Post by Lets_Eat_Paste on Oct 13, 2013 12:52:19 GMT -6
Torben Blau
‘Harrowing’ was an understatement as far as Torben’s last few months had been concerned. He was in an out of the hospital with Gwen. The doctor said something about a ‘thin, low-sitting placenta’—whatever that meant—and some other jargon that neither Torben nor Gwen understood. Sitting in the waiting room, Torben couldn’t shake the feeling that the doctor had just told them some dark, foreboding fortune like an eerily accurate back-alley psychic. And when he called his mother for clarification of what the doctor left so unclear, she answered in tears.
Torben’s heart fell like a stone, lost and heavy in the dark pit of his gut. She spoke quickly and in between sobs while his father protested in the background that it ‘wasn’t a big deal’ and that his mother ‘needn’t worry him and Gwen’. But as Torben’s mother spoke more rapidly, Torben’s worry heightened until finally, his mother spoke four earth-shattering words: “your father has cancer.”
It was in the brain, pressing on his optic nerve, a tumor the size of an apple. Torben couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t cry, and while he helped walk Gwen up the steps of their apartment, he couldn’t think straight. And of course he didn’t want to tell Gwen. Added stress wasn’t good for her or their baby. He was already about to lose his father, he couldn’t lose his child and the woman he loved, too.
He didn’t touch his food that night, and forgot to read Leopold ‘Goodnight Moon’ for a second time. He locked the door to his art studio and painted until the sun came up. Of course they could pay for treatment. Vienna had some of the best doctors, but the cancer was too far progressed that his father didn’t want treatment.
He thought about his parents, alone in that big house, alone with the brain tumor getting bigger and bigger, hungry and ravenous, sucking the life from his father as each minute passed. He couldn’t just leave them there. He and Gwen had lost babies before, his grandparents died when he was young, cremated and hidden from view. But never had he watched death slowly consume a person he loved from the inside out. Never had he seen his father frail and brittle. Never had he had to discuss funeral arrangements with a half-dead man.
Gwen would cry and get stressed, Gabriel would do the same. The only person Torben knew would be of help was Tristan. Right now, he needed his best friend in a way he never had before. He needed his expertise, his strength, his rational acceptance of mortality. Torben needed Tristan.
Torben sat in the large, uncomfortable chair in the lobby of Tristan’s funeral home, wringing his hat between his fingers to warm them, silently preparing himself to talk so somberly with Tristan, quietly reminding himself to get Tristan a more comfortable living room set for his lobby.
He had clients in there right now, so Torben waited his turn, avoiding eye contact with Solange while she typed away on the computer. Each key stroke sounded like a sonic boom, the radiator’s hot air sounded like a tornado, and each second he waited felt like a lifetime. Finally, two women left the office, thanking Tristan for handling their father’s funeral arrangements so efficiently and Torben gulped nervously. He stood as Tristan exited and offered a weak smile. “Hey. Fancy running into you here.”
‘Harrowing’ was an understatement as far as Torben’s last few months had been concerned. He was in an out of the hospital with Gwen. The doctor said something about a ‘thin, low-sitting placenta’—whatever that meant—and some other jargon that neither Torben nor Gwen understood. Sitting in the waiting room, Torben couldn’t shake the feeling that the doctor had just told them some dark, foreboding fortune like an eerily accurate back-alley psychic. And when he called his mother for clarification of what the doctor left so unclear, she answered in tears.
Torben’s heart fell like a stone, lost and heavy in the dark pit of his gut. She spoke quickly and in between sobs while his father protested in the background that it ‘wasn’t a big deal’ and that his mother ‘needn’t worry him and Gwen’. But as Torben’s mother spoke more rapidly, Torben’s worry heightened until finally, his mother spoke four earth-shattering words: “your father has cancer.”
It was in the brain, pressing on his optic nerve, a tumor the size of an apple. Torben couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t cry, and while he helped walk Gwen up the steps of their apartment, he couldn’t think straight. And of course he didn’t want to tell Gwen. Added stress wasn’t good for her or their baby. He was already about to lose his father, he couldn’t lose his child and the woman he loved, too.
He didn’t touch his food that night, and forgot to read Leopold ‘Goodnight Moon’ for a second time. He locked the door to his art studio and painted until the sun came up. Of course they could pay for treatment. Vienna had some of the best doctors, but the cancer was too far progressed that his father didn’t want treatment.
He thought about his parents, alone in that big house, alone with the brain tumor getting bigger and bigger, hungry and ravenous, sucking the life from his father as each minute passed. He couldn’t just leave them there. He and Gwen had lost babies before, his grandparents died when he was young, cremated and hidden from view. But never had he watched death slowly consume a person he loved from the inside out. Never had he seen his father frail and brittle. Never had he had to discuss funeral arrangements with a half-dead man.
Gwen would cry and get stressed, Gabriel would do the same. The only person Torben knew would be of help was Tristan. Right now, he needed his best friend in a way he never had before. He needed his expertise, his strength, his rational acceptance of mortality. Torben needed Tristan.
Torben sat in the large, uncomfortable chair in the lobby of Tristan’s funeral home, wringing his hat between his fingers to warm them, silently preparing himself to talk so somberly with Tristan, quietly reminding himself to get Tristan a more comfortable living room set for his lobby.
He had clients in there right now, so Torben waited his turn, avoiding eye contact with Solange while she typed away on the computer. Each key stroke sounded like a sonic boom, the radiator’s hot air sounded like a tornado, and each second he waited felt like a lifetime. Finally, two women left the office, thanking Tristan for handling their father’s funeral arrangements so efficiently and Torben gulped nervously. He stood as Tristan exited and offered a weak smile. “Hey. Fancy running into you here.”
