Page 52 of Only With Me
They usually sleep on the bed with my parents, but they’re sitting in front of the master en suite, whimpering.
“Dad?” I step in and flick on the light, noticing he’s not in here.
I call out his name again, this time louder, and knock on the bathroom door. “Dad, are you okay?”
No answer.
Looking around, I notice his power chair is in the corner, but his walker is missing. He typically uses it to hop from the bed to the bathroom since the power chair is too big for the space.
I knock harder and then try the knob. It turns, but it won’t open. Something’s blocking it.
“Dad! Can you hear me?” I scream, trying to push through whatever is against it.
After a few more attempts, it opens just enough for me to peek inside and look at the floor.
My dad’s face-down and there’s blood around his head.
“Oh my God, Dad! Wake up!” I try shoving the door again, but the walker or his leg is blocking it, I can’t quite see, but I know I need to get in there. Who knows how long he’s been there and bleeding out.
I rush out of the house and run toward the bathroom window. The screen pops out, but it’s locked.
“Goddammit.”
Sprinting to the garage, I grab my metal bat and then smash it through the glass. Then I reach through and unlock it, accidentally drawing blood across my palm when I slice it against an exposed piece.
Ignoring it, I push up the window and then climb through—which is harder than I anticipated, but I manage to stabilize myself on the toilet seat and then step down so I can reach him.
“Dad, can you hear me?” Kneeling beside him, I press my fingers to his neck and blow out a relieved breath when I feel his pulse.
“Harlow?” he barely gets out.
“Oh, thank God.” I grab the hand towel and press it against the cut on the side of his face. “Don’t try to move. You must’ve fallen into the counter and smacked your head.”
“I tried to catch myself with my right foot,” he mutters, his eyes barely fluttering open. “Forgot it wasn’t there anymore.”
“I know, Dad. It’s okay. Gonna call for an ambulance.”
Even after all this time, he instinctively tries to use his foot, but then goes down because there’s no support to hold him up.
“No, no, I’m fine.”
I snort. “You need to get your head checked out. Also, I think the bottom of your stump is bleedin’.”
He groans. “It hurts like a son of a bitch.”
When they did the emergency amputation, they eventually had to do skin grafts, so there’s no fatty tissue to pad the bottom. It’s mostly bone with a thin layer of skin on top.
Once my call is connected, I explain the situation and that I’m too afraid to move his body, but it’s blocking the door for anyone to come in. The operator walks me through how to carefully shift him without further damaging anything or adding to his pain, but when I do, Dad groans.
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
“I can crawl,” he says, lifting on his elbows just enough to get the door open.
“He’s conscious?” the operator asks.
“Yeah, but I’m worried he could have swellin’ in his brain or broken a rib from how he fell,” I explain. “I dunno how long he was out before I found him. He has a head wound, too.”
She continues asking questions while we wait for the EMTs to arrive and then I notice Dad’s breathing sounds off.
