A Dying Man in a Room That Smells of Ginseng Tea

I often think back to the little girl in that waiting room; white walls, white chairs, white tile floors that the occasional nurse would skitter across in their white tennis shoes. The room was a definition of human medical ingenuity but all I can remember is how that little girl held herself. That little girl, with her unruly mousey brown hair cut off just before her shoulders and her scuffed red foam flip flops; undoubtedly covered with the layer of grime mandatory for all children under the age of twelve. How she sat with her utmost maturity, waiting impatiently in patient silence for her Dad who could only wait for death to come as he laid in that bed, surrounded by his family. I think about how grim the scene before me appeared to be, yet this little girl had a need to sit sideways, butterfly embroidered jeans and red foam flip-flops cast over the boney metal arm of that immaculate chair she had been placed in to wait. She, who was no more than the speck of sun-kissed, dandelion scented dirt that plagued an otherwise flawless piece of human engineering. How that little girl was forced to waste away her childhood that was meant to be filled with crucially important playground business in the beautifully polluted world outside, waiting for something so far beyond her comprehension to happen. She may have been young, naïve, innocent and any other variation of traits children possess in order to protect them from the crushing weight of reality but this little girl simultaneously was no idiot; she knew when her mother rushed her and her brother out of bed that morning and hurried them into a taxi to the hospital her father had been bedridden in for the past month that this would be her last journey to that stale disinfected corner of immaculacy where she did not belong.

I knew October 2nd would be the last day I saw him.

Everyone quietly alternated between sitting and standing around my Dad’s bed as they watched his breath falter, taking turns holding his hand, wiping sweat from his forehead, hugging the next person who couldn’t fight back tears any longer. All while I, the youngest in the room at 12 years old, sat in the corner by the window, jean-clad legs and red flip flops cast over the arm of the chair I unintentionally found myself sinking deeper and deeper into, trying to focus on the patterns the raindrops made against the window to avoid coming to terms with how out of place I felt.

I knew I should stand with everyone else, I knew I should be with my Dad, I knew he was about to die. But death seemed so adult, even now 10 years later I don’t feel as though I would fit in there. At 12 years old I recall being genuinely concerned that if he died while I was in the room he would turn into a ghost and haunt me. Eventually, however, despite my legitimate childlike fear of the potential ghost of my father, I was brought over to stand by his bedside by my uncle. My uncle unlike myself, was an adult. An adult who perhaps knew that while a 12-year-old child had no place watching a man die; in ten years she would hate herself if she had not been there in his final moments…regardless of her age. And so I watched—from outside of my own body it seemed—not my father and the way his breathing kept hitching in a way it pained me to breathe with such ease in front of him, but instead I watched myself.

Was I reacting correctly? My mother was crying, my brother was choking back tears, my grandma was holding her son’s pale hand, my uncle stood strong and protective of me.

Should I be crying? Should I be helping? Should I be scared? Should I say something? Would Dad even hear me if I did?

Would I even hear me if I did?

I tried to cry. I really did. I thought it would make me seem more normal if I did. I thought it would make me seem more adult and like I fully comprehended just what my Father dying meant. I knew it meant we’d move to back to Canada. I knew it meant going to a new school. I knew it meant having to make new friends. I even knew it meant that someday I would probably have a step-dad. I saw parents die all the time in movies; I knew what it was supposed to look like. I knew what I was supposed to do, how I was supposed to react…but I couldn’t.

Instead I just watched him struggle to breathe and I pondered every possible outcome of not having a father without being able to comprehend not having a father.

I started to wonder who would watch Teen Titans with me on cartoon network every thursday night from then on if not him.

With every hitched, pained breath my father managed to struggle though I found myself growing angrier. Surely it was not my place to feel angry at a dying man whom I loved with my entire heart…but I did feel angry. In fact, I felt even angrier at myself for feeling angry.

Just go.

I thought.

Just. Go.

I thought once again, as if thinking more forcefully would urge his breathing to stop.

Please. Just go.

I thought again, softer this time, telepathically bargaining with his life support machines to get his laboured breathing to stop.

It’s ok. Please. Please just go. Just go. Just go. Just go. Just go. Just go.

Just go.

All of a sudden, everyone burst into tears, and I found myself petrified. Had I said that out loud? Did I just audibly urge my father to die? Was I the worst person on the face of the earth? Would they ever forgive me? Would Dad ever forgive me?

I didn't want him to die! I just knew the only way I could leave this hospital room engineered to make me feel out of place was if he stopped breathing. I didn't want him to die...but at 12 years old I was scared that if he didn't die, I would be trapped in this room forever trying to force myself to cry and mimic the reactions of the people around me because I didn't understand what was happening!

As my eyes darted around the room to try and figure out why everyone but me was suddenly sobbing it finally hit me. No. I hadn’t misspoken. In fact, it was the opposite…he had listened. My Dad's pained breathing had finally stopped.

He was gone.

I knew then for sure that I should definitely be crying or else I would seem heartless. Or else they would think I hated him when I didn’t. Even knowing that, all I could do was note that the air smelled like stale disinfectant and ginseng tea. Did that matter? Who was drinking ginseng tea? I couldn’t see who. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it did. I was too overwhelmed and too young to know.

I watched as people moved and reacted, I saw my brother cry at the nurse who came to turn off the many machines that once kept his father alive. Anger? Was I supposed to be angry? I didn’t feel angry. I was the youngest in the room full of the most adult subject I could comprehend at the time, and I was painfully aware of it. Only having known life for twelve years, how was I to know the approved reaction for watching a man die? Especially the death of a man who had always been there since the moment I first opened my eyes and now just…wasn’t.

I was too focused on how painfully aware I was of not fitting in that I failed to realize that every single person in that room felt as though they didn't fit in. In reality, how does anyone fit in with a dying man in a room that smells like ginseng tea?

To this day I—the little girl with the mousey brown hair and red foam flip flops—am still trying to comprehend how I fit into a world without him in it.

Happy Father’s Day to my Dad, who spent his life—and death—teaching me that not fitting in is ok. I will continue to be ok, feeling what I need to feel without taking hints from the people around me.