The Pretender

On forgetting myself in fatherhood

photo by Bud Hager

I can’t find the list.

I swear I had it this morning, maybe yesterday. I was in the kitchen, the coffee cooling but not yet cold, staring at a scrap of paper, the copy of the back of some medical form I sent in for her therapy or her meds or that specialist we can’t afford if the insurance won’t cover it and the secondary doesn’t kick in. I wrote it down, I know I did, with that red pen, the one that leaks and stains my fingers. I meant to stick it on the fridge, but the fridge is a mess of magnets, hospital appointment cards, and a blurry photo of us from another life and the list isn’t there and I don’t know what I was supposed to do today.

Where’s the dog? Haven’t walked her, I don’t think. Or maybe I did. The leash is coiled on the floor, which means something, but I can’t remember. Wait, we don’t have a dog. Whose leash is this? Oh,, it’s a belt, never mind. The cracker box is open. Oat milk, because I’m trying to not have so much dairy, is sweating beside it, so someone ate and had coffee. Did I pour it in my coffee? Did I eat? I don’t remember doing that. I should check the calendar, but that just feels like another thing I don’t want to see, plus it’s buried under bills and reminders. Physical therapy, speech therapy, that meeting with the school about her IEP. That’s another thing I forgot, some appointment that came and went and no one called to remind me. Or they did, but I didn’t pick up, or I did pick up and forgot.

It’s gone now, whatever it was.

The house smells faintly like burnt toast, but I haven’t made toast in days. I think I turned the oven on earlier, meant to warm something up, but it’s cold now, or maybe I never turned it on. The microwave clock blinks at me. Or maybe it’s more of a flicker. Or maybe it’s my eyes doing the flickering. I don’t trust time anymore. It tells me the hour but not how long it’s been since I was him, since I was the guy who had plans, who laughed easily, who didn’t wake up mixing meds or checking bedsores.

There’s no clock for that kind of gone.

I sit at the table. A form is in front of me. Something for her therapy clinic, or the insurance company, or another doctor. A black pen this time, not red. I read the first line: “Child’s Name.” I write hers. Then it asks for an emergency contact. I freeze. Do I write his name? The man I used to be? Does he still count? Can I call him when the alarms go off in the night, when her breathing gets shallow, when I don’t know how to keep going? There’s no box for that.

I put my wife’s.

There’s a sock on the floor by her ramp. Just one, small, hers. It’s been there for days, maybe a week. I keep meaning to pick it up, but I walk past it, see it, don’t see it. Same with the mail piling up on the piano I used to play. Bills, medical statements, flyers for things we’ll never do, coupons for restaurants we’ll never go to. I tried sorting it once, meant to pay something, file something, throw something out. Now it’s just a heap on the piano, next to a broken nebulizer I don’t know how to fix and charging cables I can’t match to anything.

Why does the phone always need charging?

She’s here, my girl. She’s always here. In her chair, in her bed, in the gasp of the vent when it kicks on. She doesn’t ask for much. Can’t. Or won’t. Her eyes follow me sometimes, or I think they do. I talk to her, tell her about the day, about nothing, about the weather. I don’t know if she hears me. I mean I know she hears me, she has excellent hearing, always able to hear me just as I lay down to bed to start coughing, but doesn’t hear me. The doctors say she might, but they say a lot of things. I almost forgot her second breathing treatment yesterday. Or maybe it was the day before. I was about to do it, but then the pharmacy called about a refill, and I lost the thread.

You could weave a blanket from the amount of threads I’ve lost.

There was a dream last night. Or maybe it was last year. I was in a hospital, but it wasn’t hers. It was a maze of hallways, lights buzzing, doors that wouldn’t open. I was looking for him, for me, the old me, the one who knew how to fix things, who wasn’t afraid of the next phone call. A voice kept saying, “You’re late,” but I couldn’t move, my legs heavy, sinking into the floor. I woke up gasping, my hands shaking. I checked her monitor before I checked my own pulse.

I miss him.

That other me. The guy who could carry a conversation, who planned camping trips we never took, who thought he’d have more time. His voice in my head, saying, “It’s gonna be okay,” loud and sure, like he believed it. I hear it sometimes, when the house is too quiet, when her machines are the only sound. I check the front door, half-expecting him to walk through, but he never does. He would be annoyed I changed the locks. He used to do that, forget his keys, laugh it off. Now I lock the door and wait for no one. Or everyone? But probably no one.

People are like the doctors; they say a lot of things. “You’re doing so well.” “She’s lucky to have you.” “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” I want to scream. I’m not doing well, I don’t even know anyone who is doing well; I’m just here, fumbling through like the rest of us. Maybe more visibly fumbling than some. She’s not lucky—she’s trapped in a body that won’t move, and I’m the one who’s supposed to make it better, but I can’t. Lucky to have me? Anyone who thinks that obviously hasn’t asked her how she feels about me. I keep moving, one step, then another, because stopping feels like falling, and I can’t fall.

Not yet.

I went to the store last week, last decade, maybe. Loaded the cart with her formula, her diapers, the soft fruits I blend for her. Forgot the stuff I eat. Stood in line, realized I didn’t have my wallet. Found a crumpled receipt in my pocket, from a coffee shop I went to with him. Paid with my phone, hands shaking. Left the bags in the car for hours, forgot to bring them in until the ice cream melted. Had to go back to the store. I sit in the car longer than I need to sometimes, after picking up her meds or dropping off hope. Just sit, keys in my lap, engine off, listening to the silence. Watching people move like they know where they’re going. I used to be one of them. Now I’m always halfway to the next appointment, halfway to breaking, halfway to remembering who I was. The world keeps going, but I’m stuck in this fog.

