![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Dec. 30th, 2005 02:22 pmEvery morning, he’d been doing this. This habit, this ritual. He took his father’s hand into his own for a brief squeeze – in lieu of a hug – and would sit down, rubbing at his eyes to have a quiet talk with Dr. Rowan Chase about past, present, and future. They had sorted some issues and had realized that there were other issues that existed and would never be sorted. Today was worse than the other days and Chase had a bad feeling that it was finally over.
“I’m…sorry…” Rowan was wheezing.
“Dad, please,” Chase begged softly, eyes on the ground. “Talking only hurts you.”
“I’m sorry, Robert,” he continued stubbornly. “I never should have left you. But I can’t make up for the past.”
Chase reached out, his fingers shaking, and clasped his father’s hand in his own. They weren’t even in a game where days counted. No. They’d passed that recently. Now, it was a matter of hours. He closed his eyes tightly. He’d done this with his mother too, in a hospital bed.
“Dad,” he got out the word, choked. “Please don’t die,” he begged in a low, rough voice. His posture was slumped and he could hear every wheezed breath his father took, wished he could take that pain. He’d gotten weeks. Mere weeks. It wasn’t fair. “Dad…”
“This is not your choice, Robert,” his father replied sternly, coughing badly. “Robert…”
He was coughing harder. There was probably blood in his lungs. He was probably drowning in his own blood and Chase didn’t have the equipment. He cursed and pushed away from the bed with a violent start, searching through the cupboards and the drawers for something, anything. Something to get the blood out, a needle. He was breathing shakily, rushing around the room, and when he finally found a catheter big enough, he rushed back to his father.
“Dad,” Chase pleaded, leaning down. No heartbeat. No pulse. No breath. “Fuck,” he cursed wildly, a tear running down his cheek as he still worked, giving his father CPR; dropping the catheter. When five minutes passed and he got no pulse, he knew it was over. “Time of death…” He faltered, shoving a bedpan off the table and listened to it clatter on the floor. He didn’t even know the damn time of death. Chase gave a sharp cry of pain and backed up until his back hit the wall and he slowly descended until he was on the ground, face in his cupped hands.
He cried, where no one could see him and so silently that no one would hear. No one was there to see him lose it.
He exhaled shakily and slowly rose to his feet, taking a sheet and covering his father with it. He would bury him later. “I love you, Dad,” he said shakily, a horrible sick feeling in his stomach. He simply took another deep breath and leaned down, giving his father a hug – the warmth was leaving him, oh god. Chase eased away, signing the cross and whispering a prayer under his breath. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
It was over. Chase turned to the wall and pressed his forehead there, letting himself cry it out silently, the horrible feeling of loss worse this time than it had been the time before.
“I’m…sorry…” Rowan was wheezing.
“Dad, please,” Chase begged softly, eyes on the ground. “Talking only hurts you.”
“I’m sorry, Robert,” he continued stubbornly. “I never should have left you. But I can’t make up for the past.”
Chase reached out, his fingers shaking, and clasped his father’s hand in his own. They weren’t even in a game where days counted. No. They’d passed that recently. Now, it was a matter of hours. He closed his eyes tightly. He’d done this with his mother too, in a hospital bed.
“Dad,” he got out the word, choked. “Please don’t die,” he begged in a low, rough voice. His posture was slumped and he could hear every wheezed breath his father took, wished he could take that pain. He’d gotten weeks. Mere weeks. It wasn’t fair. “Dad…”
“This is not your choice, Robert,” his father replied sternly, coughing badly. “Robert…”
He was coughing harder. There was probably blood in his lungs. He was probably drowning in his own blood and Chase didn’t have the equipment. He cursed and pushed away from the bed with a violent start, searching through the cupboards and the drawers for something, anything. Something to get the blood out, a needle. He was breathing shakily, rushing around the room, and when he finally found a catheter big enough, he rushed back to his father.
“Dad,” Chase pleaded, leaning down. No heartbeat. No pulse. No breath. “Fuck,” he cursed wildly, a tear running down his cheek as he still worked, giving his father CPR; dropping the catheter. When five minutes passed and he got no pulse, he knew it was over. “Time of death…” He faltered, shoving a bedpan off the table and listened to it clatter on the floor. He didn’t even know the damn time of death. Chase gave a sharp cry of pain and backed up until his back hit the wall and he slowly descended until he was on the ground, face in his cupped hands.
He cried, where no one could see him and so silently that no one would hear. No one was there to see him lose it.
He exhaled shakily and slowly rose to his feet, taking a sheet and covering his father with it. He would bury him later. “I love you, Dad,” he said shakily, a horrible sick feeling in his stomach. He simply took another deep breath and leaned down, giving his father a hug – the warmth was leaving him, oh god. Chase eased away, signing the cross and whispering a prayer under his breath. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
It was over. Chase turned to the wall and pressed his forehead there, letting himself cry it out silently, the horrible feeling of loss worse this time than it had been the time before.