“It’s fine. I’m fine. Just act normal.”

It’s shocking to see him like this.

So helpless. So fragile and scared looking. So unlike Dad.

He’s out of it.

He’s basically in a coma. Unconscious, at least. Torment etches his face. Tremors rack his body. Mostly his arms. And hands.

He grimaces in pain, on and off. And tries to curl up in the hospital bed.

Is he trying to make himself small to ward off the pain and fear? Is he trying to make himself warm?

Only he can say.

If only he could say.

The odd time he opens his eyes? He’s not really seeing. That blank stare. The cloudy white around those pinhole pupils. He can’t focus. 

“I doubt he recognizes you. I barely recognize him.”

He groans, now and then. Because he’s uncomfortable. But also like he’s trying to say something.

He can’t talk, though, he can’t communicate at all. He can’t tell you what’s wrong.

Among other things, the doctors say high calcium. That’s why he’s really confused, senseless. It’s really dangerous, deadly.

They’re fixing it. “It can take a few days.”

But they don’t know what’s causing it. “Something malignant is often the reason.”

And all you can do is sit there.

You talk to him. But that doesn’t feel right. Can he even hear you? If so, is that comforting or confusing? 

You distract yourself. That doesn’t feel right, either. It feels selfish, scrolling social media and checking emails, thinking about work and planning for the week ahead. 

You pretend like everything is okay. Like you’re okay.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Just act normal.”

You leave after a few hours.

You drive to your sister’s, hang out with your nieces, and spend the night.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Just act normal.”

You go back to the hospital the next day. He hasn’t changed much.

You drive home, return to your relationship and your dogs and your nine-to-five. You return to your regularly scheduled programming.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Just act normal.”

But you can only pretend for so long. You can only bottle up so much, carry the burden so far.

Eventually, the glass shatters and your back buckles. Reality crushes you.

Your dad. An everyday superhero, a true Regular Joe. The man your mom loved, faults and all. The man you tried so hard to make proud.

That man is mortal.

You see that now. You know what that looks like, what it really means. You know what’s coming, sooner or later.

And you’re supposed to go on as if everything is okay.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Just act normal.”

Because that’s what most people do. They believe if you act normal long enough, everything might return to normal.

Because what else can you do?

You can break, like I broke.

Or you can admit the truth.

“It’s not fine. I’m not fine. No more pretending.”