I See You
Driving to the hospital I think about the fishing trip. Not the one I took last spring with the old man, the morning of his stroke, but an earlier one. I might have been ten or eleven years old. On that trip, I remember, Dad spied this big rainbow trout behind a water-worn rock in the middle of the stream, right where he thought he’d be. He’d caught fish in that hole before-mostly eight-to-ten inchers treading water headlong against the current, waiting for food to drift downstream. The trout sat in the eddy just behind the rock, close enough to ease their struggle against the current but far enough back to dart left or right when something edible hit the rock and was driven by the current to one side or the other. The trick, Dad explained, was to land the fly in the center of the current so it would drift naturally to the boulder and trail left or right around it. When presented correctly, Dad said, no self-respecting fish could resist.
To demonstrate, he stripped several feet of line from his reel and hastily cast out his fly. Ordinarily he had an awesome delivery, a choreographed, back-and-forth motion that bred momentum, accuracy and pure, geometric beauty. After releasing the line that morning, however, the fly swirled uncontrollably in the air, the stubborn wind grasping the line on the cast and tossing it back at him. The fly refused to land in line with the boulder. Dad tried again and again, factoring the strength and direction of the wind into each successive cast until finally the fly settled on current and sped downstream.
Now even at that age I knew it was important for the fly to float naturally, that for the best presentation it should appear completely untethered. But this time, Dad’s sudden success took him by surprise. He wasn’t ready. The supply of free, floating line dwindled, and upon realizing this Dad frantically began to strip more from his reel. The current raced, draining all the slack from his line. He couldn’t strip it out fast enough, couldn’t keep pace with the current, and when the fly jerked to a halt just before the great stone, the startled trout swam off in a flash of silver light.
_____________________________
I pull into the parking deck where there are plenty of empty spaces. Visiting hours are long over, but because I work rotating shifts I made special arrangements with the hospital to be allowed in at odd hours. My father is comatose after all, and the administrator granted me this privilege with only minor reluctance. He said I couldn’t possibly disturb the patient, as if to suggest that to the contrary, it would be a miracle if I could wake him.
My father is in a renovated wing on the first floor. “Just before the morgue,” the receptionist instructed on my first visit. “You’ll see it. Sign says ICU, intensive care unit. He’s resting comfortably.”
Stepping softly down the corridor to my father’s room, I see the night nurse who has just gone on duty. There’s usually only one, and generally they’re too busy to notice me much. This one winks at me as I pass, cracking her gum.
“How you doing, hon?” she asks.
“Fine,” I say, still walking.
“He’s better today,” she offers.
At the end of the hall I see the great steel door to his room. It opens with a hydraulic whisper. The air is sterile, antiseptic, like sticking your nose into a freshly opened box of gauze pads. My eyes adjust to the dim lights of the life-support system that cast a subtle, neon glow on his face. His tattered skin cascades off his bones like fabric.
“How you doing, Pop?” I ask, though I’m certain he can’t hear me.
The steady beep of his heart rate monitor answers me, saying
ready…
son…
thanks.
In the window I see my reflection, and below, just as dim, my comatose father’s body. His soul is gone, his brain dead, and his body, aided by the latest in electronic life-support, is just an idling vessel. No forward, no reverse. Just standing still with the engine running. I sigh for the millionth time, wishing God would just take him.
“Hey Pop,” I say, “nurse says you’re doin better today. Says this contraption is operating more efficiently than ever. I thought you’d like to know.” I chuckle to myself, knowing that he’d be laughing too.
I’ve heard him condemn these fancy machines before, saying what a waste of time, money, and space they all were. Telling me over and over again that when his time comes, he won’t have a machine keeping him alive. He also told me he wouldn’t be caught dead in a Catholic hospital. On this point it seems he’s half right.
After the first month I asked the doctors to switch the thing off, but I knew they wouldn’t. The diocese will not play the role of God, or so I’ve been told. I explained to the doctors how unexpected this was, how healthy Dad had always been. “It doesn’t matter,” they said. “We’re not in the business of ending lives.”
They sent a chaplain to talk to me about it. He told me I’m allowed to move Dad to another hospital, one that would consider removing the life support. But of course these machines are too big to transport, so they would need to disconnect him first, which they refuse to do. I could tell he felt bad for me. He tried to console me, suggesting that it’s not our place to challenge the will of God. I asked him, “Why not? Did God think inventing life-prolonging machines was challenge enough?”
He offered to pray with me. “God answers prayer, my son.”
“Amen,” I replied.
_____________________________
The morning of his stroke was the first time I fished with him in over five years. I had just started to miss him again and thought a trip to the stream would be a suitable reunion. We awoke at five in the morning and were waist-high in water by five-thirty. Neither of us had a bite all morning, until just before lunch.
