“Law & Order” is the property of someone else. Studios USA, maybe. Whatever.
Death Among Men
The silhouettes told the tale. One man at a
beginning, one at an end; both at a nexus where neither would emerge
unchanged. The sound of the oxygen traveling through the endless tube in
compliment to the labored breathing of the older man was evidence that this
was, in fact, a hospital, the kind of place where a man goes to die. The room
was dark, but it did not hide from view one hunched form leaning over the
other, despair illustrated by every aspect of his posture. Nor could the dark
hide the tears streaming down the hooked nose of the younger man. This battle
had lasted a year and now they had finally lost.
On
yet another brutal winter night, a wretched coughing could be heard
reverberating throughout the McCoy household. The elder John McCoy was once
again doubled over the garbage can, expectorating more foul-colored phlegm.
"Dad, are you sure you're all right?" the younger Jack called as he
moved toward his father.
"Get out of here,"
was the labored reply.
Jack would not
understand for many years, but John could not stand to have his son see him
this way, so weak and fragile. Jack, at this time, was a successful Assistant
District Attorney, on his way up the ranks and fighting for the Executive
position. He was a grown man who was successful in his career, but the same
order still reigned in the McCoy family household. John was the father, the
master, and Jack was still the rebellious youth, whose accomplishments rarely
brought pride to the old man's eyes. The child who required punishment, the
kind he had not received in over 20 years.
John lashed out,
"What a stupid question! Of course I'm not all right. For God's sake, some
days I wonder how you got anywhere in life with the sense of a turnip!"
Of
course Jack was insulated from this kind of comment, the kind he had much
experience receiving from his father over the years. At this point it was
almost expected. Still, something seemed wrong...
They sat in the
living room, at opposing angles. John stared out the window as the neighbors
attempted to affix yet another string of Christmas lights to their
overburdened house. Jack had the full intention of asking the purpose of this
meeting, one he was not fond of continuing, until he saw the bottle. It was
not alcohol, as he expected, but pills of the prescription variety. Small and
green. Morphine. A brief but cold sweat broke out on Jack's forehead
when he saw the implications of such evidence, much like a good seafarer can
visualize the entirety of an iceberg when all he can see is the tip. Is
this the beginning of the end of the reign of King John McCoy? The
thoughts oozed across his mind with the simmering rage of lava, searing his
skewed morality. Jack, you can't think like that. He's your father. If he's
sick, you have take responsibility, no matter what hell he put your family
through.
John sat in his pockmarked armchair and lit up a cigarette. Puffing
it with apparent need, he finally spoke, "Jack, I need a favor."
What?
"I know you're
wondering why I called you after all these years and, frankly, I'm surprised
you came."
Foolish loyalty, Dad.
"I'm dying."
The words
still hit the son with an impact he had not felt in a long time.
"Stop
sitting there with your jaw hanging around your knees, pretending you didn't
know. I'm 'The Old Chimney' to you. Well, all that smoking caught up with me,
with this cancer and all. Now aren't you wondering about the favor? It's
something only my son, the great moral paragon, could do. I need you to kill
me."
The taxi served as a bottle, constricting the anger inside him, the
pressure keeping it at a simmer. How dare he, after all this time? He calls
me up, begging for a favor, then lies! I'm not a mewling little infant; he
could have been straight with me. What makes him think I could do such a
thing? Then the real reason for his anger became apparent. He's giving
up. A McCoy is giving up. How pathetic. He's certainly not worthy of my help.
Especially not after what he did to Mom.
Childhood was not a
pleasant affair for Jack McCoy. Certainly he was admired by the boys and
desired by the girls, but something was always missing. Carelessly flung
torments on the playground seemed to hit Jack a little harder than the other
children. His mother mentioned this to John, which elicited these eternal
words of wisdom from him: "Well that little pansy better toughen up, 'cause I
don't allow fags in my house. You know, if only you had as much girliness in
you as him..." And, of course, the teen years were the worst. Two men, one
asserting his newfound independence, the other violently defending what
control he had left. Jack often wondered how any of his family escaped that
place alive.
