Page 115 of When the Smoke Clears

“Mrs. Landry?” A nurse stops us on our way to Dad’s room.

“Yes?” Mom turns as I rest my hand on her back.

The nurse frowns, adjusting her blond ponytail. A tangible feeling of doom radiates from her and makes the hair on my arms stand up. “We were just getting ready to call you. Thatcher appears to have had a stroke this morning, but he hasn’t been examined yet. The doctor should be in within the hour.”

I pull Mom into me, tucking her under my arms as she holds a shaky hand to her mouth. “Thanks for the update,” I say before guiding her to Dad’s room.

The second I open the door, Mom freezes, choking on a gasp. The right side of his face is droopy, and drool is running down his chin.

“Hey, Dad.” I guide my mom to sit in his chair.

He makes a noise, but I don’t understand what he’s trying to say. I sit on the edge of his bed and gently squeeze his right hand, but he doesn’t squeeze mine back like he’s done in the past.

He’s so thin and frail. I can’t believe how quickly he’s declining. It’s a gut-wrenching feeling of helplessness.

“We should have him transported to the hospital,” Mom whispers.

I glance at her. “You and Dad chose end-of-life care. Are we really going to prolong this?”

She presses a wadded tissue to her nose and sniffles. “I just hate watching him suffer.”

I do, too, but she needs me to be strong, and I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I need to channel my inner Dr. Reichart. “They’re giving him medication for the pain. We don’t know that he’s suffering,” I say as if I believe what I’m saying.

I don’t.

Maybe he’s not in physical pain. However, isn’t mental distress a form of suffering? I can’t imagine trying to talk when my mouth and brain feel disconnected.

Dad tries to say something again, and I hate that I don’t know what he’s saying. What if he’s trying to tell me that something is causing him pain?

“His lips are dry.” Mom stands. “Maybe he’s thirsty.”

I look for his water beside his bed, but it’s gone. There’s a cup with a little water and a bag of oral sponge swabs.

“Where’s his water?” she asks.

I grab one of the swabs and wet it before wiping it along his lips and teeth. “Maybe he can’t swallow well if he’s had a stroke.”

She scoots in front of me, and I set the swab aside and give her room to sit on the edge of his bed at the end of the guardrail. When he doesn’t squeeze her hand, she reaches for his left hand. He reciprocates with that one.

“How is he supposed to drink or eat if he chokes?” she whispers.

“Let’s just wait for the doctor,” I say, but I know the answer.

He’s not going to eat. And he’ll get tiny amounts of fluid from those sponges.

And eventually, he’ll . . .

My heart crawls into my throat, slowly suffocating me.

This is happening. My father is actively dying, and no one will save him because he chose this when he was in his right mind, even if nothing about this feels right.

It’s my job to save people and things, but this is like wildland firefighters voluntarily letting certain forests burn because it’s part of life. Death and destruction are part of life. There’s a greater force at play, and surrendering to it feels like failure.

I give my parents space, standing near the door just to be here if they need me.

Eventually, the doctor knocks on the door and then examines him. Her lips move, and I know she’s talking to my mom, even if it’s hard to hear past the deep, angry beating of my heart. My mom responds with a tight jaw, a shaky nod, and a new round of tears. That’s because the doctor tells her it won’t be long. She’s not telling us anything we didn’t already know.

“We’ll give him medication p.r.n. to keep him comfortable,” the doctor says. She’s a believable doctor with wrinkles around her eyes and mouth and gray in her dark hair. Unlike Everleigh. “If you have any questions or need anything, let me or one of the staff know. We are here for you and whatever you and your family need.”