I know he’s okay and that, fortunately, he didn’t break anything, but this just feels like one of those milestones that you dread in an older loved one.
My parents weren’t young when they had me. They had long given up on conceiving, after years and years of treatment. But then, a year after they stopped dreaming of having a baby, they had me. Their lucky charm. Their miracle. It’s a story I’ve heard a million times over. I surprised them when hope had vanished.
But now it’s like hope is vanishing for me, and I don’t know how to grasp watching him fade away right in front of my eyes. I don’t know how to live this life without him or without my mom. They’ve been my rocks through everything. I might be thirty years old, but I’m still their little boy, and I feel like that all the time.
I reread her messages a thousand times over before finally giving her a call back. As much as it’ll hurt to hear how he’s doing, I need to be there for her. Sliding down the mirror wall across from some equipment, I bend my knees up and rest my elbow on one, holding my face with my hand.
“Matty. Hi, sweetie. I’m sorry to spam your phone at practice?—”
“It’s okay, Mom. What’s going on?” I interrupt her, not wanting to hear her apology for doing exactly what she should’ve.
She sighs, a deep-rooted heaviness in her voice. “He’s doing okay. He fell out of his chair. Technically, he was sitting up and lost his balance and fell over. I couldn’t get him up by myself, and he wasn’t trying real hard to help me.” She forces a giggle to try to lighten the mood. “So, I called the ambulance, and they wanted to bring him to the hospital just to be safe, given his age and condition. But everything’s going to be just fine.”
It wasn’t down a flight of stairs or on hard concrete. It was on thick carpet in our living room, which likely softened the blow.
“Thank God he’s okay,” I murmur, closing my eyes and intentionally taking slow and steady breaths. “But how are you doing?”
I can practically see her waving away my concern.
“No. No. I’m just fine, Matty. I’m healthy and able. I’m doing great.”
The words are heavy in my throat, even heavier on my tongue, and damn near impossible to say. “I should be there.”
“No,” she retorts immediately. “No, you shouldn’t.”
My throat tightens, nostrils flaring as my eyes catch fire. “How can you say that?”
She exhales, sadness in her sigh. “Matt, you are exactly where you need to be.”
I scoff, my words crackling with disgust and agony. “I should be with you, helping you. Helping Dad. You shouldn’t have to go through this alone.” I take a shuddering breath. “You’re suffering through this alone while I’m here, playing a stupid fucking game.”
Tears roll down my cheeks, and it’s probably a good thing I’m sitting because my fist has a sudden urge to go through a wall.
“This isn’t important. Not in the long run. Not if you guys aren’t here to celebrate it. It doesn’t matter.” I blow an emotional raspberry, shaking my head at the thought. “It’s just hockey, right? It doesn’t matter.”
I know what I’m saying makes no sense, but that’s how I feel about pretty much everything in my life right now. I’m doing great for a moment, a morning, a practice, and then I’m dragged right back down to hell.
Hockey is the only consistency in my life to help me escape from the fear of my father withering away. It’s the only part of my routine that keeps me sane. But it also makes me hate myself in a way I never expected. Every time I’m on the ice, my mind is battling between focusing on my craft or making me feel guilty for being out there at all. It’s a flawed fucking system.
“Hey, Matt.” My mom’s voice is stern.
“What? Sorry,” I groan, even more annoyed with myself.
“Are your listening ears on now?” she scolds me like I’m five years old, and I can’t help but smile.
“They’re on. I promise.”
She chuckles sweetly. “Good. Because I need you tohearthis. Not just with your ears, but your heart too.”
I swallow hard, not wanting to agree, but in the end, I do. “I’m ready.”
Closing my eyes, I try to prepare myself for one of my mom’s famous speeches, ones she’s given me countless times over the years. But her voice is warm, wrapping me up in a hug, and I don’t think I can ever fully prepare for the way her words root into me.
“You are the reason your father and I are so comfortable. You’re the reason he gets the highest level of care possible. You are the reason he fights every single day to stay here with us.Your job is not dumb or pointless. It’s essential to every one of us. Don’t belittle your worth, Matty. You're the reason we do everything. We love you. You are exactly where you need to be, sweetie. Easy as that. Don’t question it, okay?”
I’m a sobbing mess by the time she finishes, feeling like a kid in her arms as I come undone. But at the core, that’s all any of us are. We’re just kids. Someone’s child. When parents pass or fade away, we cling to the memories we hold dear.
“I love you,” I murmur, my voice thick with emotion. “I love you guys so much.”