Two weeks passed uneventfully for Jack. Work was a welcome diversion
from the situation with his father, which was left unresolved when he stormed
out of his home in a wordless rage. Unfortunately, the thoughts kept nagging
at him, dredging up the foul debris of his inner conflict. What should I
do? I mean, I'd never kill him, but he's dying and I don't know what to
do. Jack didn't even want to see his father, after everything that had
transpired in that household. He couldn't forgive the man for what he had
done. Then why not? You have two choices here, Jack; you could kill him and
have your revenge or you could watch him die slowly and still have retribution
for everything he has done. Jack pushed these ugly thoughts from his head;
he rarely allowed himself to ponder such things. They were gone, but that did
not mean they would not return.
The floor secretary, dressed in one of those annoying clashing red
and green holiday outfits, peeked around the corner of Jack's glass office
wall. She stood there, looking apprehensive, until Jack said, "Yes?"
She
responded, "Uh, I got this message and I thought I should, you know, deliver
it myself. Your father called and he wants you to take him to his chemotherapy
appointment. It's at 4:00."
Jack responded, "I
have Pages at 4:00," but noticing the horrified look on her face, he
reluctantly continued, "Do you think Gross could take Pages? It may be Friday,
but it's certainly not golfing weather."
She nodded and
answered, "She's still here, so I think that's a good sign."
Jack stepped out of the taxi, boots crunching in the dry and brittle
snow. He wondered how anyone used to survive in this weather. Winter
kills. The air was crisp and biting, but he thought it best to stand a
moment in front of his father's place. It used to be his house, in his mind,
but now it belonged to John. What will happen to it after? One of his
sisters would probably take it. One thing was certain: he could never go back.
His mother used to sit on the step and talk to him, tell him about
life. She never held anything back. "The world is not a nice place, Jack," she
would say, "but you can create your own islands of warmth with the people you
love." She was right, of course; always she was right. Mothers are like that.
They know the ways of the world and that is what makes their job so difficult;
they appreciate what horrors their children might face and they recognize that
they won't always be around to protect them. And sometimes the children are
unable to protect the parents.
Family dynamics are a
strange thing. Even when the children grow to be larger that the parent, they
are still the children. So Jack rang the doorbell. After an extended period of
time, John opened the door a crack and stepped away. Jack took this as an
invitation and walked in.
"The cab's waiting
for us," he said.
"I'm not going for
me, I'm going to punish you," John said as he donned his coat.
With that
they left.
Over the past two weeks, Jack had created a vivid image of what the
cancer ward must look like. He wasn't far off, as it was truly
indistinguishable from the rest of the hospital. The only difference was the
seating arrangement for the treatments. He had assumed each individual would
get a bed and at least a curtain to shield them from the prying gazes of the
other death's-heads in the room. Instead, the room was filled with the
clinical version of the la-z-boy. They stood at the desk as the nurse told his
father something about him having a sufficient white blood cell count. While
they discussed John's general health, Jack heard something that made his blood
curdle. A matronly woman with gaunt cheeks and pale beyond belief was emitting
a cry that could turn hell on its side.
"It burns," she wept,
but no one came.
Jack looked around
anxiously before interrupting the nurse at the desk with, "Isn't anyone going
to do anything?"
"Oh, it's not as bad
as she thinks it is," came the cold and practiced reply.
But the anguish in
her voice could not be faked, he knew. And this is what awaited his father.
At
home that evening, John appeared to be more his old self. When they stepped
into the house, he resumed his regular spot in his recliner in front of the
television.
"Dad, would you like anything to eat?"
"Sure. How about some
soup from the cupboard?"
The reply surprised
Jack, but he complied with the request. He went about making a meal; roles
skewed again. They sat in the living room and had a relatively normal moment
that a father and son might have. Relatively normal for a man who has just
been told he only has a 10% chance of surviving five years. The men watched
the Bulls game and said nothing.
Jack opened his eyes. The room was black and silent. He sat up, only
to be battered with the stabbing thorns of light-headedness: he had been
sleeping for hours. His ears rang in the absolute quiet until a faint
scratching became apparent. He nearly dismissed it as imagined, but something
filled him with the cold fluid of dread. His eyes adjusted to the faint
moonlight that came in through the nicotine-stained curtains. The dishes were
away and the chair empty, so his father had obviously gone to bed under his
own power. Jack stood and crept his way along the creaky wooden floor to the
stairs, which he mounted two at a time. No light pervaded this area either,
but Jack could still pick his way along with only the occasional bump into the
wall or banister. He felt the urge to seek out the bathroom, but it quickly
disappeared when he detected a noxious odor. He felt for the elusive light
switch until he gained the piercing illumination that revealed a sight that
shocked and sickened him. His father was sprawled out on the bathroom floor,
lying in a pool of his own blood and vomit. Momentarily forgetting decades of
animosity, Jack immediately lifted his father's head from the filth and
extrapolated the events that had transpired while he slept. John had made it
upstairs, then, overtaken by the effect of the chemo, began to vomit into the
toilet. He then passed out and hit his head on the toilet.
