The latest
cancerous tumor is proving to be problematic, which seems like an
understatement, but as the pulmonologist explains the details, I see what he
means. He's young. Doesn't even look old
enough to shave more than once a week. He previously told my wife that blood
vessels were leaking within the gelatinous mass cancer had created from one of her back ribs. The
pooling blood is filling the space between her chest wall and lungs and
exerting pressure, restricting her breathing—in effect, suffocating her.
But now, the drainage tube that had been put in place
has clogged. The young doctor is back to explain the pros and cons of switching
to a larger-diameter tube. I can tell by the way he's carefully choosing his
words that he's trying not to influence my wife's decision one way or the other, but it's obvious he thinks her case is
hopeless. I silently curse him. What happened
to hope against all odds? He's far too young to be so damned pessimistic.
After he leaves, my wife shakes her head, lets out a
great sigh, and says,‘I can't take anymore. I
won't. This all ends now.’ Those words
are a complete surrender, and I'm more saddened
than shocked by her abrupt decision.
I know the terrible pain she's suffering. During our
consultation with the oncologist the week before, my wife had been reluctant to prolong that suffering with chemo and radiation. The
oncologist and I, together, had persuaded her to at least try a few sessions.
‘Look. I know you're exhausted,’ I tell her, ‘emotionally
and physically, but don't you want to take some time to think about this? It's such a big decision to make, and I don't want you to rush into it. Okay?’
But she's adamant. No treatment
x
We're in a cabin near the south
rim of the Grand Canyon, my daughter and I. She's sleeping
peacefully in a bed next to mine, but I, on the other
hand, am wide awake—another bad dream. I was a bird flapping my wings furiously
to deliver an important message when suddenly my wings turned back into arms,
and I found myself desperately flailing the air to stay aloft. I dropped from the sky like a rock.
But just before I hit the ground, I jolted awake. My heart is still pounding.
I don't know what message I was delivering or who it
was for, so I really don't know what meaning to take from that dream—or if
there's any meaning at all.
I reach for the clock on the nightstand and squint at
the time: 6:17 a.m. Too early, plus I'm in no mood to get up—I rarely am these
days. I close my eyes and try to force myself back to sleep, but it's no use.
The morning light has found its way between the curtains and into the room, so
I get up, change into my hiking clothes—quietly so as not to wake my daughter—and
leave the cabin to go for a long, solitary walk.
My daughter invited herself on this trip to help
scatter her mother's ashes, but I know she had another reason. She's worried my
depression over our mutual loss may be getting worse with time—not better—and
she hadn't wanted me to travel such a long distance alone. I wish I could tell
her not to worry, that I just need more time—time heals all wounds, right?—but
time isn't what I need. It may eventually heal my wound of grief, but I doubt it'll do anything for my
nagging burden of guilt. I know it's irrational,
but I feel I was partly responsible for my wife's
death in some consequential way.
Forty-five minutes later, I'm back at the cabin, awash
in a blue mood of melancholy. The alarm clock has sounded, and my daughter is
reluctantly rolling out of bed. Our plan is to scout the canyon rim and find a
secluded spot for my wife's ashes. They're
in a water thermos bottle stowed in my backpack. You're no longer allowed to
scatter ashes here, so we have to be somewhat creative. The good news is tourist season is over. Fewer prying eyes. Less chance
someone will report us to a park ranger.
Before we begin our scouting mission, my daughter and I decide to
visit Mather Point, a popular lookout spot. I know the view won't be as
spectacular as when the sun rises or sets over the canyon like the last time we were
here—as a complete family—but it will still be a view to remember, considering the occasion, and I'm pretty sure my
daughter will appreciate the memory in later years.
We take a quick drive from our cabin to the Visitor
Center, park in the nearly empty lot, unload our backpacks from the car, and
head out. It's a short walk to the extreme
northernmost projection of the observation point. The place is nearly deserted,
only a scattering of people here and there. We step up to the railing. My wife and daughter and I had witnessed the morning sunrise from this
very spot some twenty-two years ago. I wonder
if my daughter remembers.
As she gazes looking
outward to the northern rim of the canyon some ten miles away, my attention is drawn downward to the depths of the canyon. With my hands
on the top metal rail, I lean out. I feel a deep loneliness
when I look down the steep sides of the canyon,
a heavy
loneliness that stretches thousands of feet down, pulling me, drawing me
forward, over the railing, into the void.
This isn't how I remember the canyon. Before, it had
been an open space filled with an awe-inspiring vista. Now it's just a
depressing and meaningless space that echoes my emptiness—and on a grand scale,
no less. I no longer feel the warm embrace of melancholy, but the crushing
squeeze of regret. But regret for what?
‘I remember when we watched the sunrise from here,’ my
daughter says. ‘It was magical.’
A thought occurs to me. This is the perfect spot for
my wife's ashes—a spectacular sunrise every morning and a glorious twinkling of
stars at night. I ask my daughter what she thinks.
