Pay Amex
The nurse’s station formed a semi-circle around the private
ICU rooms that contained life-saving equipment promising either recovery or an
extended death. My father had been admitted two days prior to my 16th
Birthday. It had been confirmed that he would need extensive surgery to remedy
the problems with his heart. The “best” care was given and he was attached to
every device possible. Blood would circulate from his lower extremities with
the help of oscillating leg wraps and his breath would be given to him through
a tube that cut off his ability to speak.
I had an older father. His ailments painted a backdrop of
confusion and fear throughout my childhood. “It’s just my hay fever, “ my dad
would explain when he needed a daily nap to recover from the limited activity
that he had withstood. He was content to think that his lethargy was due to
allergies in the same way he viewed his finances. As long as the bill
collectors weren’t calling than everything was okay.
The morning of my sweet 16 I stood bedside holding an
alphabet board trying to communicate with my father. He attempted to peck out a
message and I would try to translate:
“You love us?” He responded with an emphatic negative
shaking of his head.
“Happy Birthday?” Again, no.
“P.A.Y. Pay. A…M…E…X…Pay Amex? Pay Amex?” Vigorously he
affirmed that we had finally gotten his message. In fact we had decoded his
last earthly message. Four hours later he died.
My father’s last words were to pay a creditor. I am sure
this sprung from a desire to keep the escalating interest charge wolves at bay
and he possibly had no other resources to draw on to feel as though he was
protecting his family. As his death sunk into my soul, I resolved that I would
not leave this world in the same way.
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