Jack began to feel
the tendrils of panic seep in. He felt for a pulse. Where is it?
Fumbling with only a civilian's knowledge of first aid, he cursed his lack of
information and foresight until his fingers found the faint movement of the
carotid artery. What do I do? The panic advanced. He pressed on the
oozing gash on his father's head with a towel as he gently lowered him onto a
clear part of the floor. He covered the injured man with towels from the rack
before rocketing up from his crouched position. Racing downstairs, against
time and against himself, Jack dialed 911.
His breathing was shallow and his face pale as he lay in the hospital
bed, but the doctors said he was no longer in any danger. Jack sat straight
and silent while the shock gradually seeped out of his limbs and ran through
his heart. With every breath he returned to his world and the harsh realities
within. In that room, Jack made a silent vow. Dad, you may be a son of a
bitch who deserves nothing more than to suffer alone for what you've done, but
I'll stick by you. I'll take care of you, even though you aren't worthy. And
I'm not doing it for you, I'm doing it for me.
Come spring, the strain was taking its toll. His cases were beginning
to pile up and his coworkers were noticing that he was always distracted. His
work was clearly suffering. He was spending most nights on his father's couch,
staying awake until he heard the thundering snoring that signified he would
not awaken. Jack was living a hell he had imposed upon himself. He knew that
if he left his father alone and never came back, no one would be the wiser.
Except he could never forgive himself. A conscience is a curse.
So
he returned to his duties, just as he did every night. Right after Christmas
his father got in for surgery. It was not a type of cancer for which an
operation usually helped, but in his condition it was his only hope. The
doctors now said he had only two years. The day was yet another example of the
brutal and removed fury of winter and the air stung when you breathed. John
and Jack arrived at 8:30 a.m. and silently waited for the preparations to
begin.
Finally, Jack spoke, "Dad, I... you know, all those years..."
His father interrupted, "You have to understand..."
Before they
could finish, the nurse came. Jack stood, but could follow no further. He
watched his father look at him as if it were the last time.
"The margins are completely clear," the doctor said, "The lab found
no signs that the cancer spread."
Jack breathed a sigh
of weary relief. The battle was won and life could finally return to normal.
He waited by his father's bedside until nightfall, then went home to finally
sleep in his own bed. Before he left, he wrote a note and left it on the
nightstand:
Dad, I know that
we never really got along. You do have a lot to answer for, but I feel like
we've been given a second chance, both of us, to get things right. After you
get out of the hospital we should go for dinner and talk things out. Maybe we
can start fresh.
In
April he received the news. His father phoned him at work with the simple
message, "It's back."
In
May, John became too sick many days to even leave the house. Once Jack noticed
his father was laying in desperate pain.
"Have you taken your
morphine today?"
"Yeah."
"Don't lie
to me."
"I...ran out."
"I'll go pick some
up."
At the pharmacy, Jack was informed that his father was out of a lot
more than morphine. The pharmacist explained why: "Cancer is a very expensive
disease to treat, with some of his medications reaching $200 per pill, and
your father is over one year away from qualifying for Medicare. He has
coverage, but it will have run out in approximately six months. I guess he was
trying to conserve it. Also, there are certain medicines his plan does not
cover."
"Like what?"
"Well, narcotics like
morphine freeze the bowels. He requires a strong laxative to keep him from
building up fatal levels of toxins in his blood. Many health providers see
this as superfluous."
"You mean he
hasn't..."
"No, he can't. It is a horrible disease, Mr. McCoy."
Jack paid
for the medications and wondered what he was going to do when his money ran
out.
By
September, Jack realized what the doctors meant when they spoke of the
long-term effects of chemotherapy. The gaunt old man was a mere shadow of his
robust and intimidating father. His voice was powerless and brittle, like the
bones that poked through his frame. There was no hiding this fact, as Jack had
to help John get in and out of the bathtub. Some days, his father was too weak
to even wash himself. That was when Jack realized how small the man's muscles
had become. The humiliating degradation brought him to the verge of tears
every time. Especially since the doctors said he had only a year left. Living
a year like this would be impossible.
