The Hurt Locker

I have a kid in one of my classes. She's a good kid, mostly. She has a good heart. She wants to be successful, deep down. But she's a kid I handle with care. Not like I'd hold a newborn baby or a crystal vase. More like how I might handle an explosive.

In fact, in my mind, I call her "Hurt Locker".

If you haven't seen that movie, here's a clip. It's disturbing and beautiful and bizarre and heartbreaking.

Some days, she's a firecracker. Snappy but celebratory and slightly terrifying. But only slightly. If someone were to light the fuse, the damage would be light. Unless of course you try to grip it too tightly. Then you're bound to lose a thumb, but that's on you.

There are days when you can see all of the trip wires. They lay there exposed, clumsily hidden, just waiting for some dummy to stumble across them, detonating the blast that leaves the rest of us covered in the blood and guts of the moment. Shocked. Gasping. Alive, but glad to not have been caught in the blast zone.

And then there are days when she is an IED, disguised and waiting. Full of the shrapnel made from pain and bad choices and broken promises. Designed for maximum damage. 

Other times, she has the blast pack strapped to her chest. She believes in her cause; she's willing to sacrifice for the fight. She sees herself the hero, the martyr. She's ready. Others might get caught in the immediate explosion, but she will sustain the most damage, done willingly, with reckless welcome, to herself.

Each conversation I enter with her, I find myself suiting up. Helmet, gloves, chest pads to protect my heart. It's not much protection, thin as it is, but it's something. It's my job to disarm her, to decide which wire to cut. 

Red or black? Yellow or blue? Each is wired differently; no bomb seems built the same way. Red or black? Yellow or blue? Why is this wire green? When did we start using green wires? It seems there should be some sort of manual to follow, but with each attempt to simplify the disarmament, it seems a new trigger is introduced. 

The countdown clock does not stop flashing. I can envision the blast, feel its ghost heat upon my face. I shake with its strained energy. 

For a moment, I consider throwing myself upon the blast, absorbing the shock, saving everyone else. But that won't stop anything. There will always be more bombs along the road. And with one less person to defuse them. I lean, with my back against the wall, bracing myself. "I can do this," I reason.

Instead, I hold my breath, steady my hands, and speak a prayer for the color green.

With a snip, I look to my left and see us both still standing, still breathing, still clean.

In her place is a crystal vase, fragile and clear. 

And I wonder, stunned, who in the world leaves something so delicate in a place such as this?

Dreams Do Come True

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I had a dream of being a writer. I kept diaries and journals full of bad poetry. I relished essay tests. And my high school English teacher forced me into any journalism event she could, helping me, eventually, into the only state medal I'd ever receive.

I tried for a while, when I showed up at college. I hung around the newspaper kids. I submitted a couple of things to the English department's literary magazine. But what I quickly realized is that you need to be 1) thick-skinned 2) good at promoting yourself and 3) a risk-taker.

Anyone who knew me at 19 can verify that I was none of the above. Anyone who knows me now, twenty years later, can verify that I still struggle with all of the above.

My full-time job is as a teacher. For the majority of the last 15 years, I was exclusively a writing teacher and a coach. Although I have a great passion for working with kids, there were moments where I wondered if I was a walking, talking version of that saying, "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach."

I hate that saying.

I tell my students that a writer writes. No matter what, this is true. A writer simply cannot be contained. His words buck against closed lips; her fingers search for just the right pattern of sounds. I am no different. I write with my kids in class. I create stories while sitting in traffic. I compose some pretty killer birthday cards and haiku. I've been published before, but mostly I considered that luck. Nothing more. I blog. I update. I spill in 140 characters at a time on Twitter.

But last weekend, I had the chance to test drive my dream. And, in truth, I almost turned it down. (Refer back to reasons 1, 2, and 3 if you're new around here.)

One of those 140 character friends, Shawn Krest, is an actual, real-life, professional writer in North Carolina, and he was one of the first strangers to encourage my writing. While I treasure the praise and support of my friends, there always exists a small fear that they're just being nice. Strangers don't have to be nice.

When Shawn learned that the Duke Blue Devils basketball team would be headed to Houston for the Sweet Sixteen, he knew he needed someone to cover that part of the tournament. Houston is a long way from Raleigh, and, contrary to popular belief, not every news outlet has ESPN-like budgeting. Somehow, Shawn thought it would be a good idea to send me as his substitute for accsports.com. I could catch a cool game or two, keep his credential viable, and write a little "if I wanted to".

