Page 85 of Don’t Be A Stranger

I really did screw this all up, didn’t I?

Twenty-Eight

Summer

I remember when Dad and Papi first told me that Dad had cancer. It didn’t feel real. It was like I was waiting for the punchline and wondering when my parents became so cruel. Because how can my dad—Nicholas Saint Ingram, all six-foot-two and pure muscle—be sick?

My brain minimized it. Even after the official diagnosis, Dad was fine. Besides the coughing and wheezing, which always seemed to be present, he seemed okay. But those were only symptoms of something worse.

When he started chemo, he lost weight. His dark brown hair that he used to let me braid as a kid was gone. His brain fog would get so bad that I’d have to retell him things multiple times. And all of this was just over the phone or the weekend trips I’d take back home.

It terrified me, not knowing whether the cancer was going to progress or if it’d become treatment resistant. I couldn’t stand not being able to fix him. To do nothing but sit there and watch him slowly fade away. So, I made sure I came around as little as I could.

Despite how selfish it was, I couldn’t stomach seeing Dad that way.

Ten months later, he’s almost done with his second round of chemo and from what Papi has told me, it’s been going well. I should be happy, but I also should’ve been here.

“You keep staring at me like I’m going to float away.” Dad’s voice comes out hoarse and muffled through the nebulizer that he swears he doesn’t need, but Papi has threatened him a few times to keep it on.

I remain in my spot in a chair next to Dad’s bed. The TV is playing a random movie in the background and my phone is resting on my thigh, but I don’t pay attention to either device.

“Maybe I’m scared you will,” I admit.

Papi had gone downstairs to go get coffee, leaving Dad and me alone in the hospital room. The room is cold, sterile, and eerie in a way that I’ve tried to ignore.

“Lovie.” Dad gently smiles. “I told you, it’s just a cold. I’m fine.”

Normally he would be, but because he has stage three lung cancer, and Papi noticed Dad was having a hard time breathing in the middle of the night, he took him to the emergency room. That simple cold could’ve turned into pneumonia but Dad has been in the hospital for the past three days and has been responding to treatment well, so he should be discharged soon.

I sigh. “You know, you say you’re fine a lot. You said that before you were diagnosed too. You can tell me when you’re not doing okay, Dad.”

It’d probably make things easier. I wouldn’t have to worry if he’s really fine or if he’ll be gone one day soon.

“I can handle it,” I say. “I just need you and Papi to stop sugarcoating it because I don’t want to wake up one day and get a call…” My eyes begin to water and my throat is on fire.

Dad sits up and I hate that I’ve made him move even an inch.

“Okay, Lovie. You’re right. It’s not fair. You want to know the truth?”

I nod but I’m now genuinely questioning if I do. What if he tells me and it’s so much worse than I thought? What if we’re not really here because he has a cold, and instead I’m here to say goodbye?

“They’re stopping chemo.” My heart sinks.

They can’t do that. Without chemo he’ll—

Dad interrupts my spiraling. “My body has responded really well to it and they’re going to stop it sooner than planned,” Dad continues. “My chest and back hurt a lot. Sometimes my hands burn from chemo. Sometimes I’m so uncomfortable that Papi stays up with me at night so I’m not sitting by myself.”

Dad has never told me any of this before. It’s always been “I’m fine” or “I’m good and everything will be okay.”

He’s never willingly shown me that he was hurting. Maybe it’s my own fault. Maybe he saw that I couldn’t handle it.

Dad hesitates for a moment and clears his throat. “Sometimes I’m not okay, Lovie. There are days I don’t want to get out of bed and then other days when my chest doesn’t feel so tight. On those days I drag Papi to the gym for light training.”

I can’t help but laugh at his emphasis on the training being light, because I’m sure Papi micromanages Dad the entire time and asks him if he’s okay in thirty-second intervals.

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” My voice cracks.

“I didn’t know how bad this was all going to get. I didn’t know if I could handle telling you that I wasn’t going to be around much longer, so when I knew I was going to be okay, I just wanted you to have the best time out there in Ellingbrook. Not worrying about your old man.”