• I run until my lungs fill with the dry Santa Anna winds. I start coughing, almost tasting the sand in the air. My knees buckle and I collapse on the ground, shaking. I beg God, Buddha, Allah, Satan, Zeus, anyone for an answer. Why him? Why now? Why my dad?
    I gain some control of my legs and I wipe the tears from my face and look towards the hospital. Why was I running? I have no idea. I’m scared, I guess. He’s too young to die and I don’t think I can face this. I can’t look into my father’s comatose face and accept that someone’s going to pull the plug.
    The smell of hospital-grade sterilizing agents and the beep-beep of monitors won’t leave me. I close my eyes for a moment and I see the brightly lit hallways littered with push-carts with hot meals of mashed potatoes with gravy, baked chicken, and peas covered by pink plastic domes my dad would never see. Nurses are discussing patient charts with each other at the nurses’ station in the middle of the ward, Doctors and nurses rush from room to room with crash-carts. Code blue. Code red. Intubate in room 6. I squeeze my eyes tighter.
    ***
    I close my eyes and see his smiling face one Sunday morning. I’m five. He grabs my tiny hand and set me on the piano stool while he plays ragtime. He makes singing sounds to the beat of the music and I can smell the whiskey on his breath. I tap my feet and wave my hands above the keys, pretending I can play like Daddy. Soon, the music fills me from the tip of my pink painted toenails to the tips of my un-brushed rat’s nest head of hair and I jump off the stool and spin around in circles in my sundress—my own dance. Soon I’m very dizzy and fall on my butt, making Mommy and Daddy laugh so hard they’re both crying.
    ***
    Mom finds me. She’s been crying, too. She’s a little out of breath from searching. She’s aged in the last few years-- faster than she should have-- but suddenly, she looks older than she was a month ago. I lean into her while she cradles my head into her lap and strokes my hair. I let myself close an eye and doze off for a moment.
    A few minutes pass by and without saying a word we stand up and walk back to the hospital wing. I feel like I ran for miles by the way my side aches and how dry my throat is. Turns out, I made it to the middle of the courtyard, a few feet away from a fountain. Mom leads me back into the room and Maggie grabs my other hand, steadying me a little. I let go of Mom and grab hold of my little sister, Maggie, by the shoulders with one arm and reach for a Kleenex from my pocket with the other. I hand her a tissue and she blows her pink nose and sniffles.
    The doctor comes in and Maggie squeezes my hand; I feel the dampness of her palms from wiping her own tears. We both inhale at the same time to compose ourselves. She’s a strong little bugger, I’ll give her that. I just wish my baby sister didn’t have to face this, she’s still so young.
    He’s asking us for a decision. I don’t feel right. I had no idea what he wanted. Why can’t it be me instead?
    ***
    Daddy struggled with addiction for as long as I can remember. I saw the signs; I just didn’t understand them yet. A seven-year old doesn’t understand that Daddy’s drunk again, that Daddy is an alcoholic. A seven-year old can hear the word “drunk” and recognize it, but she won’t know what it means and how it will change her life forever.
    I saw the stumbling, heard the yelling, saw Daddy passed out on the couch by 8 or 9 pm after grumbling about the noise of the neighbor kids.
    ***
    I’m sitting at the kitchen table one morning, watching Daddy pull a clear bottle with a black and white label out of the highest cabinet and pour an amber liquid into his coffee in the morning. Sometimes, I see him take out the red and white labeled bottle of clear liquid—it looked like water to me—and pour it in his Florida Orange Juice. This is what daddies do.
    A few weeks go by and I ask Mommy “Where’s Daddy? He wasn’t here last night to read me my bedtime story!” I whine.
    “I told you, Daddy’s sick from working too much and loving us too much. The doctors are gonna fix him right up and he’ll be home before you know it,” Mommy said, playing with her wedding ring.
    ***
    I’m 11 before she tells me the truth; Daddy’s in rehab.
    I’m 15, Maggie’s 7. Daddy’s in rehab for the first time in nearly 4 years. Mommy tries to explain what the problem is to Maggie, but she doesn’t quite get it. All she knows is “Daddy’s sick and needs help.”