Dad said, “Hey guess where I’m going.” He waded through the mud to that same damn rock, and on this windless day he landed the fly straight on current, right on the first cast. It floated leisurely up to the boulder, swirled for an instant and ultimately swerved to the right side where it disappeared from the surface in a sudden splash of light. Dad’s line grew tight and jerked from one side of the stream to the other, the force of the pull almost dragging him down in the muddy bottom. The trout shot to the rocky bank and then back to the other side. Dad dug in with his heels and heaved the rod tip skyward. The rod arched, and the line-capturing the sun’s light in tiny beads of water-glowed as if electrified.
Dad froze there, innocently enjoying himself and glancing back for approval. I reminded him about the rocks. If you play the trout too fast it will rip the hook out; if you play it too slow, the fish can entangle the line in the rocks, and perhaps, break free.
He told me this himself many times before, but in this-his moment of glory-Dad lost focus, and the line soon grew still. After the initial panic, the trout had remained calm and saved himself, looping the line around that boulder two or three times. Dad stood there and waited, hoping the fish would forget he was hooked and swim back out into the current, but he never did.
Minutes passed. “Dad,” I said. “Do you want me to go over there and net him for you?”
“No, son,” he said.
“But Dad, I’ll just untwist your line. He’s still hooked. That’s some fish!”
“Nope, wouldn’t be right. The fish has got to go on his own terms. He beat me, fair and square.”
Dad stood silent amidst the rustling grass and churning water, like he was thinking it over. He always told me there was honor in surrender, but I never understood that. Who was surrendering here? I figured it was the fish, but Dad must have thought otherwise. He snapped the line between his teeth and let the loose end float downstream where it disappeared from sight.
At my house, later that afternoon, I teased him about it. He was in good spirits, laughing it off by that time. After lunch Dad lay down for a nap. When I couldn’t wake him I called the ambulance. They rushed him to the hospital. I thought he was dead when they drove away. It wasn’t what I had planned. It wasn’t what I expected.
_____________________________
I’ve given this considerable thought. In my daydreams it goes like this:
I hear the nurse’s call alarm go off down the hall and peer out the door to see which way she’s heading. I spy her running toward the elevators, away from me, so I shut the door and return to my father’s side. Trying to find it, I glance under the bed, then dart behind it, but it’s too dark.
I could turn the lights on-it’s not like he would notice-but I can’t bear to see him more clearly, can’t bear to be seen. I tell myself to stop, to just slow down and relax. I shut my eyes. When I open them and regain focus, I see the switch.
I thought there wouldn’t be one, so I’ve been looking for a plug, but the switch is right there on the front of the machine. It says POWER. I interpret the word and its siblings-strength, authority, control-not as a state of being, but as an instruction, a command.
So I shut it off.
The great machine beside him releases a long, thankful hiss of air pressure. It’s a few seconds before the heart-rate monitor responds, its slowing chirp answering on my father’s behalf,
tired…
some………..
fish.
The digital peaks of the readout become irregular and the unit abruptly shrieks a high-pitched whine. I glance out the door and observe the still-vacant nurses’ station. My father’s alarm rings steadily but quietly, much more softly than I had expected.
I drift to his side and look down at him. There’s no reaction, his face no different in approaching death than in clinging to life. “Goodnight Dad,” I say, leaving the room behind me awash in stuttering red lights and needless alarms. The great steel door whispers, shhhh.
Softly I move down the hall again, past the station where the nurse has yet to return. I continue walking, leisurely, untethered. In a room near the elevator, I see her trying to soothe an old woman wailing in her sleep.
I figure I should say something to her-small talk feels right here. I glance in and say, “I’m going now. It seems you got your hands full.”
“Sure do,” she says. “This one’s feisty, but she’ll wear herself out. Is everything quiet out there?”
“Yup,” I reply, “just the usual beeps and chirps.”
“Good, good. How’s your dad doin?”
“You were right,” I say calmly. “He’s much better today. Goodnight now.”
“Good-bye,” she replies.
Sitting along the stream, staring into the moonlight, I decide to do this for him, for me.
_____________________________
I pull into the parking deck where there are plenty of empty spaces. It’s just past midnight and the hospital is strangely silent. Stepping softly down the corridor to my father’s room, I see the nurse’s station is empty. Conditions couldn’t be better; they won’t even know I’ve been here. My heartbeat quickens; a nervous sweat sprinkles my brow. With a great breath of determination, I open the whispering door and see the bedsheet pulled over my father’s head. The nurse stands behind him, disconnecting wires and tubes, cracking her gum. The POWER switch is dark.
She walks towards me and puts her hand on my shoulder. She offers a sympathetic grin and says, “I’ll leave you alone with him for a little while.”
“No, that’s OK,” I reply, and I walk over to him and touch his cool hand, and tell him how proud I am. And with a mix of relief and regret, I tell him, “That was some fish.”
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