Two out of Three Ain't Bad

A Father was dying.

In the grand scheme of things, this seems trivial in a global aspect, but to the Son this was the globe in whole.

This morning, this precious morning that will live on through echoes of hindsight, a Father to a Son was dying.

The Son arrive the night before, while the Father slept. Oxygen tubes huffing their load while quiet monitors clamored for attention in a bedroom converted to hospice center. The nurse, having worked a long twelve hours, told the Son in great detail how the Father was doing. “He will be glad to see you in the morning, but for now let him rest,” the kindly woman said as a final goodnight.

The Son slept in a chair, fitfully and without rest, next to the bed where the Father lay. The Father was breathing slowly, his bodily patience performing the action like a watch needing to be wound again to keep time accurately.

This morning, the Son had coffee and had made the phone calls that needed to be made. The Daughter and her family were soon to arrive to say goodbye. The Son, unsuccessful in the realm of marriage thus far, felt a slight envy to the Daughter and her own family who could support her in her grief.

Friends of the Father were to arrive soon, the Daughter would be there just after the next hour, so the Son took his post once more in his chair next to the Father, watching a pail sunrise through the window.

“Hello Son,” the Father said, silently waking.

The Son, comforted in the startling, turned from the window, “hey Dad.”

The Father was smiling at his only son, weak in his state of advanced cancer but the joy of reunion provided strength seldom seen.

“Work let you get away?” the Father asked, wanting to know more about the Son than talk about the elephant currently sitting on his chest.

“I own the business, so they don’t have a choice,” the Son said, trying not to be braggadocios.

The Father, still smiling, nodded at this like an approval, saying without words this would be the course of action I would take too.

The Son adjusted the chair to sit closer to the Father, realizing the need for volume over distance was an unnecessary toll to the man who raised him.

“Found someone yet?” the Father asked when the Son sat closer, sipping his coffee. The Son knew the Father didn’t want to talk about himself, he never did.

“No, not sense the divorce,” the Son replied, feeling a familiar pain compounding with his breaking heart.

The Father, squinting one eye to get a clearer view of his son, gave a fractional frown. Time my boy, don’t rush a good thing, was the soundless communication expressed through the single open and focused eye.

Time passed slowly between the two, the hum and soft tones of the machines covering the silence by offering up their own painful conversation topics. The Father puffed slowly on his oxygen, gaining strength for the day ahead as he knew it would be painful to all but him. The Son sipped his coffee slowly, wondering where he should start in all the things filling his mind he needed to say.

“Where is your next adventure?” asked the Father of the Son. The Father had been living vicariously through the Son on his world travels, a trait passed down between the generations.

The Son smiled, thinking of destinations from the past the two had visited, accompanied by Mother and Daughter for most, but later just the Father and Son.

“Getting here was an adventure,” said the Son, not knowing how to talk about a future that didn’t include the Father.

A quick huff of a laugh escaped the Father, a laugh that didn’t quite invite discussion but left the direction open.

“No son, a proper romp. Where is the next adventure?” the Father asked again, looking with two clear eyes at the Son now.

The Son hid the growing frog in his throat by sipping his cooled coffee now. The Son didn’t have any plans further than this morning, so an answer had to be contrived. His memories of prior adventures continued playing behind the Son’s eyes like a TV left on in the background.

“The Appalachian Trail, the section through Virginia we did year ago. I may do that again,” the Son finally said in answer to the Father’s question. That was a favorite memory of when the Son had taken a year off college and the Father was healthy, more fit than the son had been as only an experienced man can be.

“You ready for a hike like that?” the Father said with furrowed brows. Left unspoken was the I remember that trip as well, and I remember having to carry your backpack when you couldn’t.

“This time I am,” the Son said with confidence.

A breath, then another passed between the two. The Father looking at the Son, weighing the answers to his questions and judging their honesty. The Son looking at his coffee, trying to puzzle out how to tell his Father he loved him.

“What was that song Meatloaf sang?” the Father asked, letting his vision drift towards the sunrise behind the Son. “Two out of three ain’t bad?”

The Son looked up, curiosity at the question and fear that the mental fortitude of the Father had finally faltered.

“Happy, healthy, and successful,” the Father whispered to himself, like a creed he had lived by and will die by very soon.

“What do you mean?” the Son asked, leaning forward in the hopes the physical movement would help with understanding every detail of these last moments.

“Successful and healthy,” the Father focuses on his son, “When you have those two, the happiness will come.”

A breath, now two.

“Like Meatloaf said, two out of three ain’t bad son,” the Father says with a smile and a tear in his right eye like morning dew on a leaf. I’m proud of you son, the tear said falling down his cheek.

The doorbell rang.

The Son reached out and squeezed the Father’s hand. The Son clenched his jaw, keeping the weeping back. The Father smiled and let his emotions flow.

The Son answered the door, hospice nurse greeting and asking about the Father. When the questions had been answered, the Daughter arrived with her family. Greetings and more questions followed, all of which the Son fell upon the muscle memory of his own experience to answer.

More visitors came and went, the Son answering the door and walking visitors out near continuously over the next two hours. The Son was tired, and finally sat in the living room.

There the Daughter found him. She sat next to him, and placed her hand on his knee. They met eyes, and the Son knew the Father was no longer watching the day progress through the windows of the bedroom.

They cried, and held each other for a long time.

In a whisper that would have been lost if it weren’t next to the Son’s ear, the Daughter said, “He always wanted us to be happy, healthy, and successful.”

“Two out of three ain’t bad sis.”