THE NEWS
We arrived at the restaurant, one of my father’s favorites because being thrifty, he always felt that he saved money on the buffet, especially if my brother was there. This was a seafood buffet, a typical Maryland tradition, full of different fresh catch of fish, crab cakes and your usual buffet fare - macaroni and cheese, salads, ribs, chicken, the whole nine yards.
“Do you have a reservation?” The host asked us.
“No.” My father answered.
“Then the wait is 45 minutes.” He said looking down his glasses at us.
We put our name in, milling in the front of the restaurant with a million other people, the air warm from so much body heat. Sweating because we were dressed for winter and hanging inside a restaurant.
A different host went walking through the milling crowd yelling. “The Smith Party! Smith Party of 6?”
My Dad waited watching for any sign of the Smith party. Finally after several attempts, he raised his hand. “We are the Smiths.”
My sisters and I, raised as good Catholics were shocked. Has he lost his mind? We are not the Smith party. He looked at us and winked. We followed him to a table in the back, large and roomy for all six of us.
The waiter came up addressing the table. “Good morning! My name is Phillip Yu.”
My Dad looked around the table, especially at my brother, the “bottomless pit.” “Yes, you fill up me.”
He started explaining the procedures of the buffet, when a hostess walked up to us. “Are you the Smith party?”
My Dad looked around the table, then back to the girl. “Never heard of them in my life.”
She looked at her clipboard, back at the table, walking away.
We all looked at him, and a few minutes of silence he looked back at us. “What?”
It was a delicious family dinner.
THE NEWS
“The doctor is schedule to meet with us between 12 and 1 today. Have you gotten your plane ticket?” My sister’s voice sounds stressed.
“Yeah, I’ve got a ticket on order, so I can be there on Friday if you need me to be.”
“Let’s keep praying. The important thing is that it hasn’t gotten to his internal organs, if it’s gotten to his internal organs than it is bad.” I hear papers rustling over the phone. Knowing my sister, she’s already all over the internet, researching and printing out different options, treatments.
“How bad?” I really don’t want to hear the news, but I have to know. If I am coming to see him, I’m not going to be blind sided.
“Four to six months. If he’s lucky.” It sits between us on that phone connection, like the cancer sitting in my father.
I’m not going to believe it. “OK, let’s just wait and see what the tests have to say. And let’s get everyone to pray.” We needed warriors, we need them fast.
“I will. I’m sure I’ll be talking to you tomorrow.” I don’t like the sadness in her voice, she can’t let herself be down, not at a time like this.
“Be strong. Don’t let him think that you don’t have faith.” I say to her, myself included.
“I know.” She sounds doubtful.
“I love you.” I want to be off the telephone, off it now.
“I love you too.” The connection between us drops, but I’m still holding the phone. It takes me a few minutes before I finally replace it on the cradle.
The conversation haunts my dreams when I actually did sleep. It is like a broken record. “Four to six months” looping endlessly as I occupy myself with chores around the house. I keep telling myself that sometimes doctors can be wrong. We are praying for a miracle, and don’t we deserve it? He’s already been through so much, really? Does this have to happen? Keep positive, it won’t be in his internal organs.
I catch myself asking why, why did this have to happen to us? I know that we are not immune to everything, but why something this terrible? Why this much pain and suffering? Why something that maybe I can’t handle? I’ve always been there for him, the positive heart when things get down. Can I do it this time? I hear my aunt’s voice again telling me we cannot ask these types of questions-the answers are God’s. Don’t spend time torturing, focus on moving forward with the job.
I think about the warrior. He’s in that hospital bed probably awake, wondering the same questions. Maybe he’s taking himself to a different place, a place where he is happy. I hope they gave him a sleeping pill, I remember him saying how hard it is facing things when you are tired.
He’s the one living through this, he’s the one with the fight on his hands. I just don’t want it to be him, I don’t want him to have to go through this pain. He’s the greatest person I know, he wouldn’t hurt anyone, now he’s the one hurting and there is nothing I can do about it.
I try accomplishing things but distraction makes my efforts in vain. Each time I look at the clock I think, “3 more hours until the meeting,” or, “two more hours to the meeting.” I call him once in the morning, when I know he is alone.
“Hey Pops, how are you?” My voice sounds falsely light.
“Better. I was so tired last night. The sleeping pill knocked me out last night.” He sounds like himself, I am glad.
“Good, I’m glad you got to sleep.” I’m pacing my living room.
“I tell you, I am so happy that all those tests are over with.” He does sound genuinely happy.
“So it was hard.” My heart reaches through the line to him.
“It was murder. I started at 8 o’clock yesterday morning and went until 730 last night. God, I was exhausted. I am so glad that that’s over.” I can hear his smile.
“You are a strong person. You made it through the tests, you can make it through anything.” I am proud of him, he simply moves forward, finding something positive.
“I hope so. I just want to know. I hate this waiting part.” I feel his sigh.
“Yeah, me too. But the meeting is today and at least you will know.” I am telling myself the same thing.
“The doctor did not make it sound too good.” He is back to sounding stressed.
“Screw him.” I hear laughter. “Just wait until you get the tests back. Wait until we know everything that’s going on.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just hard.” We both hate waiting.
My heart breaks to hear him say that, but I’m not going to let him hear it. “Are you eating?” Typical Irish comment, in the face of crisis make sure there’s enough food.
“I ate all of my breakfast. I just wish that I could get my appetite back.” There is the sound of movement in the room.
“One thing at a time, the only way you can keep your strength is to eat.” What else can I say, focus on something I can control.
“You sound like my mother.” There is the smile back.
“After all that hospital shit, you’ll be ready for a big steak, huh?” I can see him in his favorite joint, Steak and Ale (“Kelly don’t you love restaurant names that make sense, Steak and Ale, why name it anything else?”)
“Uh huh.” His silence is telling me it is time to go, his attention is elsewhere.
“OK, I’ll call you later on this afternoon. I love you, Pops.” We each have our pet names, he is and will only be the person calling me Kate.
“I love you too Kate.”
I can hear the conversation in my head again as I walk around the house wondering what to do. I can’t work, every time I sit at my computer my fingers poised over the keys, nothing comes to mind. I go and hold my dog, or I wipe down the kitchen counters again and again. I think about washing clothes walking up stairs throwing them in. I sit at my computer again, check my e-mail, the writing that I need to do ,scaring me because it is not coming.
Three hours until they call me.
There are encouraging e-mails from everyone in the family, I feel strength in their support.
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