She's not asleep. She's counting. It's how she copes." I hear the nurse quietly talking to him.

I draw a firm line between hospital time and my time outside the hospital walls. Dad-time is outside the hospital. He pushes me to dive back into life after each treatment. I worry about him seeing me as sick as I am today. Will he still think I can do anything if he sees me so sick that I don't have the energy to cry?

I can hear him take a moment, before entering, and breathe. He is trying to be present.

"I have a cold. That's why I'm not at work today." He feels the need to explains his presence in my room on a weekday. At thirty-six he's defending his choice to say home from work, as if his child in the room here isn't reason enough. "I was worried about coming in. Germs. How are you counts?"

I hear worry in his voice and wonder if he is looking for a reason to go home? "They're okay. But the nurse can get you a mask. Then we don't have to worry. I had my treatment about an hour ago. I should be feeling sick soon. Company will be nice."

I close my eyes. When I open them dad is sitting in the chair by the window.
The smell of the snack cart going down the hall means that any break in my concentration will mean the start of a cycle of sick. Today will be a victory if I can keep from throwing up more than three times.

"What can I do?" Dad asks.

"You can read to me. I started counting the holes in the ceiling tile, but the sunlight from the window hurts my eyes. I need to get thru the next three hours, then things will settle down. And by things I mean my stomach."

I try to be still while dad reads to me. If I move, the grip I have on the nausea won't be able to hold back the waves of sickness.

His reading is halting at first; the words and rhythms are a big step away from his comfort area. The sound of his voice is my anchor today. He reads me back to the world.

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