I think his logic was something like this: Wide-eyed Duke fan sees her favorite team in person for the first time ever + nationally televised event + need to maintain professionalism and restraint while in the BEST SEATS EVER on press row = either hilarity or a total meltdown (still hilarious).

My thinking was more like this: OMG + WTF x Where do I go?/ I'm not good enough = Shawn's going to get fired.

Somehow, though, he talked me into it. He was paid back with 987 questions/freaked out text messages. I was paid with a seat 20 feet from my idol and court side seats to a dream come true. I think I came out ahead.

It was a tremendous four days. I was able to stay with one of my grown-up camp kids and see Houston through her eyes.

The sign that Allison posted on her front door
 to alert me that I had found the right house.

When you spend a birthday with a Skrehart, it's chocolate cake for breakfast.

The Beer Can Museum. Sadly, it was only open on the weekends, but here's what we know: a dude covered his whole house in beer cans. It took him about 20 years. We calculated that if he was a six-pack per day kind of guy, there were roughly 43, 680 beers consumed. Although, if you are dedicated to beer enough to cover your whole house, you're probably more than a six-pack a day kind of dude. Texas, y'all.

 

It's basically a house-sized wind chime.

And the art car museum. Houston has an art car parade each year. These are a few of the winners. I don't "get" art always, but this little museum is worth the time. It's also free. Definitely going to hit up the whole parade next year.

The Art Car Museum

Phantoms

The curator was also the doppelganger of Pat Garner.

"Hungry"

"Splinter" -- A full-sized Honda covered in wood

And "Lil Splinter": the go-kart version (special appearance by Allison for scale)

 And we even took a detour to look at David Adicke's latest work which Allison found by chance one day. It's a 30-foot-tall version of the Beatles. Because why not? And then we went to "Good Dog" --  a gourmet hot dog joint for a late lunch. Because why not?

When Allison last saw Ringo, he was torso-less. We're hoping John gets his left arm soon.

This is "The Texican". Avocado, black beans, freshly pickled jalapenos and creme fraiche.
Homemade buns, homemade dogs, homemade everything. Just do it, Houston.

And then there was the real reason I was in Houston. You know... that dream thing. I went to the first of four press conferences where I sat, working up the courage to ask a non-shaky-voiced question. I went to a Duke practice. Bucket list: check. I scored my first interview. It was with a 5 year-old.

That's a hall-of-famer, y'all.

From my seat at open practice

The precious kids who sat behind me.

Duke guys signing autographs

The Duke Family from my story.

This is the street I took to the stadium each day.
Duke University is located in Durham, NC. #GoodOmen

 I went to work everyday at an NFL stadium as opposed to going to work everyday across the freeway from one. (I have to say, ours is nicer inside. Yours is nicer, and less bicycle helmetish, on the outside, Houston.)

NRG Stadium

My seat for the Sweet Sixteen. Nothin' special.

The starting five.

I had the thrill of seeing a hall-of-fame coach getting his 12th trip to the Final Four, probably 2 (possibly 3) first-round NBA picks, and my favorite current player earn his way to a banner. Quinn Cook, who took me and every Blue Devil fan on a roller coaster ride for three years. Quinn Cook, who has emerged as a leader in every single, steady way this year. I love that kid. He is why teachers teach and coaches coach -- to see a boy become a man.

The post-game handshake with Utah before the actual end of the game.

Hometown Hero, Justise Winslow

I love you, Quinn Cook.

Coach K, finishing the job.

 I had to watch the dreams end for some kids, and I got to watch the dream continue for others. I watched as the media (including me) ignored Matt Jones in the press conference on Saturday. And then I watched him hide a smile on Sunday night as a reporter asked him how it felt to be the "Three Point Assassin". I saw these kids flip from playful to poised in an instant. I saw a coach defend his team with kindness and admiration and love.

Matt Jones, Quinn Cook, Coach Krzyzewski, and Tyus Jones

And I got to be a writer -- a "real" writer -- with all of the lavish accommodations you could dream of. Like the women's restroom for the female journalists. It was outside. As in, outside the stadium. As in, "go outside alone so someone can kill you and hide you in the Astrodome next door" kind of lavish.

For real.

