It was late August 1999. My mom was weeks from dying. Dad and I were a tag team of concern. We spent our days sitting in offices and waiting rooms, sometimes with Mom, sometimes without her. Over and over, my father would whisper to me, “This should be happening to me. I should be the one who is dying.”
On this particular morning, Dad and I sat wedged together in a packed room, our backs against a wall. We were waiting for Mom, again.
To get to this place, this moment, we had walked behind the black orderly who pushed Mom’s wheelchair down the hall. We had thanked the black receptionist who directed us where to sit. We had just nodded hello to the black resident who always made my mother smile.
My father leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
“God,” he said, “they’re everywhere now.”
I clenched the armrests and tried to control my breathing as I turned to look at him. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes. For the first time ever, he reached for my hand.
We started there.
Join the conversation as a VIP Member