Chapter 5
Ethical dilemmas happen when you're caught in a situation where you have to choose one value against another.
For as far as I can remember, Dad always embodied loyalty, duty, respect, boldness, selflessness, integrity, honor; Mom personified compassion, fidelity, empathy, tolerance, patience, perseverance. Both taught me the importance of honesty, love, family, and professionalism.
Their examples have helped me grow and thrive to become who I am today, because when you live up to your principles, those values become traits. But when you fail living up to them, you expose your flaws, your hypocrisy, and instead of making you whole, they push a part of you over a moral cliff.
While I am talking with mom, I watch a part of me plummeting into the chasm of dishonesty.
The surgery went well. Dad is fine (thinking he's at war, drugged, interrogated by the enemy). No, don't call him just now because he's sleeping (having an emotional breakdown). I assure you, there's no need to come (I'm so totally fine. Seeing patients in pain, being terrified to die, then losing it is absolutely common, it happens all the time). Anyway, he's on the list of patients to be sent back to the Resolute. Way too much dust here. It will be safer for him to recover in a more hygienic environment (a truth to make up for the lies and feel even more guilty). Love you too (but not enough to tell the truth, because professionalism is more important than my relationship with you at this moment). Got to go (I want to take a warm shower and relax, if that's even possible). Call you back later (not sure when, maybe something will come up and save me from lying again).
As I hang up, the two male interns from earlier, #1 and #3, who came in while I was talking with my mother, resume whispering together now that there's nothing to eavesdrop on anymore. Oh gosh. #1 just walked naked in front of me to go in the shower. No way I'm going in there now. A towel around his waist, the other follows in, mumbling an apology for his pal's boorish prank.
Welcome back to civilization, Jude!
I really didn't miss that part. What's wrong with this guy, anyway?
Realizing that I'm clenching my fists, I exhale deeply to calm down.
Dad always told me not to pick up a fight with stupid people. Even if you win, you lose because, for possibly a critical moment, they distracted you from what's important. I'm going to listen to this advice.
Saying goodbye to my warm, relaxing shower, I quickly change out of my scrubs, grab a clean white coat from a shelf, and exit the locker room tent with only my priority number one in mind. Where can I get or borrow a med pad?
My fists shoved into my oversized pocket, I head straight for the first nurse's station and explain my situation to a woman in her fifties with a worryingly vacant stare. Is she listening to me? "I really need it now, I have to access my patient's file." She raises a finger in the air to stop me. After a few minutes, I'm about to find help elsewhere when she puts in front of me the object of my desire and switches it on.
"Log in, fill the form and sign it, Dr. Robinson."
Thanking mother nature for granting me an eidetic memory, I quickly fill every section and hit "submit". Wow! It's working! After seven months, that was unhoped for and a nice surprise. Now, all I need is a place to sit down. My stomach growls. And food too.
"Where's the cafeteria?" I ask the nurse.
"Tent 16. Take a left, then the third exit on your right and across the yard."
"Thanks."
Feeling back in control of my day, I enter several minutes later a long open tent with three rows of six tables laid end to end in the middle of two lines of a self-service canteen. The quiet murmur of a dozen conversations is music to my ears, but as I pick up a tray and choose my ration, the absent looks and red eyes I notice on all the people around me concern me more and more.
After twenty-four hours in this desert dry heat, my eyes and skin itch already, but it's obvious that there is more to it than mechanical friction. And if finding myself near other human beings is a refreshing novelty and relaxing moment for me (save for one meaningless idiot), I have no difficulty imagining that a few months of this desert life is enough to wear anyone out. We will all need group therapy and long vacations once we reach the colony to recover from this ordeal.
Disappointed not to find Gabbie, I sit down alone at the end of one row of tables, and open Dad's in-patient file, taking a bite at my meal. Ugh. There's way too much salt in this ration. Or is it that after seven months of eating unseasoned food, I've lost all taste for it?
Too salty. Too bland. Life is a constant balancing act, like between calorie requirements and appetite. When achieved, balance is supposed to bring peace, happiness, health, a feeling of fulfillment. Conversely, imbalance causes loss of focus, instability, frustration, exhaustion, dysfunction, illness, chaos. Which brings me back to Dad's file.
