His Body is Too Young to Look Like His

The feeling should not be described as discontented. Unhappy. Or annoyed. It’s neither apathy or frustration. It could be sadness.

But really, it’s probably grief. 

A couple weeks after Atticus was born I was given an alarming message. It blindsided me but it didn’t shock me.

“Mackenzie, did you know dad is in the ICU?” My sister Mikia informed me as she stared at her phone.

I’m careful with my expressions. I’m not someone who needs to feel the drama or participate in it. I wasn’t sure which expression to convey. So I was stoic, almost cold.

I couldn’t articulate a sentence. I was grasping for words. Language. Joan Didion tells us that we tell ourselves stories in order to live. I found myself lost in language, unable to find the right expression, the correct answer or even a simple breath.

I was lost in my own thought process.

I shook my head.

“No, I didn’t know”

One sibling began rambling about how she was going to go see dad, my mom looked as paralyzed as I did... knowing she wanted to support us but unable to find her own correct words.

I received more information. Details.

He was unable to talk or stand. His friend had to call the paramedics. He tried to fight them off. He wasn’t breathing. He was transferred to a larger hospital. He might not make it. He was on life support. He was unconscious. 

They think it’s thick blood. They think it's cirrhosis of the liver. They think it’s a stroke. He's receiving a tracheotomy.

Heart attack. Coma. Pneumonia. 

??????????????????

Somewhere between all the words a sweat bead formed on the back of my neck. 

I hadn’t seen my dad in almost 16 months. I had no desire even now to see him. 

Nothing changed for me. My boundaries were still the same as they ever were, even with his looming death smacking me in the face.

I wiped my neck which had stiffened.

It’s not that I didn’t love him. It’s not that I didn’t care. 

I just wasn’t ready.

I listened as the other, more current with my dad, siblings updated me on his condition. Mikia and Sam made the long treck to Pueblo to see him first. Wide eyed they updated us all on his state.

Tubes in his nose, mouth. Unable to move or speak. Unconscious. Swollen. 

Sick. Very, very sick.

Tatiana and Ben made the next treck to see him. Same. Unable to move or speak. Tatiana wrote him a letter. My uncle Mark flew in. 

We all were grateful.

Death, grief and sadness all took residence in the front part of my brain and nestled it's way into my heart.

All I kept thinking is that he had died to me already in so many ways. 

Why would I go see him now?

So there I would stare out the window during my 3AM feeding, hoping my mind would stop buzzing, stop yelling and terrorizing my feelings. I had to make a decision to see him or not. I did not want to make that decision. 

It was not until I received a letter from a college friend of my dad’s; he encouraged me to allow him to apologize if in fact he were to die. That I could give him an opportunity to convey a message. This struck a cord with me. I needed to allow that moment to take place for his sake, not necessarily mine. 

It still loomed in front of me.

I arranged to meet with Uncle Mark. I was so grateful he was there. He would ask the hard questions to the doctors and allowed us kids to figure out our way.

I was still the only one who hadn’t seen my dad.

And truly out of just pure gut, I called Mark and told him I was ready to see him. Zac and the boys would come with Co and Ax would not be allowed in the ICU, obviously, but I would have my support system. 

I didn’t know what I’d say. I didn’t know what I’d do. 

I just stepped out in blind faith.

I sat in the ICU, talked with a family that was there visiting that knew my dad. So many would ask me questions, but though I was family, I was a stranger just like them. I didn’t know anything. Cohen didn’t know anything. Zac was my quiet, yet my strong ally through it all... knowing I needed to feel everything.

Mark asked me if I wanted him there in the room.

“Yes, thank you"

It came without hesitation. I was nervous.

I walked slowly into the ICU. It smelled like dirty socks masked with an artificial lemon hand sanitizer aroma. 

My stomach began to grow knots. My hands were sweating as we came around the corner. I walked into his room and stared out the window. I couldn’t look him in the eye yet.

Fear, grief, anger and sadness. They were all felt simultaneously. My knees buckled under my own weight.

I walked to the far side of the bed. He was awake. He hadn’t been awake for my other siblings, the ones that actually talk to him. He was awake for me. 

The irony killed me in that moment.

He had three tubes in his mouth, tubes in his arms and could hardly keep his eyes open.

He stared at me, and I tried to stare at anything but him. The monitors. The wrinkled bed sheets. The chair to the left of his bed.

“Hi dad”

Silence. My stomach grinding into my back then up my rib cage. He stared at me.

I wanted to run.

“Hi dad, I just wanted you to know that I came to say I love you and hope that you get the healing you need when this is all over.”

My arms, crossed. I kept rolling my eyes to the ceiling. Fidgeting with my fingers.

I couldn’t help but notice the strained intimacy I kept trying to force. It was a vulnerable, sad and emotional moment, but I kept taking small steps backwards... shifting my weight. I was an outsider in the seemingly intimate moment.

My thoughts were factual, guarded.

He began to cry. Weep. He held out his hand to touch mine. Huge and swollen. I looked at Uncle Mark and reluctantly patted his hand. 

“You’re going to be alright dad, I love you and want you to know that I want you to have a relationship with your grandsons...”

He tilted his head and began to cry some more.

“I just had a baby and named him Atticus. He’s.... um....  beautiful.” I kept staring at the floor, to Uncle Mark and then at my dad... I couldn’t look him in the eye.

“I love you dad. All your kids came to see you because we want to see you get better in every area of your life.”

Then, I couldn’t help but make my boundaries clear... “The next time I see you will be when you have done the work to be better.... in all areas of your life.”

He kept staring at me. It was burning through my whole body. I wanted out. It was too much.

“Um, ok dad?”

He attempted to write something. He wanted to tell me something. It was an awkward time for me standing there, arms crossed watching him watch me.... trying to write something with his big swollen fingers. 

I just wanted out.

I began inching my way toward the door.

“I love you dad, hope to see you soon.” 

Uncle Mark followed me as we left.

I immediately saw the hand sanitizer as I bolted out of the room. I pumped it four times and rubbed it all over my hands and arms. Telling myself I was doing it for Atticus... knowing in my heart I wanted the experience off of me. It burned in my soul. I gave Zac a look as I scurried into the waiting room.

I wanted out.

Zac went and talked to my dad. Conveyed a similar message as I did but with more charm and finesse. I nursed Atticus in the lobby. I distracted myself by counting the tiles on ceiling.

47

Zac finished, and I packed up. We drove home.

I felt disconnected and silent. I love him. I want the best for him...

But I don’t know him.

My mind and my heart filled my thoughts for days. I kept telling myself I needed to process what had happened but distracted myself in other ways.

He was in the ICU for nearly 6 weeks. Nearly dead. 

I cried once last week about it. My emotions finally manifested and grief washed over me. It was there, staring out the window at my 3AM feeding. I nursed Atticus and sobbed. I couldn’t control myself. My grief turned into anxiety, and I felt sick. Alone. 

My dad has lost almost all of his friends and no one that I am current with really knew what was going on. My dad was dying and it was complete strangers who would send me messages of comfort. Nothing made sense.

I sat there after putting Atticus to bed. Alone with my grief. Alone with my pain.

My strong wall that I built was crumbling. I was hurting and my feelings were so out of touch.

Still are.

I haven’t seen him since then. It’s all I can give at this point. He knows my heart.

Grief. It sneaks up on me at times and shakes it’s fist wanting to be known, heard and dealt with...

It’s the one emotion I hate more than the others. It can’t be tampered with or destroyed completely. It aches in every part of the body.... revisiting especially when you wish it wouldn’t.

So I pray and I leave a tiny sliver of my heart for hope...