    This time, the rehab therapist asked us to write Daddy letters. At first, I refuse, but at the last minute, I scratch something down and tear it from my school notebook and hand it to the therapist, tears making the last few lines of the letter bleed.
    My letter is very technical. I explain what I know about “substance abuse,” everything I had learned in Health class earlier that year. I write about liver failure, the cost of DUI’s, and loss of brain cells and every other technical term I can recall. The tears are from frustration, anger, disappointment.
    Maggie’s letter kills me. She writes the entire thing the night before the meeting while sitting in Daddy’s spot on the couch, writing with her purple fluffy pen Daddy bought her on his last business trip before he got laid off. She kissed the letter where she signed her name—mostly scribbles—with her strawberry lip glossed lips. In the letter, she begged him to stop drinking, begged and begged and begged until her hand grew tired of writing. She’s only in 2nd grade, so most sentences are simple; “please stop daddy. I love you and I want you to be happy and read to me at bedtime.”
    He did stop for a few months here, a few months there. I was convinced that the alcohol was more important than us; I hated him for it.
    ***
    The whole situation takes a turn for the worse before I graduated high school. The doctors tell us Dad is a Type II Diabetic. He isn’t even 45 yet. Tall, thin, fairly fit, not a lot of fast food in his diet, not a lot of sweets. This doesn’t happen to thin people, let alone thin young, people yet to have a mid-life crisis.
    I rush home to research this after I receive a voicemail from Mom one afternoon a mere 2 weeks after I move out as a college freshman. I throw my bag on the floor and pull my laptop out of my room and flop down on the sofa, searching every Diabetes research website I can find. Soon, I’m so absorbed that I don’t hear my roommate come in and I don’t hear her ask why I was crying or why the door was left wide open.
    Diabetes. Insulin. Glucose levels. Carbohydrates. Sugars.
    Alcohol. Wheat. Fermentation. Sugars. Addiction. Rehab. STOP.
    The alcohol. It all made sense.
    How could he not know this ahead of time? He was a smart man. Graduated top of his class, a year early, went on to become a successful engineer with a six-figure income and a beautiful wife and family. How could this brilliant man, this man I grew up loving and admiring and wishing to impress not realize exactly how unhealthy he was? He had to have been in denial this whole time. I thought parents were indestructible.
    I don’t call Mommy that night. I call in the morning when I’ve stopped crying.
    ***
    Mom speaks up. “He doesn’t want to be a vegetable.”
    “We’re testing for brain function, we haven’t found much. The lack of oxygen to the brain before the paramedics arrived may have caused irreversible damage….” It all starts to drone out to my ears.
    “When will we know the extent of the damage?” I ask, shaking.
    “We need to run some more tests,” the doctor says.
    I look over to his motionless body lying with his head slightly elevated as if he were simply asleep. I brush my hand on the pale blue blanket and saw the various levers he would mess with until he was perfectly comfortable if he had the chance.
    ***
    “Release the parking break… Good. Put it in Reverse. No. Reverse. ‘R.’ Gooood. Take your foot off the brake and put it on the gas pedal—not so fast. Slowly back out.” Daddy chants.
    I’m 16 and terrified. I had passed my permit test with flying colors barely an hour ago and Daddy put me behind the wheel of Mommy’s ugly green mini-van parked in our driveway.
    Once I conquered the driveway and an empty parking lot, Daddy directed me to the nearest gas station and went in to pay for gas and a 6-pack of Budweiser and I pumped the gas into the little Toyota. After the gas pump stops, Daddy asks me for the keys and he drives us back home.
    ***
    Everyone steps outside to the court-yard to get some fresh air. The fountain is not running and it doesn’t seem to have been turned on for ages. The water is nearly dried up and pigeons are confused at the missing oasis. Bordering the fountain, benches are littered with fallen leaves and bird feathers. Trash cans are bolted to the concrete paths making a cross with the fountain at the center. One of the squares made by the concrete cross contains a large oak tree.
