Living and Dying in Brick City (19 page)

I rose from my chair. It was time for me to move on and hand Mr. Tate’s care over to others: surgeons, oncologists, counselors. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Tate?”

“No,” he replied.

“Okay, you’ll need to stay in the hospital.” I wanted him to be seen as soon as possible by cancer specialists so that he could begin receiving the appropriate treatment.

“I’ll put your chart in for admission,” I added. “I hope we can get you a room tonight.”

Overcrowding is always an issue, so a room was not guaranteed that night. I’ve admitted patients who ended up spending several nights in the emergency department waiting for a room assignment. Some were even treated for their medical problems and discharged without ever making it to a hospital room. Back at the desk, I asked the clerk to begin arranging for Mr. Tate’s admission. If no bed was available, I was sure he would sign out, and there was a good chance we would never see him again. I stuck around to make sure he was assigned a room. As simple as it seemed, getting that room meant everything to me in that moment.

Once I was sure about the room, I returned to share the news with Mr. Tate. But just as I was about to step into the room where they were waiting, I saw the formerly tough, hurried Michelle curled up on the narrow stretcher beside her father. Her head rested on his shoulder, and she lay silently in his arms. I couldn’t interrupt the tender moment, and so I backed out of the room. A picture of my own father flashed through my mind.

Pop was being treated for prostate cancer. He had remarried in 1987 and retired four years later, after thirty-five years of fueling planes at Butler Aviation. In the late 1990s, he and his wife, Thelma, moved to Raleigh, North Carolina, after she retired. Pop and I had stayed in touch through telephone calls and periodic visits, and I usually remembered to send birthday and Father’s Day cards. But I had trouble making an emotional connection with him. He was from that stoic, ironclad generation of men who possessed an external toughness that blocked access to any soft spots
or tender feelings on the inside. He had continued to provide the basics, food and shelter, paying off the mortgage on our Ludlow Street house a month at a time, long after he left. But I’d felt abandoned. I was twelve when he and my mother divorced, leaving me to fend for myself through the turbulent teen years and into manhood in a decaying neighborhood overtaken by the 1980s crack epidemic.

Pop did show up for the big moments, though. He was there for practically every visitation opportunity during the four weeks I spent in juvenile detention—but by then I’d developed the hardened exterior of the guys on the streets and could only sit with him in awkward silence. He was there, too, beaming, at the graduations and award ceremonies. But our interactions always seemed distant, more businesslike than personal, even in my teenage years when he scooped me up for an occasional night out at McDonald’s or the time in college when he forked over $2;,000 to help me buy my used Honda Accord. Showing up and helping out financially were the only ways he knew to express his pride and love. I appreciated it and at times even sent him greeting cards that told him he was the most wonderful father in the world. But that sentiment always seemed to compete with the anger and resentment I felt inside. Like any kid, I longed to hear the words that he could never bring himself to say: “I love you,” “I’m proud of you.”

After his cancer diagnosis in 2003, Thelma called to break the news, and the three of us discussed his treatment options. He decided to pursue radiation therapy, and Thelma was diligent in informing me about his health. She kept meticulous records of his doctor visits and made sure he got to all of his appointments on time. I can say with certainty that my father followed his treatment regimen faithfully because of her … and that he trusted medicine because of me. Whenever his doctors introduced a new medicine or therapy or tried to explain something he didn’t understand, he
told them, “Make sure you give my son a call. You know he’s a doctor, too.” I felt his confidence and pride in me every time he asked for my advice and surrendered: “Whatever you say, I’ll do.”

Years after his diagnosis, I would learn about my father’s childhood for the first time. I don’t know why it had never come up before then; we just didn’t have that kind of sharing relationship. I would learn that he was just a boy—not quite ten years old—when his own father died, leaving him, too, to navigate manhood alone. That bit of knowledge would go a long way toward helping me begin to understand and forgive my pop. But in the meantime, I just knew that I loved him. And there were moments when, even as a grown man with a slew of degrees and honors, I still yearned for a close bond with him.

As I backed out of Mr. Tate’s room that day, I made a mental note to call my pop, just because.