Tangled legs. Tangled sheets. Tangled hair.

Serenity.

The gentle breeze, the sound of the distant freeway, the dog softly snoring.

Clarity.

****

We walked into the room, knowing that it wasn’t good, but not prepared for the barrage of totally insane words that were to be hurled at us within a matter of minutes.

“Ah, don’t tell me you’re in on it to.”

“Love you Dad. How you feeling?”

“Like shit. I’m going to fucking kill the next mother fucker that comes in here.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Dad.”

“I’m not being fucking dramatic. What the fuck are you doing here? WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

“Well, Dad, I drove fifteen hundred miles because I’m worried about you. I’ll leave if you want me to.”

“LEAVE THEN!”

And so it went. For the longest five minutes of my life, I endured the most awful words ever spoken to me, from my own flesh and blood – my father – who thought I was in on some conspiracy to get him into trouble.

I lost it in the hallway outside of his room. My brother had warned me. Hell, he  hadn’t even stayed for a whole day, had left before any of the rest of the family even arrived on that beautiful day in Washington. He warned me. Told me to get some rest, maybe go see him in the morning. But I didn’t drive for twenty hours, over fifteen hundred miles, to sit in the EconoLodge at the airport all night worrying about my dad. So, I went. Jeff at my side, being the rock that he is. I lasted five whole minutes in the room, and had to walk out. I backed up against the gray wall and slid down, hugging my knees to my chest, the tears falling to the sterile floor.

It reeked in that hospital. Like formaldehyde. Like a high school science project gone awry. And old people. The unmistakable stench of the elderly.

As I sat there, completely and utterly at a loss as to what to do, I knew that my Dad was gone. That wasn’t my Dad in there. Sure, he was still the 6′5″, 300 pound, long haired, tattooed biker dude, but he wasn’t the big softie that everyone knew and loved. I could hear him yelling at Jeff, something crazy about speeding tickets and child molesters. I could hear the sounds of flesh on metal, the sounds of the rickety hospital bed being smashed, over and over.

Jeff walked out, told me to calm down, that it wasn’t my Dad.

I knew that.

And for all I knew, I’d never get him back.

The next day, we had a diagnosis. Long words I couldn’t, and still can’t, spell. The doctor talked to us like we were idiots, which we were. Alcoholic dementia. Cirrhosis. Kidney and liver not functioning. Brain swelling. Pressure causing the hallucinations.

He was so drugged out that day, that we didn’t stay long.

The next day he was back to his old self. Laughing, talking, reminiscing.

We left that day.

Two days later, he was moved to a different hospital. To the psychiatric wing.

Five days later, he was home.

****

He’s not getting better. He can’t be miraculously healed. As much as I would like, I can’t spend the rest of his life in Washington.

I’d give anything to know what the future holds. Will he be around to walk me down the aisle? Will he see his grandchildren? Will he ever move back to California, like he promised?

The breeze hits my bare shoulders as I settle down into the comforter, the dogs wrapped around my legs. It brings peace. These little beings that just want to be near you.

For now, everything is tangled. Like our legs, like our sheets, like our hair.

Tangled.

Serenity.