    Maggie parks herself under the oak and starts picking at the grass and dirt. The grass is so out of place, planted here by the hospital to create a false sense of serenity and health in this patch of desert. I sit down with Maggie and start picking at the blades of too-green grass with her. Maggie and I watch as Mom, Grandma, and Grandpa discussed the fate of our dad. How could we be any help? I was 21, had been away at college for a few years, and I had no idea what my father’s final wishes are, how could I? Maggie’s only 14 and may very well lose her father a lot sooner than she should. Neither of us are fit to make the decision at hand, so we sit to the side, waiting.
    I hear a shuffle of paperwork as Mom pulls out what I assume is a will and a DNR order and I lean over to Maggie and pull her head to my chest and stroke her beautiful, brushed, jet-black hair. She knows what’s coming, I see it in her eyes—she got Dad’s eyes—but why is she so calm? Just a few weeks ago she was worried about the Homecoming dance.
    Soon, we walk back through the unnaturally green courtyard, through the lobby and stand in front of the elevator where Mom squeezes Maggie’s hand as I press the worn “UP” button and after dings the brushed metal doors open and we file into the elevator, nervous as if we all think the cable would snap on our way up. Maggie presses the button labeled “3” and we all watch the illuminated number change above the door. 1… 2… 3. ICU.
    We enter the cool tiled room and it seems as if there are twice as many machines hooked up to him as before. Heart monitors, breathing machines, feeding tubes, gadgets I can’t even begin to identify. All of them egg-shell-white with mysterious buttons, chords and tubes hanging off.
    The beeping of the heart monitor and the exhale of the breathing machine make me aware of my own pulse and airway. I feel selfish standing there breathing on my own as my father lies helpless, with machines keeping him alive.
    ***
    I’m sitting in a fold out chair on a basketball court in a blue robe with a gold Honors sash and gold tassel on my hat. I can hardly breathe. I try to take three deep breaths to stable myself. 1… 2… 3. Breathe. My row stands up and my heart skips a beat as I march up to the ancient portable stage that is rolled on the court. I approach the podium with its blue paint and its bulldog mascot decal starting to peel at the ears and I shake the hand of the principal, Mr. Shirley, as he hands me the document I’d worked for four years to get. Next thing I know, “Pomp and Circumstance,” is blaring through the stadium and my row is standing to wait our turn to walk out as High School Graduates.
    “That’s my baby girl!” Daddy yells as I walked up to my family, linking arms with my two best friends, Amanda and Lindsey.
    I turn red, not sure whether to laugh, smile, cry, or shout something back. I hug him and lean into him for a photo once Mommy pulls out her camera. Daddy shifts his weight and I hear the clink of metal against keys in his front pocket and a slight sloshing sound.
    ***
    My breathing stops for a moment and I choke tears down and Maggie grabs my hand to ease my breathing. The doctor is looking at me for an answer to a question I didn’t hear. I look at Mom and she bows her head, looking at her wedding ring and she hands me Dad’s ring, which I quickly place in my pocket and hold on to it so tight that a circle indentation forms in my palm.
    Mom, Grandma, and Grandpa nod to the doctor while I crouch down a little in front of Maggie and she nods to me. I don’t know how this little girl, barely a teenager, is so strong. Without a word, tears begin to flow, and Maggie hands me a tissue. As I stand up, I lean her little head into my chest, away from the hospital bed and our struggling father.
    The doctor tends to the machines, performing the agreed upon act and when he’s finished, he says “I’ll give you all a moment; a nurse will be outside the room if you have any more questions.”
    Everyone gathers around the bed, holding hands.
    ***
    Mommy and Daddy were holding hands while I place the last box in my car. Classes start in a week and a half, and I still have a ways to drive to California State University. Mommy is worried I’ll die in Los Angeles traffic and Daddy reminds me to stay out of the “Gang-sign part of town.”
    A single tear falls down Mommy’s cheek and Daddy hands her his handkerchief with a black “D” for Dana on it. Mommy wipes her eyes and waves it like someone in the old movies she loves so much.
