Chapter 112
Well I have been swimming the seven sad seas
"Exactly how long do you plan to hide out in here?"
As the screen door slammed shut, Patrick looked up with a modestly grateful smile on his lips. "Sm-smitty" Seeing his friend's telltale navy scrubs peeking out from under his coat, he raised his eyebrows.
"Your text said it was urgent" he offered in explanation. "And I was on my way home so I just hopped in the car and came here."
Crossing the room he sat on the ledge of the window sill and sighed silently as he looked at his friend. The look on his face was one he knew well and had not expected to see again; it was a mixture of anger, sadness and confusion and one he had seen every time Patrick had interacted with his father when he was drinking. Though Patrick told everyone at the time that he had written his father off and he wanted nothing further to do with him, only Eric knew differently. He was the one in whom Patrick would confide his hope that his father would get sober, that one day he would realize his living son was as important as his dead wife and he would try. When it seemed that those moments were never coming Patrick's frustration would overwhelmingly rise up inside him and he would fall silent, unable to express himself.
One night after Patrick had had a particularly bad weekend with his father Eric had come off shift to find his roommate pounding the stuffing out of a heavy bag he had installed in the den. It became his release and his way of coping with the disappointment and the continual dashing of his hopes. When Eric got his text telling him that he needed him and a pair of boxing gloves he knew things had gone off the rails.
Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a pair of battered red gloves and tossed them to him. Patrick smirked as he caught them.
"You said you needed them" Eric reminded him.
"Was kidding."
"I know" he said kindly. "But just the same, you never know when they might come in handy."
Leaning back in the chair he stared out at the moonlight snow and ran his hand over his stubbly hair. Inhaling sharply, he turned his gaze back to his friend.
"Am…con-confused."
"About what?"
He rolled his eyes at the inanity of the question. "All of it." He thrust the letter into Eric's hands and nodded his head for him to read it.
Eric felt his own eyes mist over as he read the heartfelt letter. He knew what Patrick's state of mind had been when he wrote it, how scared he was of dying and he also knew how much Noah had done to support him. In that moment he was incredibly proud of his friend at how far he had come from nights spent shadow boxing with disillusionment. Looking up from the letter he gave him a small smile.
"I bet that letter means the world to your dad."
He opened his mouth to speak but found his tongue tripped over the words. Shutting it again and closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and took a second try. "Why…did I ... write it?" he asked haltingly.
"Because you thought you were going to die" he answered simply. "You were sure of it."
His rich brown eyes shimmered with the tears that appeared suddenly and he angrily swiped at them. "Have…have become a cry baby."
Eric smiled sympathetically knowing how much his friend hated other people to see him upset. "Nah" he reassured him. "You know that emotions are heightened and a little off kilter after neurosurgery. I poked around there enough that I probably hit your cry centre" he teased lightly.
"How bad was I?"
Leaning back against the window Eric pulled on his bottom lip and contemplated how to answer the question. After receiving Patrick's text, he had called Robin to ask what exactly was going on. She had filled him in on the details and he told her that he was going to see Patrick and bring his chart with him. He had told her that while it was still critical that they follow the accepted protocol for dealing with short term amnesia, it was time to relieve some of his worry. Much of his panic and reaction was being formed by the lack of context for everything else and Eric felt that if he could at least read his chart and see how advanced the disease had been he might be able, on his own, to suss out some of the impact it had had on others. Robin had agreed but only after extracting a promise that Eric would not tell him that he had left her. In her opinion he was not ready to handle that information and she wanted him to hear it from her when the time was right.
"Bad" he finally answered. "Really bad."
He blanched at the admission but felt a wave of gratitude at the same time; it was another piece of the puzzle for him. "I b-bad too?" he asked nervously, his tongue getting fat in his mouth.
Eric shook his head. Reaching again into his bag he pulled out a large brown folder and passed it to him. "It's your chart" he said, "and I thought maybe you'd want to read it. I can stick around....in case you have questions."
His hands trembled slightly as he took the folder in his hands. Just seeing his name on the top of the folder was jarring. It wasn't that he didn't know he was a patient, it was his frame of reference for it was so small and the thickness of the folder told him that the reality was much bigger. With equal parts trepidation and curiosity he opened it and scanned the summary sheet in front. A cold sweat trickled down his back as he read the rate of growth of his tumour. In an instant he could list a myriad of symptoms he would have experienced - mood swings, violent seizures and confusion.
