Dad's Cancer

Dad's Cancer

Copyright 2013 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

I’m starting the Dodge Charger. My dad is coming out the front door. He’s wearing khaki pants and a raincoat, even though the sun is shining and it’s warm. He’s so skinny and weak. His eyes are sunken and his cheeks are hollow. I can’t believe how frail he is, and how helpless. He takes the first step and stumbles. He regains his balance. I can see my mother through the doorway, getting ready to follow him to the car so we can go to Atlantic City for the chemo. He starts to walk toward me. He misses the first step and falls on his face, too weak to extend his arms. The thud is sickening, and I shiver remembering the sound. Face on pavement. Blood on pavement. Fear in my father’s eyes as he wipes blood from his nose and mouth. My mother cries. I try to remain calm. I try to soothe him, telling him it isn’t as bad as it seems. 

I help him sit up and he spits out blood, some of it onto my jeans. My mother hands me some tissues and I start to dab away at the bloodstains. He is cut above the eyes, on the bridge of his nose, and on his lips. He made a three-point landing, and he is stunned from the fall. He looks at me for comfort and reassurance. I say what I can. 

I lift him up like a baby and carry him into the house and place him on the couch in the small living room. I finish cleaning his face and put a pillow under his head. He closes his eyes.

I call the hospital to cancel the appointment. My mother smokes a cigarette, sobbing at the kitchen table. I put my hand on her shoulder as I walk by to check on my dad. He is asleep, scabs forming on his face.  He looks peaceful.