‘I guess. I mean, this is probably the best spot in
the whole park. And it was such a magical moment for me. I'm sure it was for
mom too.’
‘Okay, then. This
is the spot.’
I slide off my
backpack, pull out the thermos with my wife's ashes, and tell my daughter to
hand it to me after I climb over the railing. ‘I'll scatter mom's ashes into
the crevice of those rocks over there.’
I point to a spot only a few feet away. A wide, level
area stretches between me and that spot, reaching it will be as safe as walking
on a city sidewalk—zero chance of my falling over the edge of the canyon—but my
daughter still cautions me to be careful.
I scan the area to make sure there are no potential
prying eyes. Satisfied, I hop over the railing. My daughter quickly hands me
the thermos, and I dash toward the spot. But a funny thing happens when I do, I
find myself veering to the right. And the harder I try to go straight, the more
I go right. I become confused and think, What the hell? It's only when I
notice a ringing in my right ear and find myself at the edge of the canyon rim
that it dawns on me I'm experiencing a case of vertigo. My daughter screams ‘Daddy!’
just as I stumble and fall over the edge.
The morning air
is unusually cold. Our warm breaths rise and mix in the waning twilight. My
wife, our eight-year-old daughter, and I huddle together to wait patiently for what I
hope will be a momentous event. We move as little as possible, not wanting to
disturb the reverent mood that has settled upon us.
We had camped overnight near Mather Point. This
morning, my wife had wanted to get a jump on the crowd that she knew would form in the observation area to watch the
coming sunrise, so we rose early, at an ungodly hour—4 a.m.—but apparently not ungodly enough because when we
arrived, a mass of even earlier risers were already here. Our late arrival,
however, hadn't deprived us of a choice vantage point, and we watched as
twilight gave way to sunrise. We saw the sun, that bright light, begin its slow ascent. We stood in awe,
transfixed.
Vibrant shades of reds, rusts, yellows, golds, and
delicate greens and pinks—colors I hadn't expected—slowly revealed themselves
from the canyon walls, top to bottom. Each color, one by one, cast off its
cloak of darkness and stepped into the brilliant light, timidly at first, then
boldly, exposing its raw, natural splendor with sudden confidence. The canyon
was truly grand to behold.
Even my daughter, who had resented the early wake-up
call, was awestruck by the beauty unfolding before her very eyes. ‘That's so
pretty, Daddy.’
‘Prettier than mommy?’ I tease.
She scolds me. ‘Daddy.’
‘Okay, not prettier than mommy.’
‘Daddy!’ she replies more forcefully. I see her face
contort into an angry frown.
‘Daddy!’ she shouts at me.
I'm confused. Why is she shouting? Why is she angry? I
was only teasing. I see her take in a deep breath and open her mouth so wide I
could be looking into the depths of the canyon itself. The sound of her voice
explodes in my head.
‘Daddy!’
I wake startled and confused.
‘Oh my God, Daddy! I thought you were dead!’
I struggle to focus. My head is pounding.
‘Up here. I'm up here, Daddy!’
I shift my body to look up, and it triggers a
starburst of pain, colors radiate from the backs of my eyes like knives into my
brain. I howl like a wounded animal.
‘What's wrong, Daddy! What's happening!’
I can't talk. My mouth is clamped shut, and I'm
gritting my teeth with all my strength. The pain in my legs is unbearable. I'll
go crazy if it doesn't stop soon. Mercifully, the pain lessens to just an angry
throbbing, something I'm only too grateful to tolerate.
I take in my surroundings and find that I'm on a
narrow ledge. I twist slowly and look up. My daughter, thirty feet above, is
peering over a rocky cliff. I can't see the fine features of her face without
my glasses—I've lost them somehow—but even without glasses, I can see her
desperation and fear. It takes me a couple of seconds to remember what
happened. I fell over the edge of that cliff above and landed on this ledge
below.
‘Oh, Daddy! Please don't jump! Please, please, don't
jump!’
I'm taken aback. My daughter thinks I intentionally
tried to kill myself. ‘I didn't jump! And I'm not going to!’ I reply more
forcefully than I intend.
I suppose I can't fault her for thinking I
deliberately jumped. From her vantage point it certainly looked like I ran
straight for the edge of the canyon and willingly flung myself over.
In a calmer voice, as if speaking to a suicidal jumper
standing on the outside ledge of a tall building—a jumper she doesn't want to
spook—she asks, ‘How badly are you hurt, Dad?’
I assess my condition. My left foot is wedged in a
crevice. I try to free it, but those colors start to form in the backs of my
eyes and prickling needles of pain race down my
legs, so I
stop. I'm pretty sure
I broke both legs. My back hurts. It may be broken, too. There's a nasty gash
on the back of my hand. My wrist may be broken or just sprained—I don't know.
All in all, I'm pretty banged up. I relay all this information to my daughter.