Six years ago, he was diagnosed with "chronic stress" and sleep disorder without anymore details. It took three months to find the right drug, an experimental one I've never heard of, and dosage. And after six months of treatment, he was all cleared. Balance had been re-established. Or at least, an illusion of it had.
Until now, I thought that sticking to one's values was enough to guard against that pitfall, but that supposes that we are in control of our decisions and actions. That is sadly not always the case.
After all, having a runny nose in winter, being exhausted after a long day at work, and having a headache after binging on TV are more often than not considered normal. You need something stronger to land you in the ER because, unless you are a hypochondriac, blaming our miseries on ordinary things is just what we do. So when Dad stopped coming home, I looked for likely explanations.
a. His job comes first;
b. He doesn't love us as much as we thought;
c. He has no heart;
d. He's a cold, selfish bastard;
e. He's having an affair, possibly a double life, another family at the other end of the world;
f. He's having a PTSD relapse.
Check all that apply, except for the last one because in my genius mind, he's a strong man, a hero, and heroes can endure everything life throws at them without batting an eye. That's the definition. Heroes are physically and mentally invincible.
What nonsense!
It's like everything in me grew up, except for that image of him. That stayed the same as it was when I presented my hero to my third grade show & tell. Now I'm disappointed to find out that he's only a man. Worse, I resented him for being just a man. Like on the porch, when he apologized so pathetically on his return. It hits me now that he might have been sincere, and he's really as clueless as we are about what happened.
I look up at the ceiling and sigh.
We all bear some responsibility.
Mom, because she's the one who knows him best, his natural confidante. How could she think that ignoring a major part of his life, not knowing what happens to him when he is away, could work in the long term?
Me, because if I had opened one book about soldiers at war like Penny urged me to do, I might have understood sooner what was happening.
The army doctors, who not only cleared him for active duty after his last two concussions but didn't request a psych consult once.
His commanding officer, who failed to order him to take a break and go back to his family. How come he didn't have one mental health screening in five years, while he'd been diagnosed as having 'chronic stress'? I just don't get it.
My pager interrupts my train of thought. It's Jonah. At last! Two hours! That guy is killing me.
After taking a deep breath, I check the case "Psychological Consult Required" on his file, assign a medium priority, write an explanatory note for the psychotherapist (if we have one left), then make my way back to the ICU tent.
Hushed but joyful voices stop me on the spot as I push the curtain open a few minutes later.
Dragging his IV pole, Dad is shuffling down the central alley between the beds while chatting with Jonah. They both have their back turned to me and I can't help but smile. Hospital gowns have never been designed for dignity.
As they reach the back of the tent, they pivot in slow motion and notice my presence.
A cocky smile appears on my father's tired face. "I'd race you to the car, but we left it on Earth."
"You're no match for me, old man," I scoff, shaking my head in slight disapproval, although I'm impressed to see him limping toward me.
"Argh… Just wait a few days, you'll see."
Unbelievable.
There is another value he personifies: positive thinking. I've missed his good humor and his capacity to cheer me up so much in the past years. Life has been so bland without his quips. Penny is just like him, but it's not the same. She's my annoying little sister with daddy issues, although right now, dad has issues of his own.
Realizing that he's leaning heavily on the IV pole, I join him just as Jonah notices it too.
"Why don't you go back to your bed before kissing the floor?" I say as I grab his arm and wrap it around my shoulder.
"Is that advice or order?" he asks between ragged breaths.
"You're on my turf."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Oh, no. Don't call me ma'am. That makes me feel so old," I chuckle while we help him sit up into bed and fluff the pillows behind his back.
"Nah, it should make you feel professional and respected."
As Jonah pulls the privacy curtain and leaves us to check on the drill worker, I take my stethoscope and, for the next few minutes, proceed with my exam. The grating sounds are barely audible now. The meds are working. I grab his wist to check his pulse and notice with satisfaction that he doesn't flinch at being touched anymore. Good. The speed at which he is bouncing back amazes me. He is truly one hell of a solid man.
"So, how am I doing?"
"Actually, better than I expected. Did you eat already?"
"A sugar-packed juice and a sour tea. Give me a rifle and I'll go hunt one of those wild scavengers."
"Ethical and safety considerations aside, you're on a clear fluid diet for today. But if you're nice with the nurse, you'll be able to have pudding tomorrow."
