a letter to you all, Dad, and a confession

[thehefner]

We're boarding up the outside, but we should know that won't last. We have a Victorian house, so we're starting by building a wall around the porch with whatever supplies we have (dismantled furniture, cabinets, cupboard doors, etc), but if they break through, we have other options. We have a sturdy cellar, or we could also alternately all move into the upstairs, with the tenant apartment and my room, destroying the stairs so they couldn't get up even if they broke into the house. We're already trying to fill as many containers as we can of fresh water before it stops flowing.

I used to think going to Greenbelt would be the thing to do in this situation, as I'm told there are fallout shelters all over. Hell, I even thought the Renaissance Fairgrounds would be perfect too! Imagine, a self-reliant community handy in pre-technological ways and weapons. Maybe if they survive long enough to give the grounds a proper barrier, but it's wide open now. Too far away, anyway. No, until we absolutely have to, I think we're staying our ground here.

Food is an issue, of course, but we've got enough canned stuff to last us awhile. We'll focus on the perishable one for now, while we still can. We have baseball bats, tools, a crowbar, a couple replica swords that won't last but might be of some use... no gun, of course. I don't regret not buying one exactly; me, with a gun?

Funny story, this is true: Mom and I were going to sign up for the "Concealed Carry" class at the NRA. She thought it'd be a neat experience, and I thought it'd be invaluable for my writing. We never did, though. Real life happened. Real life has a real way of doing that, doesn't it?

But being here, not leaving, it makes me really start to wonder about everyone else. Dad, for example.

Nita called me up, back when everything was normal less than twenty-four hours ago. She said the doctor wanted to have a meeting with all of us about Dad. So we did-- Nita, Mom, and I-- meeting with Dr. Zia (pronounced Zay-ah). Heh, on our way in, I said to Mom that his name made me think of Dr. Zaius, as subsequently, the "Rock Me Amadeus" parody from THE SIMPSONS. As we were heading into the ICU, I said, "Oh God, Mom, I'm so afraid that Dr. Zia is going to say, 'I'm sorry, it's too late, Mr. Hefner is dying,' and I'll be thinking to myself, 'DR. ZIA, DR. ZIA, OHHH, DR. ZIA! Can I play the piano anymore? Of course you can! Well I couldn't before...!"

Then the Doctor gave us the lowdown. And there was nothing left to laugh about. I knew that'd be the case, or I wouldn't have been joking in the first place. Laugh, to keep from crying, until you can laugh no more. I'm laughing no more.

The radiation and chemotherapy have had no effect. They told us early on that this tumor would respond to radiation, but for whatever reason, it's not. They've done everything they could. Dr. Zia spent a half-hour giving us explanations and options, saying that we absolutely could keep trying, maybe do a chest compression, but without that tumor shrinking, they can't even fit a feeding tube down his throat (so closed off, he can't even swallow his saliva), and with chemotherapy, they can't risk giving him a feeding tube directly to his stomach. His options are to continue treatments and risk god-knows-what in terms of side effects... or to go to hospice care so that he can be made comfortable for his remaining days.

I was numb the entire time, never having anything to even think to think of asking Dr. Zia when he invited questions. In the hour or so we were there, Dad's only real question was to ask if he'd be able to have one more gin and tonic before he went. Seriously.

That was mere hours ago. We were so numb, so tired, that we didn't pay attention to the rush of new patients in the ER downstairs, the hallways filled with the wounded and the bleeding, the TV news reports playing distantly in the background. Only when we reached our block, to find the flaming wreckage of our neighbor's overturned SUV were we finally shocked to our senses.

We managed to drive through a neighbor's backyard and make it into the house. Mom uses the walker, so that's another reason we couldn't leave. Between her and my obese, crippled grandmother (Edd and I do not relish the prospect of lifting her upstairs), we can't ditch the homestead. Not just yet.

But then there's Dad. More than anything else, I can't stop thinking about him. Even if we did go to save him, I already know the hospital is a death trap, packed with the infected and the dying. But even if, even if we braved the hordes and made it to his room, then what? He's hooked up to machines. He's dying anyway, and will be dying even sooner without them. But I can't stop thinking of how he might go. Suffocation? Jesus, that'd be so horrible. But would it be any worse than being torn apart, eaten alive?

But... but I suppose it'd be quick, at least. I mean, relatively. Right? Oh Jesus, I feel sick to my stomach. I fucking hate myself for even thinking of this. I can tell myself that it'd be pointless to go, but I can't shut out the voice that's accusing me of the "real" reasons why I'm staying here. Now you don't have to wait anymore. Admit it, you ungrateful shit. Admit it.

Please. Let it be quick. Let it be quicker than a long painful protracted series of failed treatments of chemotherapy and tearing into his insides. Let it be quicker than spending the rest of your life in bed, doped up to be as comfortable as possible. Let it be quick. I beg you. And let there be nothing left, so I don't have to find him later, hunched over and shuffling through the streets, not even a groan able to escape from his closed-off throat. I don't know if I could survive that.

...