The creeptastic Astrodome

But truly, I was in awe of the reporters surrounding me. They were in constant movement: keeping stats, tweeting, writing game stories, and lining up interviews -- all while the game was going on. The most I could manage was not yell at Jahlil Okafor to block out or stare, open-mouthed, at Grant Hill the entire time.

Then today, I came home to my very own name, spelled correctly and everything, in a newspaper. In print. That I can send home to my mom so she can read it to my dad.

Like I said, a dream come true.

Dreams don't happen just because they're dreamed though. They're usually the result of one person with a crazy idea (Shawn) and a hundred people somehow agreeing with that lunacy. I said while I was on my trip that if you ever want to measure how loved you are, announce that you're going to attempt a lifelong goal that could end in total ruined failure. People come out of the woodwork for that kind of stuff, man.

Here are my woodwork people. The list is long, but I don't have time for individual thank-you cards. I am seriously so very blessed. And I mean that in the most non-sarcastic way imaginable.

Shawn Krest -- Proof that not everyone you meet on the internet is an axe-wielding lunatic. Or at least not yet. I hope you're enjoying your first Final Four, buddy.
ACC Sports Journal -- Thank you for this opportunity. And thanks for not thinking Shawn had lost his mind.
Duke University and Mike Krzyzewski -- Thank you for finding one another and then for finding that 10-year-old kid one CBS Saturday afternoon.
The 2014-2015 Blue Devils -- You've made this season one of the best and most entertaining in a long, long time. You are a band of brothers.
Allison Skrehart -- Thanks for being such a great kid/adult and for letting me invade your home for 4 days. I am so grateful for your friendship. And for that cake.
Roommate Kelly -- You're the coolest. Give Hazel and Zelda a massive hug for me.
For my 140 character friends -- Twitter is allegedly full of racists and trolls and dumbasses. I wouldn't know that for sure because I hit the Twitter jackpot -- talented, funny, and kind. #ACCTwitter is truly, truly the best.
My school friends -- You told me things would be fine while I was gone, and you made them fine. Not just last weekend but for so many times this year. It's always a great day to be alive and a Mustang.
My camp friends -- There is no greater support network. Camp is the only place I knew I could fail and be just as loved as if I had piloted a spaceship to the moon and back. You are my touchstone.
JD and Tammy and Hunter -- You have always let me be who I was meant to be and loved me as intensely as I'd let you whether I saw you yesterday or last year.
Becky, Isaiah, and Jaxson -- Thank you for bringing such joy and kindness into my life. You amaze me.
Jim -- You've put up with my Duke passion for the longest, always having to share the VCR as it taped endless games or listen to me shout at my television as if they could hear me. You were the first person to recommend my writing to anyone else, telling Mrs. Hayes, "If you think I'm good, wait until you see what my sister can do." No compliment has ever been more treasured.
Mrs. Estlack and Mrs. Hayes, my junior high and high school English teachers -- You were my first guides in what to say and how to say it. You cracked open my skull and heart and out came my soul. Thank you for helping me scoop all those words into neat little piles. And these are just two of my dozens of life-changing teachers. I hope I make you all proud.
My parents, Dean and Wanda -- Daddy, you taught me how to tell a good story, but I'll never be as good at it as you. I miss them more than anything. Every story I tell now, I tell for you. Mom, you gave me power and strength to put on a brave face even when I'm terrified. Thanks for teaching me all about sports and not ever letting them be "just for the boys". I love you both.
And to my tribe, LJ, Courtney, and Heather -- There are not enough words in the world to ever tell you what you mean to me. You are the stars in my sky, the sun on my face, the prayer on my lips, and the solid ground under my feet. You are what every friend should be and what every person should be lucky enough to have.

And Maybe We Danced a Little...

All my life, I watched my parents work. I can remember asking my dad what kind of job I should have, and he told me that he hoped that one day, I'd have a career, not just a job.

I loved that.

A career meant passion and love and excitement. I pictured myself as Mary Tyler Moore, dancing my way down the street, flinging open the door to my office, greeting my colleagues with a big smile and, perhaps, a laugh track for the day.

A job just meant work. And work doesn't sound very fun. Nobody dances at work. They shuffle. Nobody flings open the door at work unless they're stomping out, middle fingers raised high. Work is gray and dull and accented by the punching of a time clock.

I thought to myself, "Why the heck isn't everyone out there getting themselves a career?" (Snobbish italics, totally intended.)

