Page 83 of Ruin
I don’t know much about that sort of thing, but I guess he would have worked with a lot of patients like that in the hospital. I do know that there is a range of TBI. Some people can still live with them while others stay in comas. Sometimes I’d wonder if my father had a head injury and that’s why he did what he did, but I think it was just me trying to come up with an excuse for him being a piece of shit. Because if there wasn’t a reason for why he did it, then the reason was because it was my fault.
I pick up one of the packets, my arm brushing by the keyboard and waking up the screen. To my surprise, there isn’t apassword on it, and it opens to a word document. The headline catches my attention.
The Missing Years: A Father’s Story of Waiting.
I’m not sure what it is that has me reading more, but something about the headline feels off. Why would he write something like this? I continue to read and the first line tells me all I need to know.
My son was nineteen when he had his accident.
Accident? My heart beats harder as I continue to read the words Lucian has written.
It’s every parent's nightmare. It’s what keeps us up at night. You’re told the hardest part of having children is when they’re babies and they don’t sleep or when they cry all the time, but it’s all lies. The hardest part of being a parent is letting go. It’s when your children learn to use their wings and leave the nest. It’s not showing up for curfew. It’s skipping school. It’s being somewhere they aren’t supposed to be. It’s the calls in the middle of the night from the hospital, telling you your child was in an accident.
Of course, not every parent gets these calls. Not every parent has to rush to the hospital late into the night, hoping to find their child alive. Some of those parents walk into rooms and find their child is on the way to recovery. Others find their child has passed.
Then you have others.
Then you have us.
Those who walk into the hospital and there aren’t answers. There are only excuses.
Even as a doctor, maybe even more so, this isn’t good news. Walking into the hospital to find my son had been in an accident, is now in a coma, and no one knows what will happen, is by far the worst news you can receive.
Losing a child is horrible. But losing a child that you still have to take care of and look at, day after day, is torture I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.
Nine years we waited for Luke to wake up.
Three thousand, four hundred and eight days of watching my son dwindle away in a hospital bed, hoping he would wake up.
We were told it wouldn’t happen, but how do you let go of your child? The human you made, you raised, you kissed good night and read stories to. It’s impossible, and it nearly destroyed me.
My marriage was in shambles before the accident, and I
That’s it. That’s all there is.
My heart is in my throat as I stare at the screen, my jaw on the floor. The cursor blinks after the I, waiting for the rest of the story to be told. Too many emotions hit me at once. First I feel nothing, but then I feel everything. It’s confusing, and it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.
I turn to get up out of the chair, only to find Lucian standing in the doorway, watching me with a pained look.
“Luke,” falls out of my mouth the same time the glass slips from my hand. I didn’t even realize I was holding it. It clunks to the ground, but neither of us looks at it. We can only look at each other.
Lucian nods, a grimace on his face.
I know what all of this means, but none of it makes sense.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say. “Why didn’t you call? How have I gone all this time without knowing?” I ask, each of my words getting louder and harsher.
I’m angry. It’s my default. But I don’t want to be angry right now. I want to be there for him, but I also want to understand why he kept this from me. Or maybe I’m angry at myself for not just knowing. How did I miss this?
“We kept it quiet,” is what he says. “Dealt with it on our own. Literally, on our own, as separate people.”
“This is why you split up?”
He nods.
“Lucian,” I choke out. “You… why—”
He walks to me, putting his hands on my neck and staring into my eyes.