"Who are you going
off to fuck tonight?" John demanded as Jack donned his shoes one evening.
Jack merely sighed before answering, "I have paperwork to do."
These exchanges were becoming customary as stress eroded the controls
of both men. Neither man knew how to survive something like this without
eventually breaking down. Jack felt guilty for being unable to control his
behavior in his father's presence.
"You have something
to do, but it ain't work," he growled.
"What, do you expect
me to stay here every night? I need to earn a living, you know."
"And you
don't think I would if I could?"
"That's not what I
meant..."
"Like hell it wasn't."
Jack curled his lip
in a sneer before spouting, "I haven't been laid since you got sick! What do
you expect me to do, jump into the grave with you? You can't even quit
smoking. Don't look so surprised; I know you've been sneaking smokes when I'm
not here."
John rose from the couch while shouting, "You insolent little brat!"
He rose his hand to slap his son, who quickly rose a hand to block the blow.
When John's arm connected with Jack's, a sickening crack came from the contact
point and the elder man dropped to his knees.
"Oh, God!" Jack
gasped.
Even more frightening than the broken arm to Jack was the man
himself. For the first time, Jack saw his father cry, even weep in his
presence.
"This is how God punishes me! No solutions, no help, nothing but
pain..." and the sobbing continued.
In
October, after the leaves had fallen and everything looked dead, John had
another appointment for an x-ray. Jack wheeled his chair out of the room into
to the doctor's private office. He began to leave, as was the custom, when his
father said, "For God's sake, Jack, you can sit in on this one."
The doctor
lifted his head from the file and nodded gravely.
He began, "John, the
arm is still broken and I have to tell you, it will never heal. Your doctor
has you on many mineral supplements, but the drugs are preventing them from
being absorbed. You can also expect this sort of thing to happen with
increased frequency in the future, as the problem is only multiplying."
"But I can't even push myself in a wheelchair with this broken arm."
"You should consider home care as an alternative. I can arrange for a
nurse to come by every few days to help out."
"I won't...I can't."
"You have to."
"How long do I have?"
"Your doctor says six months."
Winter came early that year, in a murderous rage bent on destruction.
It was so cold, even the usual Christmas cheer seemed muted. It was a week
away, but only two people on the whole block had put up lights. Winter
kills, Jack reminded himself. Jack sold his prized Suzuki GS 750 that he
had installed racing carbs on. Another dream gone. Unbelievably, his
father's condition had worsened, but John was still clinging to life.
Endlessly clinging to life, with nothing to look forward to.
His father
called, "Jack."
He came to his side.
"Jack, you know that snubby I kept from my days on the force? Bring
it to me."
"No matter how many times you ask, I can't help you."
"You expect
me to live like this? They say I have at least two months left. I can't suffer
like this anymore."
Jack tried to
explain, but choked on the words. Instead, he began to cry, low and mournful.
John shook his head, "Then do it in rage. Look at what I did to you.
Don't you think I know now that I was wrong? I sit awake at night and realize
how incredibly alone I am. I will never speak with my daughters ever again. I
ask myself why I'm an old man that no one wants anymore, then I realize I know
the answer. And I can't do anything about it. I ruined it, I ruined my family.
You're broke, set back in your career, and you've wasted the last year of your
life taking care of me. What have done to deserve your love, Jack? Nothing. Do
it in rage, son.
"If not in rage, then
do it in pity for a suffering human being. If I was a horse, you would have
shot me already. Is it the gun? Then do it with morphine. I'll go quietly.
"Are you worried about getting caught? Use the morphine. An overdose
will cause me to stop breathing, just like the cancer. I'll go quietly, no
pain. I have too much in my blood already, they'll never know.
"Please
Jack, please. I've never begged for anything in my life, until now. Do it for
me. Don't make me suffer any longer."
Jack looked up with
weary and mournful eyes, "Dad..."
Two men rested in the blackened room. One man frightened, one who
would never feel fear again; both connected by a bond of suffering. The oxygen
still traveled through the tubes to aid the unnatural and rattling breathing
of the older man. This was the hospital where John McCoy Sr. went to die. The
room was near black, but it was not hidden that one hunched over the other,
despondency portrayed by every angle of his weary body. Nor did the dark hide
the tears that ran down the hooked nose of the younger man. This battle had
lasted a year and now they had finally lost.