Except... I say that, but I probably could. I imagine I could survive even that. Somehow, I feel like no matter what I go through, I come out of it beaten, scarred, crying, but alive. Maybe this will be no different. It helps if you keep your focus on why you want to stay alive, on what you're fighting for. For me, it's stories. I want to survive so I can keep telling stories, mine and others, to keep them alive. And if I survive, I will have such great new ones to pass down, becoming a bard of the wasteland like a hyperactive version of The Postman. Yeah, I'd like that.

Or maybe we'll all just go down together. Nothing left but ruins and bones, all legacies lost forever. Even if we left records, our books and films and art and architecture and Hummel figurines... would some future civilization even understand them? Or would they be as mysterious and inconsequential to them as the soil under our feet or the shells that wash up on beaches? I've heard it said that the only things we leave behind in this world are Children and Art, but we may have neither.

No. If I'm fighting for anything, it's to ensure that at least that much doesn't happen. I couldn't accept that, even if my inability to accept it doesn't matter.

So the plan for today is, first and foremost, secure the fort and look for weapons and tools. Transport food and water upstairs, then move up with Mom, Edd, Dama, Gordon, and me, plus the dogs and cats. Once we can relax a bit, I think I'll mix up a Manhattan and, if we still have power, watch THE FOUNTAIN and/or SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH GEORGE. Who knows if we'll even be able to finish them before the electricity goes for good. And then tomorrow... well, we just don't know.

But that doesn't stop me thinking about you. Any of you, all of you. Danny, Kevin, Mikey, Bloo, the Rudes (Josh, Jaki, Arthur, and Alan, I could really use any and all of you right now)... not to mention all my LJ friends who I've never (and now, may never) meet, like Annie and Samara. It's only because Edd's thrown himself into construction that he'd not collapsing with panic and tears over not being able to reach Phoebe all the way in Seattle. I don't think I'll be able to handle seeing him later tonight.

It's the helplessness, that's the worst thing. The utter inability to see or save or help any of you out there. I don't know if any of you are even reading this entry, since soon there won't even be an internet anymore. But if any of you are, know that I'm thinking about each and every one of you. And while I haven't prayed in several years, I pray to God that I'll see every single one of you, safe and sound, in the near future.

I love you all.

Be safe. Stay strong.



BLITEOTW

Comments

[treyhawk.livejournal.com]

Nice monologue there, CnC.

And if the part about your father is true, my prayers go out to your parents and you.

[thehefner.livejournal.com]

Thankya, pally.

And aye, it very much is. That just happened this morning. So imagine the mood I was in when I discovered this meme.

[thirdbase.livejournal.com]

hang in there....

[icewolf010.livejournal.com]

Darling Boy,

Leave it to you to turn a storytelling meme into a heartfelt, heartwrenching confession.

Like rcpfiles, I'm assuming the part about your dad is true. My heart and prayers go out to your entire family.

If there's anything Tor or I can do for you--up to an including an evening of dinner and stupid movies where we don't talk about your dad AT ALL--please don't hesitate to speak up.

[thehefner.livejournal.com]

Like I said above, not only is it true, but it happened mere hours before I hopped on LJ and discovered this meme. So combine that with the five hours of sleep I'm running on, and you can imagine the mood I was in when I discovered this meme.

And thankya. Heh, I was actually wondering if anyone would say, "Leave it to you..." for this. Really, it was all about the timing. Any other day, I would have gone full-out Johnny Go for this. I still might.

Dinner and movies (stupid or otherwise... I prefer otherwise, but they can still be fun!) would be a grand time, let's do it. And hey, additionally, you're always welcome at our house! I can mix drinks and such.

[eliyes.livejournal.com]

*hug* Heffie.

[kali921.livejournal.com]

This is both the best and most painful and wrenching entry for this meme.

And now that I know the thing about your dad is true, I'm so very sorry, sweetie. I'm here for you and am going to chew your virtual ear off on AIM.

[adaptor.livejournal.com]

Stay strong. And remember, M. Night Shyamalan says in that kind of house you only need to barricade yourself in the basement. If Mel Gibson believies it, it must be truuuuuauauuauaauauauuaahghghga;erita'nv935]85~}eojrgq'mgq34jg4 a.............

/service disconnected

WHATTATWIST!

[thehefner.livejournal.com]

...

"Perhaps she was dictating...?"

Re: WHATTATWIST!

[adaptor.livejournal.com]

No, it's more in the throat. Like 'AuGHGHGHGHGHG...'

[little-dinosaur.livejournal.com]

Whoa. Well played.
Obviously, you have to do what all the smart kids do during the zombie apocalypse: come to Canada. Naturally. But bring your nice warm American guns (or replica swords or whatever), 'cause we don't have so many of those.
I'll be thinking of you and your dad.

[spacechild.livejournal.com]

about your father.. i can only say that we will hang out soon. does monday night work?

also, i am almost out of comics.. i'm devouring Swamp Thing.

as for the zombie apocalypse.. we are coming to get you. stay hidden as best as you can. we'll try to get to you..

[thehefner.livejournal.com]

I *think* Monday works. I'll let you know if anything comes to mind. But I think that should be just fine.

Good! I'll happily start supplying you with new stuff!

[spacechild.livejournal.com]

k.

monday after work.

i am working on the tale of getting to your place. keep posted!