“Thank you for coming in, Mr. McKay.” I shake his hand, shooting him a tight smile before he gestures me to take a seat.
I don’t get nervous easily. There is not a lot that will get me rattled, but right now I feel like a kid on a sugar rush. My knee is twitching and I fumble with the keys in my hand.
The doctor rounds his desk to sit behind it. With his hands folding in front of him, resting on the surface, he gives me a tentative look.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” I croak out.
The deep sigh says enough, and I slowly feel my brain losing its concentration as the doctor’s lips start to move.
“Your father is refusing to eat. We see this a lot in the final stage of dementia.”
Final stage of dementia.
My father is going to die.
I register the sound that’s coming from the doctor’s mouth, but in my head, they quickly drown out, forming nothing more than a muffled sound in the background, because those six words are all that’s going through my head. The only thing my mind shouts at me harder and harder every time I repeat the words.
My father is going to die.
Flashbacks of my mother’s funeral water my eyes, my mouth turning dry as it feels like I’m having a hard time breathing. Going to boarding school at an early age made me grow up quicker than I anticipated, but my mother’s death made me feel like a little boy all over again. Jensen was there for me, but he couldn’t give me the comfort I got from my dad. His firm grip around my shoulders every time my emotions got the best of me and my tears would flow out like a waterfall.
I know my mother didn’t commit suicide. I know she didn’t intend to overdose, but it still feels like she left me. Like I wasn’t enough for her to stay sober for. To stay alive for. My father filled that void as much as he could, and we grew closer in the last decade than we had been in the first sixteen years of my life. I made something out of myself, but I couldn’t have done it without the knowledge of him encouraging me on. Every achievement, every success, every bestseller, he was there. But in the last year, I saw him wither away like a flower, slowly dying underneath my gaze. I thought I was accepting it, but now that the doctor is telling me what I’ve been fearing for a while, I can’t.
I don’t know how to move forward without him.
I don’t want to be alone.
“Sir?” My eyes flash back to the doctor as I wipe my eyes dry.
“Sorry?”
“I know this is a lot to process. But you need to prepare yourself for the end.”
I clear my throat, squaring my shoulders. “How long does he have?”
“We never really know. But I’d say weeks. Tops.”
I nod. “I understand.”
The walls of his cramped office feel like they are about to swallow me whole and I quickly get up, desperate to get the hell out of here.
He tilts his head in surprise at my sudden move, before reluctantly taking the hand I’m reaching out.
“Thank you for sharing, doctor.”
Like I’m haunted by the devil, I dart out of the room, my cheeks flushed from the lack of air. I carry myself out of the building on autopilot, completely lost in my own thoughts, until the sun hits me in the face and I suck in a deep breath.
It feels like my head merges from under the water and I close my eyes to focus on my breathing to get it back together. But when my cheeks become stained with tears, I’m not sure if I’ll ever get it back together.