A Man Named Dave

strength he could muster to make it to the bathroom. By the vacant look in his eyes I could tell he had no idea of who I was, or even that someone else was in the room with him. Coming around behind him, I slung his arm around my shoulder and helped him into the bathroom. His wafer-thin body trembled against mine as he fought to stand straight while relieving himself. My mind was spinning, and I kept questioning like an idiot, “Are you all right? Are you okay?” over and over again.
    Only after helping Father to his bed did I realize how bad his appearance was. His eyes were blank. They rolled to whatever caught his attention for that split second before drifting off somewhere else. As he lay flat on his back, the only time his arms were still was when he would drag his bony hand over to the other and hold it. Looking into Father’s face, I smiled, hoping to catch his darting eyes. The skin around his cheeks was crimson red and stretched thin. I noticed a large white patch taped to the right side of his neck and shoulder but paid no attention to it. Instead I reached out to cup Father’s hands. “Dad,” I gently whispered, “it’s David.”
    No reaction.
    “Dad,” I said in a firmer tone, “can you hear me?”
    Father’s only response was a raspy exhale.
    I could hear Alice sniffling from the entrance of the room. Out of frustration, I lay my body next to Father, while keeping my face just above his. “Dad? Hey, Dad! Can you … do you hear me? It’s me, David. Say something, anything. Dad?”
    Studying Father’s eyes, I looked for the slightest response. I thought if he couldn’t speak, at least he could communicate with his eyes. Minutes crawled by with no answer. I wanted to grab the sides of his face and squeeze out some type of reply that Father indeed knew I was with him.
    From the right side of my shoulder I could feel a firm but gentle squeeze. I smiled, knowing Father had snapped out of his trance. “I’m here, Dad. I’m right here,” I said with a wave of relief. Patting the hand, I nearly jumped off the bed when I discovered it belonged not to Father but to the nurse Steve.
    “We need to talk,” he said without the slightest trace of embarrassment.
    “But my dad… ?” I asked, thinking I could not leave his side.
    “I’ll stay,” Mrs Turnbough said, as she now stood over my father.
    When we were both outside of the room, Steve carefully closed the heavy oak door. “What’s wrong with him?” I demanded. Feeling my anxiety take hold, I pressed for hard answers. “What type of medication do you have him on? How come he doesn’t recognize me? Is it the drugs? How long will it be until he gets better and gains some weight? When do you expect him to be released?”
    “Hey, man,” Steve said, raising his hand, “give it a rest. Didn’t your mother tell you… ? You don’t know, do you?”
    “Know what? If I knew, I wouldn’t be bugging you!” I sarcastically shot back. “Just tell me, what in the heck is going on? Please!” I now begged, “I gotta know.”
    Leading me down the corridor, Steve searched for a more private setting. At the end of the hallway, he stopped to offer me a chair. I refused, feeling the need to stand. “It was about four months ago when your father was admitted –”
    “Four months!” I yelled. “Admitted? Admitted for what? Why didn’t anybody call me? Why now?”
    “Please,” he interjected, “give me a chance. Your father … he wanted to keep things discreet. A lot of patients are like that. Anyway, it was only after we ran all the tests that our diagnosis was confirmed. David, your father has cancer. I’m afraid it’s terminal. He’s in the advanced stages. I’m sorry.” Steve reached out for my hands. “There is nothing we can do.”
    “Hang on!” I said, stepping away from his gesture. “What do you mean, terminal? I don’t get it …”
    “David,” Steve said in a deliberate, slow voice, gripping me by the shoulders, “your father … he’s not going to make it.”
    “ You mean … you’re saying he’s going to die? My dad is going to die? No way!” I shook my head in complete denial. “Can’t you give him a shot of something … or I thought there’s some kind of chemo treatment. If it’s money you need … just don’t let him die. Not now. Please!” I begged, as if he alone decided the fate of my father.
    “David, listen, chill for a sec. I don’t know, no one knows exactly how long your father has, but,” he emphasized in a strong tone, “the thing I do know for certain is this: your father is not