finding giants

Happy birthday, dad.

The thought keeps creeping in. She’d have to come, right? She’d have to call? If I got hurt, just enough, badly enough, if something happened - she’d show up, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she?

But it’s been two months since she’s responded to anything, and I have to remember.

Sometimes I think all I am, all that’s left of me now, is grief. Grief for dad. Grief for Abbie. Grief for the house. Grief for mom. Grief for home. Grief for everything that already wasn’t, grief for everything that will never be.

It’s the undercurrent in everything, a blob of grief pretending to be a human.

All I hear is I can’t imagine, how strong you must be, you can get through this.

But I watched dad die my entire life, then all at once. We never had last words. I don’t remember the last time he spoke because in that last week, he didn’t. I rubbed his hands and feet, pooled with blood after so long staying still. If only I could give him a few days of mine. Just a little bit longer. Just to pretend.

I almost called mom yesterday. Old habits - to see how they were doing, to ask if dad was awake. But it’s been 22 Saturdays since he stopped breathing, and 33 days since she’s messaged me back.

That’s what I keep repeating, at least. I watch him die. Is that normal? It was just me in that room. Always, just me.

I went to talk to him, before he died. That morning the nurses came in, voices low, solemn faced. It won’t be long, she said. If there’s anything you need to say, you should say it. He might be holding on for something.

They left the room. Paul excused himself to the bathroom.

I went to dad.

Hi, dad. It’s me. It’s Stephanie. I’m here, like I promised. I’m here. I’m here.

It’s okay, okay? It’s okay if you have to rest. I’ll take care of mom. I’ll look out for Nicci and the kids. And I’ll… it’s like you said. I’m the one you don’t have to worry about.

I’m here, okay?

I’m here. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.

I went back to my air mattress and texted my mom.

No answer.

Ten minutes later, Paul went to the bathroom again.

I got up, and made my way to the bed.

There was so little of him left.

“Hey, dad…?”

He took a breath.

“…dad?”

Stillness.

Just like that.

I knew. I hated knowing. But his breath had been so irregular, his movements so sudden - maybe this was just another scare, just give him a second, maybe

but my heart knew there’s no more maybes. There’s no being a better person than he was. There’s no comfort, no advice, no moment of being seen.

The dog needs you.

The cats need you.

Boyfriend needs you.

Your friends need you.

I’m looking for them too, Rox.

On the couch. The room is cold. A blanket from home, but forgot to bring a pillow. My mask is damp from snot and tears. The room is nice. Large paintings, a full table to eat at. I wonder how many others have died here. It’s just me and him.

80 pounds. That’s what the nurse says he weighs now. What little is left of him is sunken in. Steadily disappearing. The only sounds in the room are the air conditioner and his unsteady rasping. How long can someone live like this? I find myself counting, between the breaths. I don’t know if I'll be relieved when he starts again. How can someone live like this?

He hasn’t eaten in 5 days

10:45 am

terminal aggression

no swallowing

July 21st, 2021

What

Just