Soft, silvery moonlight pooled across the hospital bed in the darkened room, highlighting the sleeping face of Michelle’s father. The crisis was over. The reassuring blip... blip... on the illuminated screen next to the bed reassured her that he would live for a while longer. She shook her head and wiped away tears. As the cancer that had invaded his prostate spread, devouring other organs, it was getting harder to keep him going. He was having problems more and more often.
In sleep, her father looked much younger than his 84 years. From across the room, his face looked almost like the father she had known in her childhood.
She moved closer. Even in the dim light she could see that her father had changed drastically in the months since he had been admitted to the nursing home. He was thinner, smaller somehow, a mere shadow of the hearty, larger than life man she remembered from her childhood. She smoothed strands of white, cottony hair from his forehead. “You’re the only family I have, Dad,” she whispered. A fat tear plopped on the bare skin of her father’s shoulder and he stirred but didn’t awaken.
“You’re going to have to let go.” The doctor moved closer and checked the monitor. He reached under the covers and grasped her father’s wrist between two fingers. “I don’t know how long we’re going to be able to go on like this. His heart is getting weaker.”
“I’m not ready to let him go,” said Michelle.
“You may not have a choice.” He let go of her father’s hand and adjusted the blankets. “I sometimes think he’s only holding on because he thinks you need him.”
“But—”
The doctor put one finger to his lips and then gestured for her to follow him out into the hall. “He’s in constant pain, you know. The cancer has metastasized throughout his system and there’s really nothing more we can do.”
“If you can’t help him, what can I do?”
“You need to talk to him and let him know that it is all right for him to go.”
“That would be—”
“A kindness,” the doctor finished for her. “I realize that you love him and want him around as long as possible, but it is getting more and more difficult to make him comfortable.”
“I—”
“Just think about it.” The doctor patted her shoulder and then turned and walked away.
Back at her father’s bedside, she saw that he was awake. She took his right hand in both of hers and held it tightly. He smiled drowsily at her. “Hey, sweetie, how are you?”
“Never mind me, Dad, how are you?” She leaned close to look into his eyes, searching for she knew not what, maybe some clue as to what she should do.
“I’m as good as can be expected,” he said. “But sleepy.” His eyelids fluttered. “I love you,” he said. He closed his eyes and began to snore softly.
“How can I let go?”
She sat by his side, letting her mind wander as she watched the monitors obsessively. Her breath caught in her throat every time there was a hesitation in the beat. She thought about what the doctor had said. “Let go,” he had said. It reminded her of one of her favorite memories, the day her father taught her to ride a bicycle.
She closed her eyes and saw her younger self climbing onto the small, red bicycle. She felt the lurch as her father grasped the back of the seat and pulled the bike upright.
“Feet on the pedals,” he told her. “Now start pedaling.”
They moved along, her father jogging by her side, holding on to the seat, yelling, “Faster!”
In retrospect, she realized how painful it must have been for him, running along, bent over so he could hold her upright and give her time to find her own balance. Each time she tipped over, he got her back on the seat, got her to try again, to keep trying.
He stirred and let go of her hand as he opened his eyes. She leaned close to kiss his cheek. Deep in his eyes she saw the man she had worshiped; the man who carried her on his shoulders. She considered his hand where it lay limp against the white sheet. This was the hand that had held her upright on her bicycle so many years ago, this same hand whose bones now felt as fragile as eggshell, had held her up through the golden light of that long autumn afternoon. He had given her his complete attention, always cheerful, always encouraging.
Finally, as the rosy light of sunset made their shadows stretch far across the parking lot, he quietly let go and watched her ride off into the distance on her own. “You always knew when to let go, Daddy,” she whispered.
She realized that he was watching her face expectantly. Carefully, Michelle hugged him and said, “I love you Daddy.” Then she stood back and watched his eyes darken like the windows of a house when someone turns off the lights. She knew he was ready to move on without her and she quietly let go.
“Like Riding a Bicycle” first appeared at http://13-stories.livejournal.com/ as an entry for the August 2008 writing contest at Brigit’s Flame, a Live Journal community. It also appears in my book, Dreams in Transit, published in 2013.
The image of the red bicycle is from Pixabay.com.
Who is Irene P. Smith? I am an author, programmer, and web designer. A former Contributing Editor to PC Techniques Magazine, I have written about computers and programming since 1989, and began publishing fiction in 2003. My home is in New York State, along the Delaware River, where I live with my husband and son.
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