Love and Death
This is a story that I’ve been working on since I started medical school, back in 2017. It’s about how we talk and think about death. It’s also about how afraid I was of talking about death when I started medical school. It’s odd to me now because I think about and talk about death so often now. It has been picked up The Pegasus Review, at Stanford. I will link to it once they share with me said link, but for now, here is an excerpt I love:
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I don’t remember how long it took my dad to get sober, but he did eventually. I know that by the end of elementary school, he had given it up. I think he stopped because he was afraid of losing us on top of losing my mom. She chose to give him joint custody, an act of kindness that demonstrates her understanding that, although he had failed as a husband, he was a good father. He got a job within driving distance of my mom. My childhood consisted of being driven back and forth between their houses, reading books in the car. As time passed, they learned to depend on each other. They had to deal with me and my brother growing up, breaking bones, and fighting with each other. They divided disciplinary duties and, in moments where money was tight, they would borrow from each other before going to family in Mexico or a bank. I wasn’t old enough to remember much of the days when my dad drank heavily. My life with him, or at least what I can remember of it, began when I was in elementary school. He would pick me up on Fridays in his Chevy El Camino, and I would sit in between him and my brother on the bench seat. I found the smell of the old car comforting despite the lack of AC in the Southern California heat. He made the best of the situation, planning activities for us on Friday nights and cooking for us as best he could. I remember often having eggs and beans for dinner because those were among the few things he could make well. He took us to the fair and to zoos and to the movies. And he would make me brush my teeth.
I remember how large his hands were. They were strong and sturdy. I remember how loud his voice was. He was generous in conversation and eager to get to know other people, a trait I’ve inherited from him. I remember how he could make friends with anyone. He could connect with people in an instant. I remember how open and vulnerable he could be with me, never hesitating to share with me how much he loved me or how much he regretted his drinking and the things he did to my mom. He gave me my first car, a white Ford Explorer, which only had two doors, a ridiculous decision for an SUV. He taught me how to drive, essentially giving me the keys to freedom and autonomy. He taught me to be honest and to own up to my mistakes, something I’m not always great at. He taught me to say I love you by a call and response greeting. “I love you,” he’d say. “I love you too, Dad,” I’d reply.
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Twelve years later, I walked into the emergency department waiting room at the Henry Mayo Hospital in Santa Clarita. A nurse asked for the family of Andres Romano. I made eye contact with her and she led me through a door. On the other side, I could see trauma bays where patients were being attended to in a flurry. I remember the nurse was wearing white scrubs and the fluorescent lights glinted down on the linoleum floor.
“I’m so sorry, we did everything we could. Your dad is dead,” she said.