Blinking
Excerpt from a zine about my dad, who has been battling cancer since 2022.
From the view of my too-small chair, the room stretches before me like a river with tributaries of gray vinyl wood grain that run vertically, halting abruptly at the administrative counter before sprawling horizontally down the room. It's a landscape intersected by banks of infusion recliners, each an island of battle. More trivial hurdles echo in my mind, barely visible when held up against the towering mountain Dad and these other people must scale. My preoccupation with trivialities - like the enigma of the Wi-Fi password, a puzzle whose solution suddenly seems as inconsequential as the term "Wi-Fi" itself - hangs heavily over my head. I'm annoyed by myself for dwelling on such minutiae in the face of the monumental journey my dad undertakes.
While I distract myself with my social anxieties about asking for a password, we are surrounded by people receiving potentially, hopefully, lifesaving or life-extending treatment. Some people talk and share updates about their treatment, and some watch videos on their phones, but most people are quiet.
Across the room, a Purple Heart veteran is complaining loudly to everyone near him about the young nurse who jabbed him too hard while giving him a shot. Nearby, a nurse is lecturing a young person and their mom. She's saying the child must urinate in a cup before treatment for testing. "That's just how it is." The young person's voice is tense with frustration and tears as they explain they have nothing to give. Though the nurse eventually leaves, the tears keep flowing as the mother tries to console her child.
Here's my dad in the middle of it all. I've noticed during this process how statue still he is. He always has been, I guess, but it seems marked now. He's lying back, watching with concern as a man who has brought in his partner for treatment stands around awkwardly, looking for a chair. My dad looks like he can't rest until the man has a chair. Like he wishes he could get up and help him find one. He can't. His neck remains tense with the effort of keeping his head up until, finally, a nurse brings the man a chair. My dad gives me a thumbs up and rests his head on the crinkly, thin pillow. I wonder what proportion of his concern is general empathy and kindness, and how much is a former hospital administrator peeking out. He's told me a few times how different it is to be a patient than it is to be a staff member. He's always quick to compliment staff when he thinks they're doing a good job, but doesn't complain when he believes they aren't.
Without his dark swoop of hair, he looks pretty pale. Later, it will grow back a snowy white. His tan from a few long summers in a row of being in the pool seems to have disappeared. His eyes are an opaque blue that seems extra dark today as they peek out from his tissue paper eyelids. He wants to sleep, but I know he wants to entertain me on some level, and he is worrying and wondering about the other people receiving treatment. I remark about his watchfulness, and he says, "Just keeping an eye on things." I chuckle, and he winks at me.
His eyes are barely open now, just a dash of stormy sea that appears, darts from one side to the other, and recedes under their veils. He's wearing one of my black masks that I buy in bulk. I've been wearing them for the last three years, anytime I'm anywhere with anyone. I was almost willing to let my masks go as we entered summer last year, but that inclination disappeared when my dad was diagnosed with cancer. Here in Texas, I remain one of the only people in most situations still wearing one, which makes me self-conscious about how others perceive me. Whether I'm paranoid or not, the weight of the consequences outweighs my awkwardness. I try very hard to keep myself safe to be around him and protect him from whatever I encounter, whether COVID, the flu, or anything else. I want to spend time with him with some peace of mind.
He says he can fall asleep anywhere. After a while, I pretend to be engrossed in writing this so he'll think I'm entertained and will finally let himself drift off. Seeming preoccupied was my reason for the original Wi-Fi password hunt (and failure). Finally, his eyes are closed! I relax and keep writing, free to make observations without him worrying. Suddenly, the infusion pump beside him beeps loudly, signaling it's time for the next bag. Little beeps are echoing all around the room. He's awake again, blinking, eyes surveying. We make eye contact. He rolls his eyes - whether at his inability to fully relax, the beeps, or maybe the "here we go" of the next bag on the way, I'm not sure. We laugh a little as I take his cold hand in mine.
This excerpt is from this zine that I created in 2023 (this writing piece is from 2022, only a couple of months after his initial diagnosis), which also includes a comic of my dad telling me one of my favorite funny stories from his time serving in the military. You can check it out on Etsy.