Mr.Nava is wheeling himself down the hallway towards me.The faded navy tats covering his hands blur as he propels himself forward.He’s heavier, a broad chest and torso with a slimmer lower half.When he stops in front of me, I squeeze his shoulder, not sure what to say.
“Shit, son.This just came out of nowhere.”He shakes his head.“Started wheezing and later that night he was complaining that he couldn’t breathe.I thought he’d be right as rain like always after a rest or at least hold on until you got here, but he just couldn’t hold off any longer, I guess.Still no change?”
“Nah, and the doctor doesn’t think he has long.A few days at most.”
“I’m sorry, Finn.He’d fight to stay with you if he could.”
I squeeze his shoulder again and nod.“I know.”Then I change the subject to him and how he’s doing, so I can keep my shit together.He fills me in on what his kids have been up to since the last time I was stateside, but he keeps it brief, probably because I look like shit, and he knows my mind is on my dad.
“I’m glad he’s had you here with him, this last year.”I’m earnest about it too.The last few times I did reach out, it was “Ben this” and “Ben that.”Had they been any younger and healthier, I have no doubt I would have been bailing their asses out of jail.
The thought makes me almost smile.
When I finally make my way to the exit, I note the changes I missed upon arrival: a new TV in the dining area, some unfamiliar faces, and new furniture.Pauline, as always, has the TV cranked all the way up as she watches the evening news and crochets while sitting in a rocking chair.A couple of the doors I pass in the hallway are decorated with red, white, and blue; some with flags, giving voice to the holiday I missed while on the flight here.
The last door I pass before the nurse’s station has a hand-drawn picture of stick figures underneath a cloud filled with fireworks.It’s a kid’s drawing and cute as shit.
When I reach the front desk, I lean on the elevated granite surface as I wait for Anita, my favorite nurse here, to pause in her form-filling and acknowledge me.She’s been my saving grace these last few years, always keeping me up to date on Dad’s treatments and moods, going above and beyond to help me find ways to save money or apply for assistance where I can.Things I never would have known about without her help.
Still filling out forms, she tilts her head and spares me a quick glance.
“Just wanted to let you know, I’m going to swing home for a bit, shower, maybe get a few hours of shuteye.”
“About time.Can’t be any use to anyone as tired as you are.”
There’s no denying it, so I don’t.
“How long was the flight?”she asks.
I rub my face, feeling every one of the hours I’ve spent awake and especially the hours I had to travel to get here, while riddled with worry that I wouldn’t make it in time.“Fourteen or so hours in total with layovers.”
“You driving?”
Hitching my thumb over my shoulder, I mutter, “Got the bike.My friend had it stored in his garage for me, and he and his wife met me with it at the airport so I could have some wheels as soon as I touched down.”
She stops doing paperwork and raises her head.Her dark-brown eyes throw daggers as she pierces me with a fierce expression.Stabbing her pen in my direction for emphasis, she says, “Go get some rest and a good dinner.But so help me, Sergeant McCown, if you crash on that damn bike, I will hunt you down, you hear me!”
I knock on the counter.The corner of my mouth lifts in a half-grin.“I’ll be careful.”
She mutters, “You better.Don’t you dare make this old woman live with that kind of guilt.”
“I’ve got my pager.Page me if there’s any change.”
“I promise.I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Turning, I head towards the automatic double doors, but shout over my shoulder, “You’re an angel, Anita.”
She laughs and points towards the ceiling, “From your mouth to God’s ears.”
I chuckle as I leave the facility.When the fresh air hits me, I draw the recent scent of rain mixed with desert musk into my lungs.The scent is grounding and brings back many memories.There’s nothing like it.The desert in Iraq is nothing like it is here in New Mexico.
A few minutes later, I’m accelerating through a turn on autopilot, my thoughts circling.I’ve been thinking about the past, back to when it all started, when the doctor first explained Dad’s disease.
At the time, I couldn’t for the life of me wrap my head around it.Any of it.My dad dying.The fact his disease, COPD, wasn’t curable.The fact that even with a lung transplant, the mortality rate was still astronomically high.
The doctor said the highways in his lungs were shutting down, one by one, as if it were some fucking motorway somewhere with exits and onramps, toll roads and roadblocks due to construction.He finished by explaining it would eventually be fatal.Fucking fatal.They could only work to sustain his health as best as they could and give him as many years as possible, but in the best case, he would have eight to ten years with me if we were lucky.
God, I’d been so angry.