‘Okay. Stay still. A rescue helicopter is on the way.
They'll get you out.’
Rescue helicopter? So soon? I wonder how long I've
been unconscious.
‘Just please don't—’ she hesitates, ‘move.’
‘Don't worry, Sunshine. I couldn't move even if I
wanted to.’
‘The park rangers want me to come
back over the railing, but I won't. I'll stay here with you, but first I need
to tell them your condition. I'll be back in a second. Okay, Dad?’
‘Okay,’ I reply.
While she's gone I decide to bandage my left hand.
It's a bloody mess—raw flesh and tendons exposed. In a little pouch attached to
my belt, I have a Swiss Army knife. I remove it and pull out the small pair of
scissors fitted inside. I cut off the left sleeve of my shirt and wrap it
around my hand several times, tucking the loose end between the wrappings and
my palm.
I reach under my thigh to remove a nagging rock. It's
the thermos.
My daughter is back, but a thin pane of silence now
separates us. Finally, she breaks it.
‘Dad, I know you're sad about Mom—I am too—but I
didn't know you were this sad. You should have told me. You should have talked
to me.’
She still thinks I'm suicidal. I wish I could convince
her that I'm not, but my depression since her mother died and the lack of
energy for me to even leave the house tells her otherwise.
‘You're right, Sunshine.’ A deep sadness swallows me. ‘I'm sorry.’
More silence.
Suddenly she shouts with excitement. ‘Daddy, I can
hear the helicopter! It's coming! Can you hear it?’
I hear the distant thump, thump, thump of the blades
as they cut rapidly through the air.
‘Yes, Sunshine. I hear it.’
‘I can see it! It's over there!’ She's pointing across
the canyon. ‘Can you see it!’
I squint my weak eyes and see what looks like a bird
in the distance. I remember my dream, when I was a bird flapping my wings
furiously to deliver that urgent message.
‘Yes. I see it,’ I shout back to her.
‘I love you, Daddy. You're going to be okay.’
And just like that, the source of my guilt for my
wife's suffering—for her death—reveals itself. I know what the message was that
I struggled to deliver: I-love-you. Three simple words.
How many times had I spoken those words to my wife?
During the early part of our marriage, I can say with confidence they flowed in
a torrent. But in the last years of our marriage was there even a trickle? If
I'm to be honest, the answer is no. And even during my wife's final days, I
offered not a drop.
I don't know what caused that flow to stop, but it
did, and I struggled to restart it, but it was never due to a lack of feeling—I
did love my wife—the problem was there just never seemed to be the right moment
to re-express those words, not without having them sound hollow and forced. And
the longer I delayed, the harder it became.
A park ranger shouts to my daughter to clear the area
before the helicopter arrives. Gusting air from its rotating blades could cause
her to lose her balance and fall over the cliff. She doesn't want to leave me,
but I persuade her to do so, and she reluctantly makes her way back behind the
railing to join the curious bystanders who have no doubt gathered by now.
When her chest tube clogged, my wife refused to have
it replaced. Would her decision have been different if I had allowed those three magical words to caress her ears?
Would they have given her the strength—the desire—to do everything possible to
prolong her life, a life worth living because she would know she was loved not
just by her daughter but by her husband as well?
The rescue helicopter moves cautiously into position
and hovers steadily above me. From its open side door, I see my rescuer step
out into empty space. He swings slightly side to side as he's lowered slowly
and carefully on a steel cable attached to his body harness.
What magic could those words have performed had I
spoken them in the months, weeks, even days before her cancer was discovered?
Could those magical words have stopped the cancer's spread, perhaps even
prevented it from appearing?
Question after question crowds my mind as the
helicopter hovers. Eventually one question, the most damning one of all, makes
its way to the front: Am I responsible—even partly—for my wife's death?
Deep down, I know the answer.
My rescuer inches closer. I imagine he's confused when
he sees me struggle with my boot, sees me cut the double knot of the laces with
my knife and wrench my foot free, leaving the boot wedged in the crevice. I
know he can't hear my screams of pain. Even I can't hear them. The roar of
the helicopter swallows them whole.
With great effort, I drag myself across the rocky
surface of the ledge, one elbow in front of the other. When I come to the edge,
I unscrew the cap of the thermos bottle I'm
holding and pour out my wife's ashes. They dance wildly in the turbulent air
created by the helicopter's blades, a dust cloud which will eventually settle
onto the canyon floor far below, my wife's final resting place.
I peer over. The view gives me the illusion I'm a bird
poised to take flight. How do you say, ‘I am sorry’—three more simple words—to
someone who exists only as a memory? I close my eyes. I feel the wind in my
face. I feel the pull of the canyon.
Bio:
Héctor Hernández received a bachelor’s
degree in civil engineering. He is now retired and lives in California. His
short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, After
Dinner Conversation, Bright Flash Literary Review, Five Minutes, and Literally
Stories.
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