Softly At First

he elevator was uncomfortably hot. Loose beads of sweat snaked down my back and into my shorts. I fidgeted with my scarf, wiped a film of perspiration from my forehead, and tried to compose myself. The doors opened on the third floor of the Chronic Care wing of the hospital. My father was dying there, he had been for some time.

The floors are glazed and polished. I pick up the pace of my walking. When I looked closely, I could see my reflection one step ahead of me as I walk. I wanted to break into a full run and chase that image of myself, screaming at the top of my lungs, right out of this awful place. Better still, I want it to pursue me, like a school yard bully who wants to smash my face with his meaty fists if he only had the legs and the wind to catch me. He would follow me out the door and I would run until I collapsed into a heap of breathless laughter. But the image was fleeting. How could I run? Who would I run to? It was always just the two of us on these awkward weekend visits. When I closed my eyes, I could feel that bully's hot breath on my neck as I stepped into my father's room.

The blinds were tightly drawn. I could smell soggy cereal and stale linen. My father's breathing was shallow. "Good morning dad." I said it louder than I wanted to. The sound of my voice frightened him awake. Dad cleared his throat and tried to sit up. I walked towards the blinds to open them. With a quick pull, the room was bombarded with yellow light. I turned to face my father. His eyes were tightly closed. He looked as though he was trying to push the sun away with his fists. My father's hands pawed in front of his face like a cat toying with a ball of yarn. His body seemed to bend and change with each of my visits. It was as if his face and body had been sculpted of oven warmed clay. The hands that had molded this broken man were sadistic. Mean, angry fingers distorted his frame into a decaying puddle of gray flesh.

As I studied my father's face, I remembered the time, as a boy, when he drove up our gravel driveway with his car horn blaring. The family ran to meet him on the porch. Dad was returning from a week long hunt in the bush. It was a successful trip. He had his trophies strapped to the hood and roof of our car. He stepped out of the black Ford like a giant unfolding himself. My father was a giant. He seemed to dwarf everyone and everything around him. His chest was broad. Tangles of black hair shot out from his open shirt. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. The muscles from his forearms rounded out. Not thin, ropy muscle but thick and bulky. His stomach, hard and full, hung over his belt. I couldn't imagine a man who was bigger or stronger than my father.

My dad paid little attention to us as he untied the ropes from the car.. "Help me kids," he said in a voice that rarely seemed to change in tone or expression. It wasn't a deep voice, but it was quietly commanding. My older sister and I never had to be told to do anything twice. We didn't do what he asked of us out of fear. We did it because we wanted to be around him. Not close to him but near him. He wasn't an emotional man. He wasn't the type of father who talked alot or hugged us for no particular reason. That made us hunger for his approval even more. I couldn't recall having had a real conversation with my father. My father was a complicated man of simple gestures. Facial gestures and subtle body gestures that would let us all know he was listening; that he was there. I could read my father, even as a young boy and I took some comfort in that. I believe my father loved me without ever hearing it. I had to believe it. It was all I had left. I helped my father drag the deer carcass and string it up to be cleaned. I sat on the grass and watched my father gut and bleed it. The stench of the blood drew the flies in. They swarmed around him like a black cloud. His blood, mixed with the kill, dripped onto his naked arms. It was smeared into thin, almost transparent streaks on his face.

My hands reached up to my father's face. His eyes fluttered open briefly but were extinguished by fatigue. I couldn't help but see that dead deer somewhere in my father's eyes.

The wooden chair clipped the metal safety rails on the bed as I positioned it at my father's bedside. My dad, awake now, stared ahead as he sat up. I picked up a pillow that had fallen on the floor and placed it into my lap. My dad's lips moved silently. I desperately wanted to break through the fog that imprisoned my father. He was marooned on a deserted island in that mist. My father was like a cannibal. He gorged and feasted on his life and past memories to keep himself sane and alive. But the meat of one's memories are deceptive. The more a man consumes, the more ravenous and weaker he gets.

My hands went beneath the covers to work the muscles of my father's calves and thighs. The skin hung in moist sacks around his legs. My dad's eyes began to close slowly as he struggled to remain awake. They finally shut and his jaw slackened. As I gently twisted his skin, I imagined the work that would need to be done to make my father presentable in death. His mouth would be tightly sewn. Make up would be put on his cheeks and face to give him the colour that was stolen from him. This disease that tormented him was a hunter. It lay dormant in his body for years, waiting like a camouflaged tiger in the burnt yellow grass of his being. My father refused to surrender to it. He kicked and struggled, glassy eyed , in the jaws of this merciless killer. But these were the last twitches of his life. Like the cat in the field, the misery that raped my father would be rewarded for its quiet patience.

I tucked the blankets under my father's chin. His breathing was uneven.. It was always in the quiet of this hospital room where I wondered how long I had been a disappointment to the old man. It wasn't a disappointment that was discussed, but one that clung to me like a festering sore. It dogged me from my youth into adulthood. I wished just once that my father would have grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and screamed what a failure I had been to him all his life. Instead, I was always met with maddening silence. My father wanted me to farm the land that he had inherited. I went to university and eventually dropped out. The marriage I quit school for ended in divorce. My own son learned to hate me. I was envious of my sister's success and avoided any contact with her. I practically abandoned my father when my mother passed away. The mother who had smothered me with the affection that I so desperately needed from my distant, unreachable father. Who was left to console and reassure me? I was sitting in my father's hospital all these Sundays more from guilt and self pity than love. I had been partnered with this fragility and desperation my entire life. Together, they were my disease.

I woke abruptly as the nurse stepped into the room. I was not surprised that I had fallen asleep. I drifted off on more than one occasion before. Sleep was like a narcotic for me on these long weekend vigils. Sleep dulled my senses and left me groggy and strangely disassociated from the death that wafted through the room. I half expected to wake and find my father gone. Knowing dad, he would prefer to avoid any drama with his passing.

The nurse was on her afternoon pill run. Dad was fully awake now. He knew the routine. She took two pills from a paper cup and placed them into his opened mouth. He took a small sip of water and swallowed. The nurse didn't move. She asked him to swallow the pills. Growing impatient, she asked him again. I was certain that my father had swallowed the medication and said so. She ignored me and sat my father up in the bed. I was beginning to get annoyed at the harsh tone the nurse was taking with him. She threatened to bring the head nurse into the room to force him to swallow the pills. My father opened his mouth to show that pills were gone. She reached over to check underneath his tongue and he spit them into her face.. I was shocked to see the venom in his eyes. My father closed his eyes shut and settled back into the bed. His mouth trembled. The nurse left the room wiping the saliva from her face with her sleeve. She promised me she would be back in a minute with the head nurse and some new medication.

My body shook uncontrollably. I bit my lip, drew a breath and held it to steady myself. My head swam. I tore at the pillow in my lap. I kicked back my chair and stood over my helpless father. I placed the pillow over his face. Softly at first, and then with more force. My father's hands moved from beneath the blankets and gripped my wrists. I couldn't remember the last time my dad had touched me. I tightened my hold over his mouth and nose. I could feel the heat of his breathing through the thin pillow. I wanted to share this death with him. I wanted to touch him and have him touch me. Just once. My breath leapt out of my tightly clenched jaw. My strength deserted me and my elbows unlocked. I shut my eyes as tightly as I could and rolled the pillow from his face. It bounced back to the floor. I wasn't sure if it was the love I lacked or the courage to do it. I could feel my father's eyes follow me out of the room and into the hallway.