1917

May 2, 1918 Cont.

We trudged through the grungy medical halls, the faded linoleum floors squeaking faintly beneath our shoes. The fluorescent lighting cast an eerie, pale glow, making the place feel even more lifeless. After what felt like an eternity, we finally stopped in front of room 23—the place they had put my father.

  I hesitated at the door, swallowing hard before pushing it open. There he was, lying on the hospital bed, frail and motionless. His once-strong presence seemed diminished, and it hit me like a punch to the gut.

  “Oh, Dad! This is all my fault,” I blurted out, tears streaming down my face before I could stop them. My voice cracked under the weight of guilt and grief.

  His eyes flickered open, locking onto mine. He gave me a look—a mix of disbelief and frustration, as if to say, Are you mad? But he couldn’t speak. The doctors had called it aphasia, explaining that his brain could no longer process the construction of basic sentences. Still, I could tell he understood me.

  “Jeremy, how could it be your fault?” my mother asked, her voice filled with confusion and concern.

  “It just is!” I shouted, my anger boiling over. I wasn’t really angry at her, or even at my father—I was angry at myself. The guilt clawed at me relentlessly. I hadn’t spent enough time with him and hadn’t made an effort to connect. I’d been too busy, too selfish, and now this had happened.

  I stood there, fists clenched, feeling helpless and small. I owed him so much—at the very least, I owed him more time, time that I could never get back. A wave of dread washed over me as fear crept in: What if he passed on? What would I do then? The thought was paralyzing, suffocating. I couldn’t even bring myself to face it fully.

  The words escaped me before I could stop them. “I’m going to marry Peggy, Papa!” I blurted out, tearfully. I wasn’t sure why I said it—maybe just to make a connection, to share something with him while there was still time.

  He didn’t respond in the way I had hoped, but he squeezed my hand gently, offering the only comfort he could give. I imagined he was in immense pain at that moment, his body weakened by the stroke, and yet he still tried to reassure me, as if to say that everything would somehow be alright.

  But I couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was slipping away. I couldn’t lose him too. Not after Michael. Losing Michael to that cruel influenza virus had already shattered me in ways I couldn’t even put into words. I didn’t want to face another devastating loss—not now, not like this.

  The universe was being one cruel son of a b***h, and I was having none of it. It felt as if fate had already taken so much from me, and I wasn’t ready to give in again. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I could only stand there, helpless, clinging to the fragile hope that things would somehow be different this time.

  You will never believe it, but at that exact moment, Peggy showed up at the hospital. It was as if the universe, in all its cruel irony, decided to send her to me now—right when I was at my lowest. I couldn’t fathom why she would be here, but as it turned out, she wasn’t there for anything serious or life-threatening. No, it was just a routine checkup, something as mundane as any other day, nothing that would evoke the kind of dread I was feeling.

  I looked at her in disbelief as she walked through the hospital doors, her bright green eyes seemingly oblivious to the storm that had just hit my world. She caught sight of me, her face softening when she saw the pain in my expression. The world felt like it was spinning out of control, but somehow, in that moment, her presence brought a strange sense of grounding. I didn’t know if I was relieved or just more confused.

  “Jeremy,” she said, stepping toward me with a concern I didn’t know how to respond to. “What’s going on? You look… shaken.”

  I didn’t have the strength to explain it all to her. The words felt stuck in my throat, but somehow I managed to choke out, “It’s my dad. He… he had a stroke.” My voice cracked at the mention of it, and I cursed myself for sounding so weak.

  Peggy’s face immediately softened, and she reached out to place a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Jeremy. I didn’t know. Is he… is he going to be okay?”

  I looked at her, unsure of how to answer. The doctors hadn’t been able to give any clear assurances. It was all too uncertain, too fragile.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted quietly, staring down at my father’s bed. “I just… I just don’t know.”

  Peggy nodded, her hand lingering on my shoulder—a silent offering of support. In the midst of this chaos, she was the only piece of normalcy I could cling to, even though it felt like the world around us was falling apart.

  For a moment, there was nothing but the weight of the situation—my father lying in that bed, the fear that gripped my chest, and Peggy’s presence offering the only sliver of comfort. But the crushing reality of what was happening around us soon settled back in.

  That’s when it happened. My father closed his eyes for the final time. It was so sudden, so quiet, and I froze. For a brief moment, I convinced myself it was just a fluke. Maybe he was just resting, maybe he’d wake up and tell me everything would be fine like he always did. But then, I reached for his hand, my fingers trembling as I tried to rouse him, desperate for some sign that he was still there.

  But nothing. No response.

  Panic surged through me, a raw, primal fear I couldn’t contain. I punched his shoulder—not hard, but enough to shake him. Hoping, praying that maybe this time he’d react, that he’d open his eyes, that he’d tell me everything would be okay. But still, nothing.

  I couldn’t breathe. My chest felt tight, suffocating.

  “Oh my god, he’s dead!” I screamed, my voice breaking as it echoed through the sterile hospital room. The words felt like a slap, a cruel reminder of the brutal reality I was facing. I was angry—furious, even—but it wasn’t just anger. It was grief, an overwhelming sorrow that crashed over me like a tidal wave. My body shook, my knees buckled, and I found myself sinking to the floor.

  It wasn’t fair. It never felt fair. He didn’t deserve to go like this—not like some nameless casualty of the universe’s whims. I’d been cheated. We’d been cheated. The universe had just taken him away, like it had taken so many others before him, and I felt so small, so utterly powerless against it all.

  I was sad mad—that’s the only way I can explain it. Grief and rage blending into something uncontrollable. I wanted to scream at the heavens, to demand why it had to happen this way, but no words came out. I just felt this suffocating weight on my chest, the crushing realization that I’d never see him again, never hear his voice, never get the chance to say everything I wished I had.

  It was over. He was gone. And nothing I did could change that.

  That night, I fell into a restless sleep with tears still fresh on my face, staining the pillow as I tried to drift off. The world felt hollow, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on me. I didn’t know how to process it, how to make sense of the chaos that had shattered my world. And though I had never believed in a higher power, never truly believed in anything beyond the tangible, that night, I found myself praying.

  I wasn’t praying in the way most people would. There were no formal words, no structure to it. It was more a raw, desperate plea that my father had found peace—that wherever he was, whatever was next, it was something better than this world. I didn’t know if heaven existed, but in that moment, I wished it did. I needed it to. I needed to believe that he was somewhere safe, somewhere beyond all the pain, beyond the struggles that had defined his life.

  I didn’t have the words for a proper prayer, but I found myself whispering a quiet thought into the void: “Please, just let him be at peace. He deserves that much.”

  It felt strange—this sudden, fleeting faith in something I had long dismissed. But I wasn’t doing it for me. I was doing it for him. My father had worked so hard in life, had fought so many battles, some of which he never even spoke about. He deserved rest. He deserved peace. I just wished I could have given him more time, more moments, more chances to feel that.

  I drifted in and out of sleep, my heart heavy, my mind replaying the final moments over and over. But somewhere, in the quiet of that room, I let the grief wash over me, and for once, I didn’t try to fight it. I let myself mourn, let myself ache, and maybe—just maybe—let myself believe, if only for a brief moment, that he had found the peace he so deeply deserved.