"Ugh."
I chuckle at his facial expression. Will pouts the same way when faced with zucchini. I had never noticed that. "Are you complaining?"
"Me? Never. I'd eat anything right now, even pudding, believe me," he says, sitting up again with a groan. "Can you please give me my clothes?"
"Where do you think you're going?"
"To see with Victor what's the situation with that thing in the water."
"No, you're not."
"But you said I was fine."
"No, not what I said."
"I'm not fine?"
The confused look on his face kind of blows my mind. "You just had surgery, Dad. You need to take it easy."
"I am taking it easy. I mean, I'm sure I can find a chair to–"
"You can't help it, can you?"
"What?"
I stand in front of him, not knowing what to say anymore. He's been conditioned not to stop, to keep going, to jump back in the pit as soon as he's back on his feet. Despite all his talk, he has no control over himself whatsoever and he doesn't even realize it. And one day that will kill him.
Just the thought causes a strong wave of emotions to swell inside me.
As I turn my head away to hide my fear, he grabs my hand. Out of reflex, I pull away, but he holds my fingers tighter.
"Hey, Jude, come here…"
I sit next to him on the bed, looking away, at my feet, at the ceiling, anywhere but at him.
"Victor told me all the lengths you went to save me. Thank you for not giving up on me."
"Like that was an option," I shoot back before clenching my jaw hard. If all I can do is spit out sarcasm, I'd better not talk. Why am I feeling suddenly bitter and angry at him again?
"It's been a rough twenty-four hours. You've been scared. I've been scared. It's okay to cry, Jude."
He wraps his arm around my shoulder. "Come here," he whispers as he lies back on the bed with a moan of pain, dragging me along with him.
I don't want to. It's been so long since I hugged him that it feels awkward. I'm not five anymore.
But he doesn't let go and presses my head against his chest. I can hear his heart under my ear, knocking faster and faster as emotions get to him too. "It's okay to cry," he whispers again, holding me tight.
"I'm fine," I say as tears start flowing in spite of all my effort to rein them in. "I'm fine."
Repeating this only convinces my body to the contrary. I'm not fine. Who am I kidding? Not my father. Not Dr. Luna. Not even myself anymore. Since the robot attacked the Resolute, our lives have been constantly being threatened one way or another. I don't know what being safe feels like anymore. What is going to be next?
He strokes my face like he used to when I was little and needed comfort. And even if I don't want to be, in his arms, I am five years old again.
"I'm fine…" I whisper between sobs.
Dad says nothing. He just keeps hugging me. And while I struggle to pull myself together, I lose track of time. In the silence, listening to the sound of his heartbeat slowing down calms me and lulls me into a brief but numb slumber.
When I open my eyes, Dad's chest is rising and falling quietly; his hand rests on my shoulder.
As delicately as possible, I slip off the bed, push myself up on stiff legs, and cover him with a blanket, noticing with some embarrassment a large wet spot on his gown. At least my breakdown got him to sleep so I guess it's a blessing in disguise. And I admit, although I can still feel a weight on my chest, I feel better now, enough at least to think straight. It's true what he said. I have been scared. But not just yesterday. I've been scared my whole life. Since I was old enough to understand that his job was riskier than normal. And when he stopped coming home, I was angry, right, but truth is, above all, I was afraid because after the Christmas Star's crash, the world had become a terrifying place. And he wasn't there to protect me anymore, to talk me through what I didn't understand. He had left me, and us to deal with our fears alone. And that made me even angrier at him. Because being angry was easier than being scared. Because being angry dulled the emotional pain I was in.
I was just protecting myself... trying not to feel anything for him but anger. Yesterday brutally proved how mistaken I was. And looking at him sleeping in a hospital ICU bed is the kind of slap in the face you inflict on someone acting hysterically in order to wake them up.
I am awake now. And now, I can see.
I can see that I was not alone to be afraid or in pain. He was too. I have no idea of what precisely because, like mom said, he is a private man who keeps every single pain to himself since forever. He shuts himself. That's what he does, what he did his whole life, his whole career. To protect us from all the violence he was exposed to so we wouldn't be scared for him. That was probably his reasoning, his justification not to let us in, when in fact, I think it was to protect himself in order to keep doing his job. I know this now, thanks to Dr Yates. Some jobs take an emotional and physical toll on you, that you want it or not. So it doesn't matter what you tell yourself to be able to go on. Because in the end, the result is the same. You have to pay the toll. Even if he had other people at work whom he could open up, like his colleagues, he chose not to let us in. Not even mom. He emotionally cut himself from us for years and he did it out of love. That is just so twisted and self-destructive. Leaving us was only the next logical step.
