PART 2: The Years He Hid
When I went back into the room, a folder lay waiting on Daniel’s bed. It held appointment reports, medication information, and a letter from his neurologist. His diagnosis had indeed been confirmed years before. As time passed, his balance and walking had steadily deteriorated.
More recently, his blood pressure had begun falling sharply whenever he stood, leaving him vulnerable to fainting. His doctor had told him to give up driving. He had missed appointments because he hadn’t been able to find transportation.
"Why didn’t you tell Emma or Josh?" I asked. "I was afraid they’d feel responsible for looking after me. They’d already lost the family they grew up with. I didn’t want them spending their 20s worrying about their sick father."
"So you let them believe you were a cheating husband instead?" He lowered his eyes. "I thought they’d eventually move on. By the time I realized how much I’d hurt them, I didn’t know how to tell them the truth." I asked, "Do you hear yourself?"
"I have spent five years trying to spare people trouble," he said. "And I’ve made more trouble than I could have imagined." I left before dinner without making him any promises.
Back at home, I pulled open a drawer filled with old family pictures. There was Daniel teaching Emma to ride her bicycle, Josh sleeping against his chest, and all four of us together at the beach.
One photograph came from the year before we divorced. Daniel held a birthday cake, and I was laughing at something beyond the camera. I remembered the evening it was taken. Halfway through doing the dishes, he had needed to sit down. I had teased him about getting old. He smiled but remained seated for several minutes. Had he already been frightened of telling me?
I called the hospital and requested a conversation with his doctor. Before she could discuss the details, she needed Daniel to authorize it. He did. She told me that the disease had advanced considerably.
He now had severe trouble swallowing and had recently developed aspiration pneumonia after food or liquid entered his lungs. "We’ve reached a point where further treatment is unlikely to reverse what’s happening," she said gently. "Our priority now is keeping Daniel comfortable."
"How much time does he have?" I asked. "It’s difficult to predict exactly, but we’re concerned he may have only days." Hearing it broke my heart. I had barely discovered the truth about his illness, and already I was being told that his life might be measured in days.
That afternoon, I came to understand just how difficult his life had become. With his permission, I went to his apartment to pick up some clothes. Nothing had prepared me for what was inside. Dishes filled the sink, and mail lay across the table. Apart from bread and yogurt, there was almost nothing to eat. Beside the bed stood a walker with tape wound around its handle.
The bathroom smelled of wet towels. A blue shirt was draped over a chair—the same one Daniel had worn to one of Josh’s birthdays. I remembered how tightly he had held the railings that day before saying he had twisted his ankle.
A photograph of the four of us was fixed to his refrigerator. I sat down on the edge of his bed and cried. For years he had been struggling by himself just a few miles away, while I imagined him enjoying the happy new life he had chosen.
When I got back to the hospital, I told him what I had found. "You should have asked someone for help." "I know." "Why didn’t you?" "I was embarrassed."
I studied the man I had once promised to spend my whole life beside. "You didn’t have to do everything alone, Daniel." Tears gathered in his eyes. "I know that now."
Later, someone from the palliative care team sat down with us to talk about what Daniel wanted. He chose treatment focused on comfort and hoped that his remaining days could be spent somewhere more peaceful than the hospital. They told us that hospice could be suitable, provided a bed became available.
Daniel turned his eyes toward me. "Would you come and see me?" I paused before I answered. "Yes. I’ll come."
Then I had to face the conversation I feared most. Emma was eighteen, and Josh was twenty. The divorce had left both of them with hurts they rarely wanted to discuss.
That evening, I phoned them and asked them to come to the house as soon as possible. There was no more time to put it off. Their father was dying, and they had a right to the chance to see him.
"Is Dad in trouble?" Josh asked the moment he arrived. "He’s in the hospital." Emma put her bag down. "Another excuse for us to feel sorry for him?"
I explained the truth as carefully as I knew how. Neither of them interrupted me. When I was done, Josh kept his eyes on the floor. Emma folded her arms. "So he wasn’t having an affair?" "No." "And he let us believe it?" "Yes."
Josh looked straight at me. "How long has he got?" "The doctors think it may be only days." Emma started to cry.
"I hated him, Mom. I hated him for what he did to you." "I know, sweetheart." "He let me hate him while he was dying?"
"He thought he was protecting us." Emma protested, "That’s not protecting anyone!" Josh brushed tears from his eyes.
"Can we see him?" he asked. "Yes. I’ll take you both tomorrow morning."
