i've begun writing letters to him, but i never seem to finish them.

i didn't smoke today. i didn't want to. i thought i lost my wallet....again. i hyperventilated because i did not know how i would manage to photocopy my paper for class, let alone get to school without a metrocard, money, my debit card, my credit card, my mom's credit card, and all of the other cards i've lost about a dozen times because i have awful luck with wallets and awful luck in general. so i tore apart my room and began to shake. i couldn't breath. then i found it in a place i thought i'd looked a billion times. once calm and reassured, i thought about how awful it was the moment i thought my wallet was gone and i began hyperventilating again. somehow, i was so relieved i panicked.

the copy machine inevitably broke. i had to wait. i tapped my foot. i took a taxi to school. i used my credit card because i felt guilty using mom's the way i almost always do. i made sure to press, "credit," not "cash," because last time i took a cab, i accidentally pressed "cash" when i had none, and i had to go to an atm upon arrival at my destination. i probably could have gotten away with going straight to class without paying, but i'm your everyday sucker.

in the cab we passed the hospital. we passed the pizzeria from which i bought lunch? dinner? who remembers? but anyway, i brought it up to the room in which my dad was staying in a hospital bed and my mom was sleeping on a chair or two. that was the day after the doctors told us he only had a few weeks. but i didn't really understand just yet. i was able to eat my pizza and enjoy it. it was unseasonably warm that day and i relished in sunlight dancing on my skin.

that day, or perhaps the next one, my dad and i walked down the hall together. it seemed like such a struggle then, but he could still walk without a whole lot of help and he could still follow what was on the tv in the hospital sitting room and he could still talk to me about classes. he could do a lot more then than he can do now.

the day we left, he had forgotten how to use his cell phone. he didn't understand what it was, or how to make calls and pick them up. he thought his phone was the same as the remote he used to call the nurses when he was in pain or needed to use the bathroom. he tried to call us for help, but he was confused.

when his stuff was packed, he told me he was scared. he hadn't wanted to come to the hospital and he hadn't wanted to stay, but now he was afraid to go home, where there wouldn't be a call button or nurses 24/7. that's why he said he was afraid, but i think it was really because he knew he'd never be coming back to the hospital. he would die at home. i took his hand and told him it would be OK. when we got into the car service, he sat in the front and gave directions perfectly.


***

today i tried to squeeze my feet into uncomfortable shoes. today i watched a movie about a school shooting. today i woke up ashamed and confused. today i felt myself starting to go mad. today i didn't feel like smoking, because i don't think even cigarettes can help me [relax] anymore.

***

we walked the stairs together the first few days back home. it took about 20 minutes to scale two flights. he lost his breath repeatedly. after about two days, he stopped bothering to leave the bedroom. visitors came to him. once when i was there, he left the room and walked across the hall to his study with his oxygen tank plugged in. he checked his email and gave the computer an upgrade. on october 2 he sent me an email. i was in the room. i'd asked him to send a link to my email, and he did, as he was still able to. it was the last email he sent to me. i think i knew that then.

***

just over a week before he died, he quizzed me on middle eastern history. i got a 97.5 on that exam, but he was dead by the time i got it back.

***

i had to study that week, so i wasn't home much. i thought i had more time. at least, i told myself i did. those days, i walked the halls a lot in the middle of the night. i worried something was happening. that i'd get a phone call telling me he was gone. but when i didn't get a call and didn't get a call and didn't get a call a part of me stopped believing that i'd ever get one. each day that wasn't the day gave me reassurance that it wouldn't happen because it hadn't happened yet.

but when i came home, i had exactly a week minus a few hours left with my father.

that day, i quizzed him on our life. he'd started to forget things because the toxins from his failed liver were messing with his brain, and in short, he was scared. we took out a subway map and i pointed to landmarks. what's in coney island? i asked him. and what is at kings highway? avenue m? what trains go to 68th street? what are our cats names? where were your born? what is my birthday?

that day, he asked me to wear a post-it with my named and phone number. he wore his own post-it i'd written out for him with the names of everyone in the family and all of our contact info.

he grew tired of the quiz and told me he needed a nap. as he was getting into bed, he grabbed my hand and said, honey, don't let them take me away.

what?

if i don't remember things, honey, don't let them send me somewhere else.

i won't. i promise, daddy.

***

blood is gushing from his mouth which means he probably had internal bleeding. as his muscles relax, the bleeding from inside comes out. eyes are rolling back and forwards. he is gasping. suffocating.

***

i am standing in the shower. i feel myself doubled over. my face is sucked into itself. i cry without tears or sound. hot water drips and drips and drips. i emerge and look the same as ever, somehow.

***

today i sat on my floor and stared at my hands in the mirror. it was the first time i noticed how they've aged, with the veins just a bit more visible than they used to be. today i didn't have much appetite. today i spent about an hour browsing the netflix instant queue until i found a movie prominently featuring the subjects of death and decay. today i meant to go to sleep at midnight but instead i watched the movie i located and i reveled in the gunshots and bodies and blood. today i downloaded the dresden dolls because their music sounds angry and urgent and upbeat all at once. today i didn't smoke. i didn't want to. instead i thought about sex and certain text messages and played around with hangers. today i found a mildly deep scratch on my left arm. i've stroked it about a thousand times and i still can't remember how i got it.

***

the night after i quizzed him on our life, my mom came upstairs and told me that daddy was delusional and had asked for me. i'd heard her footsteps before i heard her voice. i thought it had happened, was happening, that this was it. is he going to be ok? she didn't answer. i arrived downstairs and found him attempting to detach his morphine pump. he cried to me. his voice was high pitched, emasculated. they won't let me take it off, he cried. tracy, honey, help me get rid of it.


i'll help you. you don't have to have it if you don't want it. but you have to wait until the morning so the doctors can take it off. then you'll go back to the other pain medications. is that what you want?

yes. he tugs at his morphine.

you just need to wait until morning.

no, i'm going to call the doctors now.

he grabs he phone.

you can't call until the morning, my mom lectures.

just let him call, i give in. let him hear from the doctors that he needs to wait until morning.

but that's not the right number...

he begins dialing as my mom protests in the background. he tries to explain to the other end of the line what he has just painstakingly explained to my mom and me. but the other line does not understand what makes so much sense to him, so the other line hangs up.

to appease him for the last few hours of night, i made him a photo copy of his doctor's phone numbers. he cuddled the original and he cuddled the copy. paper clipped them to his puke green shirt as though holding onto the papers was akin to holding onto his life. my mom wanted one of the copies, but he did not want to part with any of them.

my mom was angry with him. she was in her study playing games on the computer. she was angry because he didn't trust her. it's not him, i told her.

i made another copy for him. three was not enough, he told me. i made another. four was the magic number. he finally parted with one copy.

tell mom that you love her and you trust her, i pleaded. she's upset.

he agreed. i went to sleep.


***
i broke my promise to him.

when he died, i let them take him away.

***