Daddy

“Dad?” he whispered, and his father stirred, and then he reached out gently and touched him. “Dad …” He was afraid to scare him. At seventy-two, he had a weak heart, his lungs were frail, but he still had dignity and strength and his son's respect. He woke up with a start, and looked at Ollie.

“Is it? … Is she …” He looked suddenly terrified as he sat up.

“She's still there, but we need to talk.”

“Why? What is it?”

“Why don't you wake up for a minute.” He still had the startled look of someone roused from a sound sleep.

“I'm awake. Has something happened?”

“Mom had a stroke.” Ollie sighed as he sat down carefully on the bed and held his father's hand. “They're keeping her going on the machined. But, Dad … that's all that's left …”He hated to say the words, but they were the simple truth. “She's brain dead.”

“What do they want us to do?”

“They can take her off the machines, that's up to you.”

“And then she'll die?” Ollie nodded, and the tears coursed slowly down the old man's cheeks as he sank slowly back against his pillows. “She was so beautiful, Oliver … so sweet when she was young … so lovely when I married her. How can they ask me to kill her? It's not fair. How can I do that to her?” There was a sad sob and Oliver had to fight back his own tears as he watched him.

“Do you want me to take care of it? I just thought you'd want to know … I'm sorry, Dad.” They were both crying, but the truth was that the woman they loved had died a while ago. There was really nothing left now.

George sat slowly up again and wiped his eyes. “I want to be there when they do it.”

“No,” his son objected instantly. “I don't want you to do that.”

“That's not your decision to make, it's mine. I owe it to her. I've been there for her for almost fifty years, and I'm not going to let her down now.” The tears began again. “Oliver, I love her.”

“I know you do, Dad. And she knew that too. She loved you too. You don't have to put yourself through this.”

“It's all my fault this happened.”

Oliver took the old man's hands hard in his own. “I want you to listen to me. There was nothing left of Mom, nothing that we knew and loved. She was gone, she had been for a long time, and what happened yesterday wasn't your fault. Maybe in a way it's better like this. If she had lived, she would have shriveled up and died, she wouldn't have known who anyone was, she wouldn't have remembered any of the things she cared about or loved … you … her grandchildren … me … her friends … her house … her garden. She would have been a vegetable in a nursing home, and she would have hated that if she'd known. Now she's been spared that. Accept that as the hand of fate, as God's will, if you want to call it that, and stop blaming yourself. None of it is in your control. Whatever you do now, whatever happened, it was meant to be this way. And when we let her go, she'll be free.”

The old man nodded, grateful for his son's words. Maybe he was right. And in any case, none of it could be changed now.

George Watson dressed carefully in a dark pinstriped suit, with a starched white shirt, and a navy blue tie Phyllis had bought for him ten years before. He looked distinguished and in control as they left the house and he looked around for a last time, as though expecting to see her, and then he looked at his son and shook his head.

“It's so odd to think that she was here just yesterday morning.”

But Ollie only shook his head in answer. “No, she wasn't, Dad. She hasn't been here in a long, long time. You know that.”

George nodded, and they drove to the hospital in silence. It was a beautiful morning … a beautiful morning to die, Oliver kept thinking. And then they walked up the steps and took the elevator to the fourth floor, and asked to see the doctor on duty. It was the same man who had spoken to Oliver only two hours before, and there had been no change in Mrs. Watson's condition, except that she had had several seizures, which was expected after the hemorrhage. Nothing of any import had changed. She was brain dead, and she would remain that way forever, and only their machine was keeping her alive for the moment.

“My father wanted to be here himself,” Oliver explained.

“I understand.” The young doctor was kind and sympathetic.

“I want to be there when you … when …” His voice quavered and he couldn't say the words, as the doctor nodded his understanding. He had been through it dozens of times before, but somehow he wasn't hardened to it yet.

There was a nurse with her when they walked in, and the machines were pulsing and beeping. The line on the monitor traveled in a single straight line, and they all knew that that was her final condemnation. But she looked peaceful as she lay sleeping there. Her eyes were closed, her hair was clean, her hands lay at her sides, as George reached out and took one. He brought it to his lips and kissed her fingers.