Page 54 of Changing the Playbook
The words settle between us while I wait for the rest. When nothing comes, I lean forward. “You couldn’t text about that?”
“Yeah, I suppose I could have.” He closes the laptop with exaggerated care, avoiding my eyes.
“Dad—”
Something flickers across his face—guilt mixed with determination. “I miss you, Fee. It feels like I barely see you lately.”
The Dad Guilt Special lands exactly where he aimed it. I haven’t been avoiding him, not exactly. But between my course load, practicum hours, and the chaos currently residing in my head shaped vaguely hockey-player-sized, family dinners have taken a hit.
“School’s been intense,” I offer, which is true if incomplete. “How’s Mom? The new medication working?”
Dad’s hand moves to his face, rubbing his jaw in that way that I know always precedes difficult conversations. My body goes rigid. This is it. Something’s wrong. Mom’s getting worse. The medication isn’t working. She had another episode and?—
“Your mom’s fine,” he says finally. “The medication seems to be helping. No major side effects.”
“Oh.” The word escapes on a rush of air I didn’t know I was holding. “That’s… good.”
“But we need to talk about you.”
Fresh panic floods my system. “Me?”
“Your hovering, Sophie.”
“I’mwhat?”
“Around your mom.” He ticks items off on his fingers. “Texts about her medication. Calls to check if she’s resting. Worry about every tiny symptom.”
My arms cross automatically, defensive. “Since when is caring about my sick mother a crime?”
“It’s not about caring, Sophie. It’s about how you’re showing it.” His voice stays gentle, which somehow makes it worse. “But multiple texts every day asking how she feels. Phone calls to verify she’s taken her pills. Even that spreadsheet, Sophie.”
Heat floods my face. “Spreadsheets help me track patterns?—”
“In a medical condition you’re not treating.” Each word lands with precision. “Your mother is an adult. A nurse. She’s managed her own health for decades.”
“That’s not—I’m not—” The protests tangle on my tongue because somewhere beneath the indignation, I know he’s right.
Mom’s eye-rolls have gotten more frequent.
Her responses to my check-ins are ever shorter.
“She feels smothered,” Dad continues, each word carefully measured. “She asked me to talk to you because she loves you too much to hurt your feelings.”
“I’m trying to help.” My voice comes out smaller than intended.
“By micromanaging her illness?” He shakes his head. “Your mom wants to live her life, Sophie. Not feel under constant surveillance for signs of decline.”
Decline.
The word I think about every night. The future I’m trying to prevent through sheer force of will and color-coded medication charts. The horrific nightmare I sometimes wake to.
“Remember Mr. Bubbles?” Dad’s expression softens. “You sat by that goldfish bowl for three days straight, taking the water temperature every hour. Made a chart of his swimming patterns.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “You tried to replace him while I was at school.”
“Nearly got away with it too, until you noticed the new one’s fins were slightly different.” His smile is sad. “You’ve always needed to fix things, Fee. But some things can’t be fixed. We can only do our best to live with them.”
The parallel hits hard. Mom’s MS isn’t going away, no matter how many spreadsheets I create or symptoms I catalogue. The knowledge sits heavy in my chest. I’m smart enough to know it—hell, I’m a nurse—but it’s harder to accept it.