    “Drive safe. Don’t forget all I taught you about defensive driving! Don’t let road rage get the best of you, like it does your Old Man! L.A. drivers are crazy!” He says, chuckling.
    ***
    Soon, the nurse walks in to announce the time of death and notes it on a chart and her clipboard.
    8:42 pm, February 13, 2005. Official records.
    I feel my pulse throbbing in every vein in my skull. My breathing gets heavier and much more rapid. I feel as if his breath and pulse, though forced by machine, entered me when the doctor ceased treatment. I lean on the foot of the hospital bed and feel the grainy plastic under my fingertips and squeeze the rail until my knuckles are white and hot.
    “Why? Why did you do this to us, you idiot? You have a family! You’ve left a wife and two daughters to fight for themselves! You could’ve stopped this, you know, but you didn’t. What do you have to say for yourself?!”
    Everyone leaves the room while I was gripping the bed. Everyone except Maggie. She is sitting in the chair in the corner, watching me.
    “He didn’t die on purpose. The diabetes. He was sick.” She said, looking at her feet.
    “You just don’t get it, do you?”
    “I do. You’re mad. Don’t be, he loved you. All of us.” And with that, she exited the room to find Mom.
    I was dumbfounded. How could she say that with so much confidence? How could she could be so sure of the love of our father, and why was I doubting it?
    “How could you?” I whisper before following Maggie.
    ***
    “Why would you keep doing this to us? What are you thinking?” I heard Mommy say when she thought I was asleep.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grunted.
    “Don’t play dumb with me!”
    At this point, I had opened my bedroom door slightly and sat facing the crack, ignoring the texts from my friends talking about the after-graduation parties that were still going on. I lean my head on the wall next to the door as I had a dozen times before, hearing the same conversation over and over again,
    “I can stop.” Daddy said as he took another gulp from his screwdriver.
    “No, you can’t. Quit lying to yourself. Quit lying to your family.” Mommy’s voice began to quiver and she walked towards the bathroom, next to my room. She saw me watching and opened my door a little more and leaned on the doorframe.
    “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry for both of us.” And with that, she closed the door and I heard her footsteps to the bathroom where she quietly cried for 20 minutes. I cried with her. Daddy opened up a beer.
    ***
    I finally walked down to the cafeteria to rejoin Mom, Maggie, and the rest. There are a couple nurses and a doctor gossiping in line to get their dinner of pale peas, mashed potatoes, and overcooked chicken. Green trays scrape across the metal bars as the staff pays for their meal. The thought of food makes me sick. Mom is sipping on hospital-coffee from a Styrofoam cup while Grandma nibbled on a slice of apple pie and Grandpa reset his watch. Maggie just sat there, waiting for me, trying to smile.
    “Sorry.” I say.
    “It’s ok.”
    “Hey, I’ll drive Maggie home,” I say to Mom, who’s still talking to Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa pulls out a box of handkerchiefs and sets them on the cheap white table. The handkerchiefs look yellowed under the cheap fluorescent lighting. Everything looks grimy here.
    Maggie and I walk out of the cafeteria, past the gift shop filled with balloons, flowers, and trinkets, where I buy her a stuffed dog with a “I Wuv You” heart pillow hanging from the mouth and a candy bar. She hugs it and I realize that she doesn’t want to grow up too fast, but she’s going to have to now. She nudges me as we walk out of the automatic doors and feel the desert night air flow past us into the waiting room.
    I unlock my car with a beep and she hops in my front seat, placing the stuffed dog in the cup holder and rolls down her window.
    The radio is blasting a bad pop song about teenage love and I turn on the CD player. Before I can back out of the parking space, I hear a classic song by The Who.
    People try to put us d-down and don’t try to dig what we all s-s-say. I’m not trying to make a big s-s-s-sensation. I hope I die before I get old.
    At this, Maggie and I both reach for the “scan stations,” button at the same time. I turn the radio completely off and we drive back to Mom’s house in silence, just watching the clouds and the headlights passing by.