Sensing my anxiety, Lucas wraps his arm around my shoulder and walks me into the room. My dad, Scott Bailey, built like a tank, Scott Bailiey, lays motionless on the bed, his eyes closed. His hands, once smooth and strong, are now pale and dry, punctured with IV’s; tubes taped to his fragile skin. Pads are stuck to his chest, keeping track of his heart rate. He looks weak. This has to be a mistake,; this has to be a shade of my father. This is not the man I remember.

In the corner, my mom, Jennifer, sleeps in a chair. Her light brown, gray -streaked hair is a ratted mess. Even with her eyes closed, I can see the puffiness from her tears. Her crumpled face even shows signs of stress while she sleeps. I feel worse for not being here for her, but I’m here now. It’s better than nothing.

Tony whispers to her and she wakes with a jolt. Her instinct is to panic, until her eyes find me. Her panic fades from shock, to joy, to heartache. She rushes over and throws her arms around me, but my eyes never leave dDad. Voices fill the room, but I can’t make out a single word. I’m not listening. My focus is on the monitors and the slow drip of the IV. I can feel my tears trying to break through the barrier as I turn to her.