There’s some back-and-forth, but it’s not heated. Everyone is sad and exhausted, not angry. However, when it looks like a consensus has been reached, Priscilla leaves the room without telling me anything. I have to race after her to find out.
Behind her in the hall, I ask, “What did everyone decide?”
Her no-nonsense, barracuda-in-the-boardroom stride halts as she turns around. “There wasn’t much of a choice. Everyone’s on the same page. We’re not putting Dad in hospice. They’ll just kill him with morphine. And he has to get the feeding tube.”
“They think that’s what Dad wants?” I ask hesitantly.
“He’ll die otherwise,” Priscilla states. “Do you want to be responsible for killing him?”
I shake my head quickly and regret that I said anything.
Priscilla sighs, looking more tired and stressed than I’ve ever seen her. “I need to go fill out the paperwork to get the procedure done and then look into transitioning Dad home, where we can take better care of him and help him get stronger.”
I nod dazedly, but I’m terrified. Priscilla seems to think our dad can get better, but based on what I’ve seen and heard from the doc tors, I think it’s unlikely he’s going to get stronger or regain any quality of life. I’m just one opinion, though, and I’m youngest so I don’t count.
But she said “we.” That means her and me, taking care of our bedridden dad, seeing to literally all his needs.
What do I know about caring for anyone? I’ve never babysat or even kept a pet （other than Rock, who, despite his undeniable charisma, isn’t actually alive）。 I’m woefully unprepared for what lies ahead.
“You can take some time off from the symphony, right? You’re not a key player, so they should be able to fill your chair pretty easily,” Priscilla says, her tone all business. Her dismissive words sting, but I’m used to this. It’s tough love, meant to help me overcome my extreme sensitivity and be realistic about myself. “As for your record deal, I’m sure you can push that out. They should be understanding.”
“Yes,” I reply unsteadily. She doesn’t know that the symphony filled my chair months ago or that I’ve already pushed out my recording deadline because I just can’t play anymore. If I did it once, however, I can probably do it again, so I say, “I can make the time.”
Priscilla gives me a proud smile, and even though I’m emotionally overwhelmed, her approval fills me with warmth. “I have a ton of vacation time saved up, and if it comes down to it, I’ll just quit. We’re in this together, Mui mui. In the meantime, try to get some sleep if you can. I took a nap in Dad’s car earlier, and that was pretty nice. Just remember to open all the windows.”
She hands me the keys to our dad’s Mercedes and continues down the hall, her eyes focused like she’s on a mission, and I suppose she is. She’s trying, very valiantly, to save our dad’s life. That’s what you do when you love someone. You fight, no matter the cost. You fight even when it’s hopeless.
Right?
I wander down the hall, waving at my cousins seated on the benches, take the elevator to the ground floor, go through the lobby, where I wave at yet more cousins and second cousins and my cousins’ cousins who aren’t even related to me, and exit the building. The car is parked under a tree on the far side of the parking lot, its windshield matted with tree sap and white squirts of bird poop. I make a note to get it a car wash one of these days. My dad loves this car even though it’s older than I am—a tan 1980s convertible that he never lets anyone take the top down on.
The passenger seat is already reclined all the way back, so I get in on that side and roll the windows down—they’re manual, so I don’t have to start the engine. Shutting my eyes, I enjoy the feel of sunlight dancing on my face and will myself to fall asleep.
No matter how hard I try to clear my mind, however, my head keeps buzzing. Disjointed snapshots flicker behind my eyes. The doctor recommending hospice and pain medication to make my dad comfortable in his last days. My cousin, an exercise and health food professional, saying we should only give him natural products like marijuana extracts because when he gets better, we don’t want him to be addicted to painkillers. My mom repeating that same sentence over and over, seeking forgiveness from everyone around her because she can’t forgive herself. Priscilla, filled with determination to do the right thing. And my dad, moaning and flailing, trapped in his bed, trapped in his own body.