Ten Seconds Before He Died

Ding, my phone rings as the old man on the bed groans. That’s my dad, Albert, a Mexican man with tattoos and burnt scars all over him. We’ve been here for the past two weeks. The old man always says he will die tomorrow or in the next hour or the next ten seconds. No, daddy, you won’t die, long live daddy Albert, I always comforted him. My dad fixed pipes for his entire life. The long hours of bending down and kneeling on the floor killed his back. Almost fully curved, he walked around with a wooden stick I bought him before all of this. Two months ago, he was diagnosed with last-stage stomach cancer. Dad, I told you, burgers and alcohol aren’t good for you, I yelled at him. He didn’t talk back for the first time.

No wonder my stomach and guts felt weird, I remember hearing him mumble. I stayed with him for a few days after his diagnosis. Daddy, do you want to move in with me in LA, I asked while we were watching TV after lunch. No, what, you have pity for me now, he is still as grumpy as every time I saw him. Son, come, one morning I heard him yell. Jumping off of my bed, I rushed to his room and saw him lying in bed waving one of his arms in the air.

I can’t move, I can’t, I can’t feel the right side of my body, he shouted and screamed, and I feel dizzy, no, don’t move me.

I calmly dialed 911 and sat on the bed beside him. I observed. Feeling my sight, he became quieter. Staring at me too, I knew he was waiting for my words. Will I leave him in the hospital? Or send him to an elderly house? Or take him with me? No, I wasn’t, I wasn’t thinking about him, to his and my own disappointment. All my mind could think of was, if I need to spend the night with him in the hospital, how will I complete the spreadsheet for my job? My boss was merciful enough. He gave me the chance to work from home for a few days until I sort things out.

Throughout my childhood, daddy was always a strong man, a strict father who made me feel suppressed. I don’t remember when his back started hurting, or when his tattoos started looking ugly because his skin loosened up. The blue dragon on his arm used to look so cool. When I was five, I remember one day he squatted in front of me and held his arm up. Look at that dragon, isn’t it so cool, he asked me. The dragon is tattooed right on his biceps and looked especially impressive when he showed off his muscles.

Now, who even is his now? The days he’s been in the hospital destroyed both of us. Due to lack of exercise, his skin looks especially pale and loose now. A few days ago, when he was getting some medicine, the nurse forgot to take off the tape afterward. Son, help, there’s something on my arm, he called me over again despite the help button being way closer to him. I took another look at his thin, loose arm. Folds of skin, with wrinkles all over them, lies weakly on his arm bone. I peeled the piece of tape off from his upper arm. As expected, snowflakes came down with the piece of tape and he groaned due to pain. I could’ve been gentler, but what’s the point?

He will die one way or another, one day or another. Yes, don’t hit men, don’t kill me, don’t break my legs, nor am I a bad son. I gave him half of my salary every month for the past ten years since he didn’t have any source of income. I brought my kids and wife over at times, to entertain him, to cook for him, to play with him. I even offered for him to live closer to my family a couple of years ago; he was the one that says no.

Now, I don’t know what to say to him anymore. Look at the old man, no part of him is good. Everything is slowly shutting down. His legs are thinner than my arms and weaker. He can’t eat anything anymore; all he would do is puke out whatever I feed him. Ice-cream, fried chicken, now he can only watch me eat his old favorites. His eyes, full of dark and red marks, looks dead already. He wanted to take control of the people around him all his life, but he can’t even take control of himself now.

Without even checking this time, I know it’s another message from my boss. I work in downtown Los Angeles for a maid company as an accountant. My boss sympathizes with me, but I know too well the company isn’t a charity. Throwing my phone on to the neighboring bed, I proceed to stare at the old man instead. Noticing me, he stops groaning and tries to tilt his head so he can see me. The man, oh he is so weak and so fragile that I’m afraid he will just break into pieces in the next second.

Back in the years, whenever I run up to him and share something with him, he always crushed my dreams with the bloody truth. Daddy, do you think I can become an artist? No, kid, there’s no artistic genes in you, deal with it. Daddy, I want to know what stars taste like. Nothing good, son, they are just made of stones and dust. Daddy, am I handsome? No, you should put a cover on your face so people don’t throw up. I cried some of the times, hit him some of the times, and learned to just not talk to him.

What if he actually dies in the next few seconds? What will you feel? The thought appears in my head and shocks me. The man said quite a few times he wants to die and he will die very soon. But how soon is very soon? Or how soon do I want “very soon” to be? Five seconds, a voice within me answers the question for me. It’s been five seconds since my phone rang, forty-five years since I first met this man. I want to slap myself, as hard as I can.

Think about the benefits of if he dies in four seconds, just think about it, I hear the voice again. I give up, I tell myself, it’s not like I’m God or I can change anything. Staring at the clock on the wall, I move my eyes to my father’s monitor as soon as the second-hand hits the next whole number. Up and down, it’s still moving, it isn’t stopping. Beep, beep, my thought was then disrupted by a loud and sharp beeping sound.

He died. The line is flat. I know people will rush in to here in a couple more seconds. Am I happy? Am I sad? What do I feel? I don’t know. But I do know that I am not only a son in this cruel world that requires people to try their hardest to survive.