Goodnight

(Over the summer, my cousin Jaime asked me to dig out some of my high school creative writing assignments that centered around our family.  I promised her I'd post them, mostly funny anecdotes about camping trips and our shenanigans.  This one, however, I believe was assigned to be written as an important day in our life.  The summer before, my dad had sustained a traumatic brain injury and spent weeks in ICU.  6 years before he'd be diagnosed with unrelated, terminal brain cancer, I thought our family had overcome the worst, in my 16 years of wisdom.  As tempting as it is to improve upon what I wrote 17 years ago, I resisted the temptation and left it unchanged.  So Jaime, here's the first of the McLellan memoirs.  It seemed a fitting choice as we said our final goodnight to my dad 10 years ago this week.)


"What next? Soup?"

He nodded his head as well as he could, although the combination of the medication and neck brace made the move little more than a subtle shift.

"How can you eat this?  It looks disgusting!"  I didn't mention that he had no choice, that I was cramming food down his throat much in the same fashion that you give a cat a pill.  As we sat there, he in a chair and me on his hospital bed, I found myself actually contented for the first time that week.  The sun poured in on us, warming the room slightly and adding a false cheer to the dismal surroundings.  Who knew one could find happiness sitting in the Neurological Intensive Care Unit, feeding your brain-injured father?

I glanced at my watch: 5:15.  I had told my friends I would meet them at 6:00.

"Well, Dad, I need to go.  I'm meeting people at 6:00."  He nodded, and I rose, handing his fork to my mom, who was leaning against the wall.  After a hug, I kissed my dad's forehead, told him I loved him, and turned to leave.

"I love you, too." 

I froze.  It was little more than a hoarse whisper, but it meant the world.  He hadn't said much since the accident, and certainly not that.  I half-nodded as my eyes began to burn, turned, and left.

Something was bothering me as I went home to change my clothes, before meeting my friends.  I decided to call my mom, just to make sure that everything was okay.

"Your dad's taken a turn for the worse."

The words echoed painfully through my ears as I drove through yet another red light.  The thirty-minute drive to the hospital was likely to take me less than twenty, as I drastically exceeded every speed limit in existence.  The dangers of driving as if I were drunk, half blinded by tears, didn't even occur to me.

It had been nearly a week since the initial accident, when my dad had been thrown off one of our horses, landing on his head.  At first, there had been problems such as bleeding and swelling inside his brain, and he was listed in "serious" condition.  "But, he has been doing so well," I thought.  "He was supposed to get out of intensive care tomorrow."  Now, something was wrong.  My mom didn't say what, but I could hear in her voice she'd been crying.

I flew up the stairs at the hospital two at a time.  Bursting through the door to Intensive Care, I saw my mom, aunt, and grandmother standing in a heart-wrenching circle of naked grief and fear.  I approached, asking point-blank, "What's wrong?"

My mom took my arm, leading me to some chairs, sat me down, and began speaking.  "Megan, your dad has slipped into a coma.  A few minutes after you left, he put his head down, and we couldn't wake him.  They're doing tests right now, but we don't know what's going on."

I got up and walked to the waiting room.  Sitting down, tears flowed from my eyes as I finally gave release to all the pent-up emotions I had been feeling.  I had never known the kind of fear I knew then.  I glanced up, and swimming through tears, I saw the pay phone.  I desperately tried to think of whom I could talk to.  Who could comfort me?  A new and profound wave of sadness overcame me as I realized that the one I wanted to talk to was my dad who was now laying lifeless.  I desperately longed for him back, and let my mind drift off to simpler times.

"The drop fell from the leaf."  His low voice carried easily over the crackling of the fire, and I could feel his chest expand with each breath he drew.  I opened my eyes long enough to see the familiar faces of family friends I'd known all of my six years, then settled back against my dad's chest to hear the rest of his tale.  The familiar smells of camping lingered on his thick wool shirt: the sweet perfume of small fires, the sharp repugnancy of insect spray, roasted marshmallows, and cigar smoke.  His soft voice, accompanied by the chirping crickets and croaking frogs, began to lull me asleep.  Cuddled in my pink, footed pajamas and winter coat, I let the story carry me away.

I awoke to a soft whispering in my ear.  "Wake up, Megan." I slowly opened my eyes to see people beginning to rise from their webbed lawn chairs and head to their respective tents or trailers.  Still not fully awake, I felt myself be lifted up and carried towards our trailer, located on the edge of a large clearing.  I instantly felt the warm air when my dad opened the door.  He lay me on my bed and gently pulled a blanket over me.  From that faraway place somewhere between awake and asleep, I felt him lightly kiss my forehead and whisper, "Goodnight.  I love you."

I feel a hand on my arm.

"Megan, your dad's back in his room now."  My mom's red-rimmed eyes and tousled hair made her seem a stranger to me.  "They won't have the test results back for a while, though."

My heart dropped.  I had expected to know by now.  As the time rapidly approached midnight, I began to fear the worst.  I feared he would die.  Still, the doctors told us nothing.

Rising, I tried to get the cramps out of my muscles as I walked toward room 247.  I walked blindly past my grandma and aunt, who each cast sympathetic glances in my direction.

I walked hesitantly into the room.  My stomach turned at the pungent odors of ICU: the strong smells of antiseptic and unwashed bodied not in control of their own functions.  I glanced at his three roommates, then walked to his side.  Once again, warm tears began to trickle down my face.  The IVs attached to his arm and the tube in his nose sickeningly complemented the black eyes and scraped head.  Yet, he still looked like my dad - My strong, loving dad.

Not able to stand it, I turned from him and looked outside.  The lights of downtown Spokane glowed bright, reminding me that people's lives were still going on outside of the hospital.  Perhaps that was all the hope I needed, or maybe it was simply all the hope I had.  Either way, I turned back.  I ignored all the IVs, tubes, smells, and monitors, and just saw him: the man who had raised me, who I had laughed with, cried to, and learned from.  Taking his hand, I found a comfort in simply knowing that he was still alive.  I found hope.

In the dark room, he was illuminated only by the monitors which gave proof of his existence.  I knew everything would work out, one way or another.  That was all I needed.  Not knowing how to say goodbye, I leaned down and kissed his forehead, whispering, "Goodnight, dad.  I love you," and left.