Page 177 of Love, Rekindled

Wouldhappen at some point.

Calliope and her medical expertise have been invaluable to me. I’m one of those people who always does better if I know the full, cold, hard painful truth of things. I can deal as long as I know what I’m dealing with, and she hasn’t held back on how bad it can be.

And yet, when I saw my father lying in that hospital bed in the living room, looking a million times frailer than when I left less than a week before, I knew everything had changed.

I knew my dad wouldn’t be able to make it to any more games, and we’d be lucky if he could take meals at the kitchen table with us. I knew that my time with him was limited, and my hands were tied on game days and with travel. I realized there’s a very real chance that I might be gone when he takes his last breath, and I’m still trying to figure out how to reconcile that.

I snap myself back to the present. I have no clue who is calling, but I could use a break. My dad’s been sleeping deeply, aided by a few drops of morphine that I put under his tongue a bit ago. He refuses to ask for it, but I can tell by his shifting and grimacing that he’s in pain, so I strongly encourage him to take it. It felt both weird and right to put my hand behind his head and gently lift it from the pillow so I could give him the medicine.

I snag my phone from my pocket, needing a break from the heavy feelings that seem to be pressing down on me at all times lately. The only respite from them is when I’m deep inside Calliope, but those times are limited by my travel and spending time with my dad.

Not even glancing at the screen to see who it is—because, at this point, it could be a telemarketer, and I’d welcome the break from my thoughts—I answer. “Hello?”

“Just checking in, dude.” It’s Aaron Wylde. He’s been in contact with me nearly every day since I left Phoenix, either by call, text, or email.

“How are you doing?” he asks lightly. I appreciate the tone because he knows how bad it can get, and he doesn’t want to bring me down right off the bat.

“I’m hanging in there, man,” I murmur in a low tone, pushing up from the chair next to my dad’s bed. I doubt he’ll wake up, but I decide to move away in the off chance I might disturb his sleep. I think it’s the only time he’s genuinely comfortable right now.

I head into the kitchen and pull open the sliding door that leads out to the deck. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and in the mid-seventies.

“You’re looking really good in Cold Fury skates,” he remarks, a pointed statement that indicates he’s been watching, as I’m sure many of my teammates have. I got traded from a team that’s heavily favored to make it to the championship round, to a team that won the last two Cups and is heavily favored to make a run at a third. It was a huge risk for the team to let me go, and while I know it was one man’s decision—team owner, Dominik Carlson—I also know he asked some of the team to weigh in on the decision. He specifically asked the first-line players...the big guns, whether or not he should let me go so I could tend to my dying dad. They all unanimously agreed that it was the right thing, even though it could hurt them going forward in the playoffs.

Those are the truest types of friends, and I miss them greatly.

We chat for a bit about the playoffs. The Vengeance is heading into game five of their playoff round against the Vancouver Flash tomorrow night. They’re playing hot, and there are small moments when I regret not being there. All I have to do is look back through the kitchen into the living room and see my father lying in that hospital bed to know that I’d give up a million Cup championships to be here with him right now.

“How’s he doing?” Wylde finally gets around to asking.

“He’s slipping a bit more every day,” I tell him, rubbing my hand over my face. “He sleeps a lot. Taking more of the pain meds. I think he’s done eating.”

Wylde sighs into the phone. “I know it’s hard, buddy. I’m going to give you some advice, okay?”

“Okay,” I readily agree. He’s already given quite a bit, mostly on how to manage hockey and a dying parent. How to keep focused and my head in the game, even though my thoughts are often scattered in a million different directions.

“If there’s anything left that needs to be said,” he says, giving a dramatic pause that makes my ears really tune in, “don’t wait to say it. Don’t let embarrassment or a lack of a foundation hold you back. Don’t let yourself have any regrets.”

I consider his words. I’ve never been one to have deep discussions with my dad, nor he with me. Our relationship these last few weeks since I’ve been back has been easygoing, as much as it can be with such a dark cloud hanging over us.

“My dad was a horrible drunk,” Wylde tells me, and my body jolts from the proclamation. I didn’t know a lot of the details, only that he had a parent die of cancer and went through many of the things I’m going through. “I hated him for the longest time. We didn’t speak for years, and I was fine with that.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and I wonder if he regrets saying these things to me. But then he continues. “But when I found out he had stomach cancer and was dying, I had a really hard decision to make.”

“To choose to let those feelings go?” I venture a guess.

“That was part of it,” he admits. “I knew my time to do something was limited. I had to not only let my hatred go, I also had to figure out how to love him again in a very short period of time. And that meant I had to talk to him and really communicate my feelings.”

“But I don’t hate my dad.” I may have had some bitter feelings over time that he wasn’t there for me the way my mom was, but that wasn’t important.

“You don’t have to hate your dad to want to make things as right as you can for him so he can transition away from this life with peace.”

His words slam into me so viciously, I almost double over from the pain. I wonder, is there anything that my dad needs from me to make it easier for him to let go?

“Just talk to him as much as you can, Rafe,” Wylde says softly and with a wisdom that I can’t discount. “Do whatever you can to ease his suffering, and I’m not talking about the physical side of things.”

“Thanks, Aaron,” I murmur, more than grateful for the advice. I’m not sure I would have figured that out on my own.

“I’m here for anything you need,” he assures me. “You call anytime, day or night.”

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