I forgot to call the therapist. Forgot to sign the new care plan. Forgot the name of the insurance rep I talked to last week, the one who told me not to adjust her chair. I meant to write it down, meant to keep track. I forgot the name of the mom I sat next to at the clinic, the one who said it’s so nice to have a community like ours for kiddos like ours. I forgot coffee in the car. I boil water and forget to pour it. I pour it and forget the tea. I stand at the sink, watching the steam, thinking of her breath, how it catches sometimes, how I hold mine until the machine beeps and she’s okay again. I’m always waiting for the next beep. I hate the beeping but it means she’s still here.

Machines don’t beep for dead people.

I snapped at my wife yesterday. Something small and stupid like she moved her stuffed animals, or didn’t clamp the feeding tube. I don’t remember. I hated myself. Tried to apologize, but it came out wrong, too sharp, too tired. She said it’s fine, but it’s not. I’m not fine. I’m not him anymore, the guy who was patient, who could smile through a long day. I don’t know where he went. Can you believe that? He just up and left when I needed him most.

The dishes are piling up. Always piling up. I don’t remember the last time the sink was clear from my own washing. I don’t remember the last time I ate something that wasn’t a handful from a box that’s been open too long. I used to cook steaks, pasta, things she loved, things I was proud of. I can’t start. Don’t know how. I can’t seem to remember if I have the right pan. Opened the cabinet and stared at the stack of pots like they belonged to someone else. Now I open the fridge and stare at her formula cans, her meds. There’s an expired antibiotics bottle in there. She’s been on so many antibiotics, but she’s not now, I would have an alarm telling me when to give it to her if she was. Why is my phone beeping? Oh, right, not all of the bottles are expired, I guess.

Don’t forget to close the fridge.

I don’t cry much now. Not because it’s better or because it doesn’t fix anything. Instead, I get an ache in my jaw. Or this weight in my chest. Or that numb buzzing in my hands, like I’m holding something I can’t drop but also can’t feel. Who am I kidding? I’m crying right now, probably, somewhere. But it’s different now somehow. I walk through the day like I’m dragging a shadow, one that looks like him, taller, steadier, unafraid. I keep waiting for him to step back into me, but he doesn’t.

Got a text, people want to come over. Why? I don’t want them over. What would they even do here? Actually, I probably asked them to. I probably need them to. I don’t want them to see I’ve been crying though. The quiet way they’ll stand there looking at me. The soft touches on my shoulder. Rubbing my arm. Asking me what I need, asking how are you. How are you. How are you. How are you. I try to stop crying. Think of something else. I can’t think of anything that doesn’t make me cry. Everything tastes sad. When are they coming over? What day? I stopped looking at the calendar. Her birthday, our anniversary, they all sneak up, and I’m caught off guard, nodding like I knew. There’s a card on the table from her last therapy session, a smiley face drawn by someone I don’t know. I meant to keep it, pin it up. It’s buried under junk now, like everything else.

I used to write stuff like notes, ideas, things I wanted to tell her someday. Found one in a drawer, from before, when I thought she’d walk, talk, run. It was about him, how he’d teach her to ride a bike, how he’d be there. I read it, laughed. Tore it up and tossed it. Probably going to regret that.

The house creaks at night. Pipes, probably. Or the wind. But sometimes I let myself think it’s him, just for a second, coming back to fix this, to take the wheel. Then the BiPAP hiccups, and I’m back in the room, checking her, counting her breaths. The weight settles again.

The doctor said walks might help. I try. I pushed her chair down the block the other day when things got too gauzy inside, past trees and mailboxes and neighbors who wave but don’t stop. It’s all too bright, too normal. I’m playing the part of father, caregiver, someone who’s got this. But I don’t. I’m just pushing, hoping I don’t tip her, hoping I don’t lose her. Pretending.

Everyone’s pretending something.

I don’t want to be here, in this life where every day is a checklist of her needs and a tally of my failures. But even more than that I don’t want to be anywhere else. I want the me I used to have in this life now, the one where he was in charge, where I wasn’t afraid of the phone ringing. That guy would be so helpful these days. He’s gone, burned away like mist in the sun, no warning.

I tuck her in at night. Adjust her pillows, check her tubes, kiss her forehead. I say, “I love you,” and mean it with everything I’ve got left. She doesn’t answer, but her eyes flicker sometimes, and I hold onto that. She doesn’t ask where he is, doesn’t ask why I’m different. But I feel it, the question hanging there. I don’t have answers, just my hand on her cheek, just me humming a song because my voice would crack if I tried to sing it. She doesn’t like when my voice cracks.

I don’t know how to be this father. This man who forgets prescriptions and trips over ramps and talks to a version of himself that’s gone. But I’m still here, under the mess. I think he’s still here too, somewhere, waiting for me to find him. Or maybe he’s not. Maybe that’s the joke. It’s not a dad joke, but maybe I’m a joke dad.

I’ve always been bad at telling jokes.

The mist isn’t lifting. That’s the part I’ve stopped fighting. It’s not a phase, not a season to wait out, not a corner to turn. It’s a place. And I’m in it. It’s where I live now with my leaky pen, my endless forms, my maybe dog who might need a walk. With them, my girls, who need me even when I’m falling apart. With the dishes and the dreams and the lists I’ll never find.

That gives me an idea. Maybe I’ll make a new list. Just one line. I’ve got the perfect thing for it.

Wait—what was it again?

Bud Hager decided that he wasn’t a fan of having money so he became an academic, earning a graduate degree in clinical psychology and a licensure as a psychotherapist. After working at a hospital for the criminally insane, managing a community mental health clinic and training new therapists, he felt ready to become a father. He was woefully unprepared. Now, he teaches psychology, has a private practice, advocates for his disabled daughter, and is devoted to his wife. Sometimes he writes things.