With that scary thought in mind, I settle in the chair next to the bed, grab my tablet on the side table, and access the large medical database.
It's time to do my job, both as a doctor and a daughter. It's time to understand. It's time to help.
Jonah comes by while I'm reading articles on post traumatic stress disorder. The drill worker is doing better, but after examining him, I advise against pulling him off the ventilator for now. Dr. Yates confirms the decision thirty minutes later when he comes to replace the nurse. A third patient is admitted. The chief anesthesiologist guides me while I assess the woman in her fifties; severe dehydration and heatstroke. Once she is stabilized, I return to my father's side and take advantage of his sleep to resume seeking some perspective on the challenges he is facing as he transitions toward a civilian life. I never even thought that it could be an issue for him but it's obvious that I need to consider a broader approach to this pathology. I need to consult with a specialist too, in order to know what I'm doing here and be able to recognize what triggers him and how to deal in such a situation. And Mom has to know in order to help him. She cannot hide anymore and pretend that she's just respecting his right to privacy. We're way beyond that. He's way beyond that. And at least now I have a piece of the puzzle. I know that he doesn't like to be touched when–
"What are you reading?"
Startled, I look up from the tablet and see him staring at me while he awaits my answer. Honesty versus self-preservation. Value versus instinct. I have to decide what will define and orient our relationship from now on.
"The role of social connectedness in mitigating PTSD amongst Iran veterans."
His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. After a few silent seconds, he bites his lip and nods. "That's some pretty heavy reading."
"You tell me. Want to talk about it?"
He lets out a deep sigh and stares at the ceiling. For a moment, I get the impression that he is going to close up like a clam and turn his back to me again.
"You don't have to talk about it with me if you really don't want to," I tell him, deciding to reverse the conversation and shift it to share my feelings instead. "I understand why you chose to stay silent about whatever was happening to you while you were deployed. That you wanted to protect us from all that violence. But it was our life before we left Earth. Before we were attacked by a killer machine. Before I saw your Jupiter explode in a ball of fire in the night sky. Before Mom was kidnapped by Harris and with Will and Penny for a long, dark night, we were orphans. Before I almost died in the ice, and before yesterday when I cut through the desert outside the security fence and got hunted down by those scavengers you'd like to transform into steak."
"You what?" Dad lifts himself on his elbows with a groan, his eyes growing wide in horror. "Why did you take such a risk?"
"Because your life was on the line and because irrational, impulsive decisions are symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder. Like when you didn't come back home. That is the most irrational thing I've seen you do."
He looks away for a few seconds. After taking a deep breath, he turns himself on his side to face me, folding his right arm under the pillow and stretching his left toward my hand. After untangling his IV line, I squeeze his fingers and lean forward when he drags me closer to him. His eyes settle on mine. They are red. But it's not from the dust. And when he speaks, his voice is barely audible.
"I almost made it, Jude… I almost made it home one day."
He pauses to adjust his position and clears his throat. Still not from the dust.
"I wanted to surprise your mom for her birthday like I did at Christmas. I was in the taxi between the airport and home when they called me back. A dirty bomb had exploded in Tel-Aviv. So I ordered the taxi to turn around two blocks from you guys and drive me to the base instead. I made it in a few minutes before it went on lockdown. Then, I flew out in the middle of the night without even being able to call your mother."
I remember that night and the tension over the next days as we waited for news from him that didn't come until three weeks later, a simple email saying he was all right. Dates suddenly connect in my mind. No, he wasn't.
"Wait, you got a concussion a week after mom's birthday."
His eyebrows furrow in confusion and I have to admit reading his medical file.
He nods. "A blast knocked me down. Nothing serious, but for some time after that, I was just too washed out to stay awake at night to return your calls."
"Why didn't you take a break after that concussion? And after the next one six months later. Why weren't you allowed to come home to rest?"
