My father was quiet for a while. It had been a long time since I had stood up to him. For the past year I had willingly taken on the role of emotional punching bag, taking whatever my parents wanted to dish out.
But it wasn’t right. I couldn’t be that person for them anymore. It wasn’t healthy for any of us.
“Your mother will be upset,” Dad said finally, sounding tired and defeated. It was more concerning than the anger.
“I know. Just explain I’ll come up when I can. And Dad, maybe you should think about having her go to a new therapist. I’m not sure the one she’s seeing is really helping her.”
“They wanted to admit her to the hospital for thirty days after this last episode,” Dad admitted.
“Maybe that would have done her some good,” I ventured.
“That is the last thing your mother needs, Mason. Have some compassion!” Dad barked, returning to his usual fury.
I sighed. “Okay, sorry. I just think that she needs something more—”
“What she needs is her son to be more available. She sacrificed so much for you and your brother. And yet when she needs you, you’re nowhere around.”
We were talking in circles. My father was so mired in his grief and rage that he couldn’t see what his words did to his only living son.
“Dad, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you over the weekend.”
I hung up before he could respond.
I dropped the phone on my desk and rubbed my temples. Talking to my parents left me drained.
I flipped open my wallet and found the picture I always kept there, tucked behind my credit cards.
It was the last photograph I had of Dillon. It was before he was admitted to the hospital. Before the chemo that didn’t save his life.
Before he became the shell that only wanted to die.
“They’d never give you this level of bullshit,” I murmured, running my thumb over the glossy print.
Damn, it was times like this that I missed Dillon the most. When I allowed myself to think of how much my world had changed since he had vacated it.
When I really thought about the fact that I’d never get to play basketball with him again. When I couldn’t pick up the phone and bitch about Mom’s craziness and Dad’s stubbornness.
Dillon had been someone to help shoulder the burden of family expectations.
We were friends as well as brothers.
My biggest regret in life was not making it to the hospital to see him before he died.
I had promised him….
—
“You just missed the hot nurse. She came in to give me a sponge bath.” Speaking was hard for Dillon. He usually lost his breath and had to close his eyes from the pain in his head.
It was becoming harder and harder to come and see him. To watch him deteriorate every single day into a shell of the man he had been. He had lost so much weight that his skin was hanging off his bones, the stark shape of his skull prominent. His head was wrapped in thick white bandages from yet another surgery to relieve the increasing pressure on his brain.
His hair was long gone and he seemed to have aged thirty years in the span of months.
But he kept his sense of humor. No matter how bleak his future, he tried to keep us laughing.
“Damn. You should have faked a seizure or something to keep her in here.” I sat down in the chair by his bed, hating the smell of death that seemed to cling to him now.
“I could always call her back in here. Tell her that my brother needs a sponge bath too,” Dillon offered, his forehead creasing in pain. He tried to lift his hand to push the call button but let it fall back to the bed limply.