Flipping through the next couple of pages he tried to read as much as he could but was unable to absorb most of it, it was simply too overwhelming to take in. Seeing the order for the feeding tube, his head snapped up and he stared at Eric in shock.
"What is it Pantsy?"
He was battling his own nerves as his friend read through the chart. Though he would never admit it out loud, he considered Patrick to be a better doctor. He was more adventurous, a bigger risk taker and much more creative with treatment options. He worried that his friend would read his chart and feel let down, that he would think he had not done enough for him. And if asked why he didn't do more, he had no idea what he would say.
"T-t-tube?"
"Yeah" he sighed quietly, remembering vividly the day he had it inserted.
Due to the chemotherapy his appetite was unable to keep any food down and weight was falling off of him. It had been moment Eric was dreading but at the same time knew there was no other option. He had not trusted himself to install the tube - it was all too reminiscent of his own experience with chemo - he asked his resident to do it. When Patrick emerged from the exam room with the end of the tube poking from his nose he had bit down on his cheek to keep from crying. His vibrant, larger than life friend looked small and near death in the wheelchair.
Patrick closed the file and clenched his eyes shut. It was so much worse than he had imagined it would be. Opening them again he sighed heavily and rubbed his hand over his face.
"Did your Dad take a drink?" he prodded gently.
He shook his head.
"Did you see him with one?"
He nodded.
"Dude, I'm sorry. That's hard."
"Made...made me mad" he stammered exhaustedly. "Think...thought I hated him. Now...confused."
Sliding from the window sill to the floor, Eric pulled his long legs to his chest and picked at the rubber sole of his boot. It was a tricky thing to offer advice, some people needed it whether they wanted it or not but there were moments where you had to leave them be. He looked back at Patrick and thought, for better or for worse, this was not a time to let him be.
"Your Dad was solid for you during all of this - and I'm not telling you that so you dismiss how you feel about him and seeing him with a drink - I'm just letting you know that there were lots of times where he could have slipped or walked away, there were lots of times you pushed him away - but he wouldn't be moved from your side. He was there for you. And in reading your letter to him I'm struck by the realization you made in it - that by not forgiving him you were the one carrying the burden of that and you were ready to set it down."
"Don't remember" he answered tightly.
"I know" He was grateful for the darkness as a pained looked crossed his face. There was a part of him that still believed he had failed his friend when he needed him most. "But you know it's true" he challenged. "You may not remember telling him but in your heart you know it - and I think it's why you're so confused now. You built something really special with your Dad through this and you shouldn't let it go so easily."
Patrick blinked away the stubborn tears that seemed to reappear at will. There was an enormous, unexpected comfort in hearing that his father was by his side, even if he didn't remember it. As his bones began to throb with fatigue, he signalled to his friend for a pen and paper - he was too weary to try and speak again.
Fishing through his bag Eric pulled out a pad and a pen and passed them to him.
I'm trapped in my head.
"I know" he whispered. "But you have to keep fighting Pat - for your speech and for your memories. Keep working at it and it will come."
Hard to tell my Dad or Robin how I'm feeling. Sometimes they act like I'm a child.
"They're scared - they nearly lost you. But if you want to tell them how you're feeling - maybe you should start a conversation and see where it takes you."
Patrick gave him a doubtful look.
"It's time to get off the mat Pantsy. Start asking for what you need." He rose to his feet and dusted off his scrubs pants. "Let me walk you back to the house because I'm pretty sure Robin is going to send out a St. Bernard if we don't head back."
Patrick smirked as he shrugged on the jacket. He took the letter and carefully refolded it, putting it back in pocket. "Staying?" he asked as their feet crunched over snow.
"Yeah" he answered. "I'm just going to crash on your couch - it's a little late for me to head back. Besides, we can look some more at your chart tomorrow if you want."
Patrick paused on the step and looking through the door saw Robin at the table distractedly reading a magazine. As the door swung open, her head shot up and she slowly turned around in her seat. She stayed in the chair, her muscles coiled, like an animal ready to pounce. She wanted to run into his arms but she needed for him to make the first move, to let her know it was okay.
She needn't have worried. He was barely through the door before he held out his hand to her. She bounded from the chair and ran to him. He closed his arms around her, hugging her tightly. She could feel his body shivering as she wrapped her arms around him and knew it wasn't from the cold. He pressed his lips to the soft patch of skin just beneath her ear.
"Love you" he whispered.