"You can't fly out of a war zone that easily, Jude. And I took breaks each time after a concussion. I'm not always on the field, you know. Most of the time, we prepare, we train, and we take advantage of the waiting times between missions to recover from injuries. I assure you that I took breaks each time I needed to."
I shake my head. "Not a real one, not in a stress free environment. Honestly, I don't know what's worse than trying to relax in a war zone."
He exhales deeply and stays silent for a few long seconds.
"When your mom called me that day to tell me that you guys had been accepted on the Resolute, I was floored, and pissed, but once the shock passed, you know how I felt?"
"No," I say, a bit annoyed that he is changing the subject.
"I was relieved, Jude. You have no idea how much. After Tel-Aviv and London, on top of all the natural catastrophes, the war was everywhere. Threats just kept popping up. All the people I worked with, none of us chose our job over our family, that's not what happened. What happened is that we were all terrified that our loved ones could be next."
His red eyes dart toward the ceiling as he lies on his back and sighs heavily. His mile-away stare is back. What kind of memories are resurfacing?
I knew from the news that the world had taken a bad turn, with all the hurricanes, tsunamis, forest fires, volcanoes eruptions, floods, and earthquakes, the dust making the air unbreathable; the war in the middle east seemed controlled, a constant noise in the background since I was born. I just had no idea how bad it was for him or how vulnerable we were to that violence.
"Your mother did what I couldn't do. She found the solution to take you to a new place with no war and no terrorist threat on your heads anymore."
"But killer robots instead?"
"Yeah. And alien dinosaurs."
"Velociraptors."
"Giant eels."
"Giant carnivorous bats…" I say as we both chuckle. This feels good, like old times.
"You think we're jinxed?" I ask after a few seconds of silence.
His gaze darkens. "Maybe. Who knows?"
This answer, far from the rebuttal I was expecting, betrays his exhaustion, his helplessness, his fear about the future and his ability or inability to protect us. But at least, it's an honest one.
"We'll get through this, dad, you and me, with Mom, Will and Penny, we'll get through this together. And do you know why?"
He frowns and shakes his head.
"Because Robinsons stick together. Of all the lessons you taught me, that's the most important."
Tears appear in his eyes as he swallows hard, smiling at the same time while he squeezes my hand, biting his lips, nodding. And that's my cue to leave because, honestly, I'm feeling close to crying again.
"I'm going to let you rest a little, okay?"
As I stand up, he holds my hand back.
I sit back down, perplexed, and wait for him to gather himself.
"Yesterday was not the first time you saved my life, Jude…"
"What do you mean?"
"A couple of months before I met your mother, I… I was going through a hard time after a mission. We had heavy casualties and..." He pauses and turns on his side again. "You remember Laura's dad?"
"Yes, of course. He was your friend. Mom told me about him by the way. I'm so sorry."
His lips twitch as he nods. "We both were captured that day. I was injured too but didn't feel it. It's… it's just crazy how adrenaline can mess you up when you have nowhere to hide or run and you can't fight back because you can't even move... so you're just waiting to die."
He's staring straight into my eyes as he speaks, holding my hand tighter as a shudder runs down my spine. My heart rate increases and my chest tightens as I feel the cold coffin of ice around me. I know exactly what he means.
"But I survived, and a few months later, I met your mom." A large smile appears on his face. "She blew me off my feet when I expected it the least. I guess that emotionally, she caught me at a moment when I was vulnerable. And gosh, am I happy that I was, because together, you and her, you made everything worth it. So I married your mom and adopted you without hesitation and I'd do it all over again. That's not PTSD, Jude. That's love, and resilience. That's hope for the future, trust in us to be able to succeed and in me to get up on my feet no matter what happens. It's not my job that kept me going all those years. It's my family. Always has been since day one. I love you. I love you guys more than anything and I just can't bear the idea of losing you."
As I hug him tight, tears run down my face, but I don't care. The chasm between us is closing at last. "I love you too, Dad. I'm so sorry for everything I said."
"Thanks for sticking up with me, Jude."
"You're welcome." My voice croaks with emotion so weirdly that it makes us both laugh as Dr. Yates comes in. Another patient is going to be admitted and he wants to know if my father is well enough to be discharged from the ICU, which he is. While the chief anesthesiologist leaves to find a wheelchair, I help Dad sit up on the bed.
"Easy… Let me get your clothes. Don't stand up, okay?"
