The only way I can do that is if I listen to Nurse Jackie and find Dr. Washington.
I head toward the wing where my father is admitted, knowing Dr. Washington is there somewhere since that is her territory.
“Hi.” I nod to a passing nurse. “How are you?” I ask another, keeping my strides long and quick. I want this moment to be over with.
My shoes scuff against the white tiled floor, the bright fluorescent lights above making everything seem brighter. By the end of the day, I can’t stand lights. When I’m home, I have a few lamps that radiate a dull yellow glow, just enough light to let me see my way through my house.
I see Dr. Washington’s tall frame at the nurses’ desk, looking over a patient chart.
“Dr. Washington,” I call out to her with a smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Carrington and?—”
She closes the patient’s file, her eyes wrinkling at the sides when she grins. “I know who you are, Dr. Carrington. You’re one of the best. Doctors know who the best are. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Her happiness fades and I know the look she’s wearing.
She has bad news. The way her lips press together, and her brows rise slightly, followed by a small sigh, tells me whatever news she has isn’t good news.
“I left you a message about your father, actually. I’m assuming that’s why you’re here?”
I reach into my pocket and check my phone, groaning when I see a notification of a voicemail. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get it. I’m horrible at checking my voicemail. I actually came to talk to you because of Nurse Jackie. She told me to find you but wouldn’t say why. I’m assuming my father isn’t going to be walking out of here anytime soon, then?” I sound bored, calloused, and maybe slightly annoyed mixed with exhausted.
What I’m not, is surprised.
The only thing that surprises me is that this hasn’t happened to my father sooner. He’s been a wreck ever since Mom died. I think he’s been trying to kill himself somehow. Slowly. Torturously. Wanting grief to kill him.
“I’m afraid not. The drinking has damaged his liver beyond repair. He’s in liver failure, and he will need a transplant.”
I blow out such a big breath, my cheeks puff. I know he won’t be able to get on the donor list. For anyone to receive an organ, they have to sober for six months.
“I’m assuming you know the rest and why a transplant isn’t an option.”
“Right. No, I know. I know.” I drop my face in my hands, angry at him for doing this to himself, angry that I’ll be blamed for this too.
He’ll blame me for all his drinking, all the choices he’s made, all the sorrow he feels, and if he dies, that will be my fault too.
Fuck. That.
I refuse to be the shoulders he adds his burdens to. I’m sick of carrying them. I have my own to carry.
“I’ll get tested to see if I’m a match. If I am, we can schedule the surgery.”
Her big brown eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Are you sure? You need time to think about it? This is a big decision, and it’s clear that you don’t have a great relationship with your father.” She points to the black eye I’m sporting.
“Yeah, you’re right, but that isn’t reason enough to let him die. I refuse to live with that. Can I see him? Is he awake? And without the transplant, how long does he have? Weeks? Months?”
“Of course you can, and he probably has around three months left to live without the transplant, but anything can happen between now and then. That’s just an estimate.”
“I’ll get tested today,” I decide, not wanting to waste any more time.
A part of me wonders if he knew how sick he was when he stumbled in here. It makes so much sense. He only ever comes to me when he needs something, which only doubles the amount of fury whirling in my gut. He always has some sort of plan to get what he wants. He’s always been like that, and he doesn’t care who he has to use to get it.
Typically, he uses me, because he knows I’m always there for him, no matter how much he’s never around when I need him.
“Okay. We can set that up. Come find me after you see him?”
“Sure. Sounds great. I won’t be long if you want to stay around here. Or if you can,” I add, not wanting to seem like I’m demanding her or forcing her to stay.
“Sure. I’ll be around here. I have a few patients I need to check in on.” She pats my shoulder as she walks by. “He’s in room 1450.” She points down the hall, a tunnel with no light at the end from my perspective.
“Thanks, Dr. Washington.”
