I thought it may have been Mom’s cheesy potatoes.
It was Easter, and in between doing a million things, she added too much butter. When she first pulled the pan from the oven, a thick layer of oil wriggled at the top. My brother, father and I playfully jabbed at it with our fingers, giggling as Mom rolled her eyes and scraped the oil off into the trash before dropping it on the table with an annoyed thump.
As dinner started and we filled our plates, we traded glances with one another and begrudgingly took scoops of the potatoes, lifting small bites to our mouths with reservation to make Mom happy. But as we ate, Dad sat back in discomfort, lips pressed, looking down at the food he’d hardly touched.
There had been signs prior ― indigestion and aches in his abdomen. That January, we had taken a family trip to Mexico, and most days he’d return to the room early to lie down. At the buffets, he’d turn up his nose, nauseated. For months his appetite would wane and he’d feel uncomfortable, but we figured it was because it was flu season, or he was traveling or something was wrong with the food. So maybe those awful potatoes were upsetting him.
One month after Easter, my dad was diagnosed with colon cancer.
In the year that followed, Dad stepped into his treatment with hope and resolve. He’d crack jokes with the staff that administered his chemo, forgot about the port in his chest and would walk talkative laps with us in the hospital ward when he needed stents in his kidneys. But over time, the disease gathered strength and pulled more from him. He lost weight, lost hair and, eventually, he lost faith that he would beat the cancer.
The day he was diagnosed, I had flown home from Chicago and entered into a silent pact with myself. I would never break in front of him. I wouldn’t let my fear and anger become a burden and give him more to bear. On the way home, I hid in a dirty bathroom stall, sobbing gently so no one would hear me. I nodded politely at airline attendants and hid my puffy eyes behind sunglasses. I collapsed into my mother’s arms upon arrival ― breathless, afraid my legs would give out ― and cried all the way to the hospital in an effort to exorcise my feelings.
But when we went inside and I saw Dad for the first time, I gave myself no choice but to temper the anxious fluttering in my chest. For the next year, I took solace in the shadowed corners of hospital hallways when he’d return there, symptoms flaring, but would go back to his room with a smile on my face. At home, I’d retreat to the bathroom to soothe the red gathering in my eyes or release my rage by throwing things in the basement. Then, once I’d pulled myself together, I’d sit beside him to swap jokes and tell favorite old stories.
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