Love, care, strength, and vulnerability sometimes intersect in the most simple gestures as I assist him to put on his t-shirt, his pants, socks and boots, like he did so many times with us when we were little, then help him transfer his weight to the wheelchair.
"You're good?" I inquire, worried that the effort made him break a sweat, leaving him a little shaky.
"Yeah."
"Wait one more second…" I display the field's hospital layout on his wrist computer and give it to him. "We're going… there. You guide me, all right?"
"Aye, aye."
For the next five minutes, I push him through busy and cramped tents toward the regular ward. We're slowly maneuvering through a corridor intersection when we almost collide with Gabbie.
"Oh, sorry Judy, I didn't see you. But hey! Glad to see you feeling better, Mr. Robinson!" she says with a large smile before resuming her walk with the same overflowing energy.
"Your friend seems nice," Dad says as we continue toward the clinic.
"Yes, she is."
"So, aside from all the drama of saving my ass, how was your first day back at school?"
"Not bad, actually. You just met my new friend, Gabbie. I saved two people. And I've been accepted in the most competitive and elitist internship program in surgery in the universe, under the best surgeon ever."
"Wow! But hey, what about pediatrics?"
"Meh. I like playing with other people's entrails better."
"You operated already? On the guy who got hurt at the drill site with me?"
"No, not him."
"Who then? Or is it protected under patient-doctor confidentiality stuff?"
"I'll give you a clue: now I know what Navy SEALS have in their guts."
Dad straightens with a wince as he understands.
"And what would that be?" he chuckles.
"Steel rods, of course."
He laughs and winces again. "I knew it would pay off one day to let you win at Operation when you were little."
"No, you didn't. I had steadier hands than you."
"I had the most steady hands of my whole class in bootcamp. Still have." He holds his arm in front of him and grunts. "That's just the wheelchair vibrations."
"Sure it is, old man," I laugh as we enter the clinic and its two rows of cots.
"I'm not–" He suddenly goes silent. "No fucking way, I'm not going to sleep on one of those, Jude. I'm not joking. I'd rather stay in–"
"Hey, hey, calm down."
The sudden panic surprises me and raises a red flag. In less than an hour, he'll be stretchered and winched up into a Jupiter to be evacuated to the Resolute, which is going to feel so much worse than lying on a cot. I'd better give him an anxiolytic with his pain medication to help him relax or even sleep. yeah, it will be better for him to be asleep. I'm not sure about what his triggers are, but I don't want to figure this just now. Let's play it safe and easy for once.
"You're not going to lie on a cot," I reassure him as I push him across to the next tent, a medical exam room, and stop the wheelchair next to the exam bed at the center. "There you go. Easy… "
The nurse in the room immediately steps toward us to help Dad to sit up on the bed.
"Do I need to lie down?"
"No, you can stay up if you prefer," I reply as I step back to the corner of the room with the nurse to gather all the supplies to take care of his wound and two syringes with his medications ready before going back to his side.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you, by the way, Mom called several times," I say as I switch the standing exam lamp on.
"The Resolute is back in range?"
"Not yet, but her Jupiter is."
After injecting his meds in the IV line, I quickly explain the whole situation with the robot to him while taking care of his wound. "She should be landing in a few minutes actually. Why don't you call her? She'll be relieved to hear your voice." The sooner he talks to her, the better.
For a fleeting second, I read a certain hesitation on his face. "Don't wait too much because I just gave you morphine."
"Yeah, I can feel it already..." After a deep breath, he nods and opens a comlink on his wrist-computer.
The red, blinking 'connection' takes a few seconds to turn green.
"You come all the way down here and you don't say hello?" he says, making me raise an eyebrow.
"John!"
While my parents talk together, a new perspective opens up to me. Mom and Will are two hundred miles away from us. Penny is even farther, several hundred thousand miles, safe on the Resolute. I'm here alone with Dad. And for the first time, I can see for myself that his emotions, concerns, and desire to be with us are real. Our family is still whole, no matter where we are. My third grade hero might have disappeared, this image shattered. But it's a good thing. Because in his place today, I've discovered a sensible man, with his inner conflicts, his hidden pain, his unexpected vulnerability, and his incredible strength.
And as the wound in our family mends, I realize that in the end, life is about making connections.