***

I'm a teacher. It's what I do. I don't really know how to do anything else. I'm not sure if I'd want to do anything else. Sure, there are moments -- daydreams in the middle of chaos where I imagine life in a quiet cubicle, entering data, going to the bathroom anytime I dang well please.

But I'm a teacher. It's what I do. It is my career, and, yes, it is my WORK. It is my life's WORK. (Emphatic bolding and capitalization, totally intended.)

***

The first day in my school district, fifteen years ago, I introduced myself to a teacher from another school. Another school. She was gracious and kind and so very welcoming as I told her this was my very first teaching job. Until I mentioned what school had hired me.

"Oh. Well, you don't have to stay there forever," she advised. Her kind and sympathetic tone did little to cover her face which twisted up as if I had just plopped down a bucket of elephant dung on the table. At every training and meeting we attended until she retired, I made sure to greet her warmly with my very own best elephant dung face.

I never forgot that woman though, even after she retired, because, in a way, she never left. I saw her in every news story, in every public and private rebuke from our former superintendent(s), in every training where I felt my green shirt unwelcome. I saw her in the giant slideshow proclaiming us as UNACCEPTABLE as well as in the slight of the absent giant slide pointing out our recognition the very next year. I saw her in every gym my basketball and volleyball team entered, in every parent's face that registered only the color of my kids' skin and the decibel of their voices, in every bus driver or administrator that was "surprised" by my kids' manners and sportsmanship. I saw her face when kids and parents refused to be a part of us because of what they heard instead of what they knew.

And I saw her in every mistake we brought upon ourselves. Every gang fight. Every failing score. Every angry outburst. Every kid who gave up. Every teacher who gave up. Every decision we didn't follow through on. Believe me, I know and admit that, too often, we put our own panties on the front porch.

We were the underdog, and in the beginning, I did not mind. I have always loved the underdog because, in the movies, everyone cheers for and falls in love with the underdog. 

This is not so in real life. And, after a while, I did mind.

Making my mark 

***

Last Friday, we loaded up all of our students and staff -- every last one of them -- and took our crazy out in public to be a kickoff school for the Souper Bowl of Caring. The night before, I traded dozens of texts with my best life friends about this opportunity and how afraid I was of it going all wrong. Of all the possibilities of shame or bad behavior that could happen. Bad things can happen when you upset the balance of a single teenager. We had 800 teenagers. Away from school. With television cameras. 

I told them that I felt like 15 years of work was at stake.

But here's what else I was afraid of: it could all go right. It could all go right and nothing might change. My green shirt might still get a disapproving look from the cashier at the CVS near our school. Other teachers still might not want to listen because "what could they possibly know?" Kids and teachers and parents might still give up on us and on each other.

All night and all morning, my stomach flip-flopped from anxiety to excitement to nausea and back again. And as we rode over in that yellow school bus caravan, I wondered what Cranky Old Ms. Elephant Dung Face would say about that school getting picked to represent our district, our community, our region. I wondered what face she would make then.

As I watched our alternate curriculum kids wheel and walk out from the same tunnel that the varsity football players run from, that woman's face began to fade. 

As our platinum level scholars ran out behind them, her face began to fade.

As our sweet and generous cafeteria ladies and head custodian got their standing ovation, she faded.

As an NFL legend applauded our $1,500 check to a local shelter and food bank, and as kids received their awards, and as school board members and superintendent high-fived them, her face slipped away completely.

Drew Pearson, y'all.

And as my fellow teachers -- my Mustang family -- cheered and applauded and laughed, I realized that there is no career without a job, and there is no job without work. A lot of work. A big ol' pile of elephant dung kind of work some days. And in 15 years, I have shoveled my share.

Are we where we want to be? No.

Are we where we could be? No.

But are we where we were? No.

And, for the first time in a long time, the only faces that mattered were the faces right in front of me.

Our kids

So last Friday, walking into that gym, my teammates and I flung open that door and greeted everyone with a great big smile. And maybe -- just maybe -- we even danced a little.

My team teachers

The Hunt

I sat once, at an Easter Egg hunt, and watched. It's one of my favorite things to do, to sit and study others when they feel beyond notice. On that day, I watched a little girl, maybe 4 or 5 years old, walking through the grass, picking up plastic eggs.

Afterward, her mother took her basket and opened all of the eggs and dumped the candies hidden inside into a bag, presumably to save for later. To parcel out in moments of goodness and pleasant nature or necessitated bribery, perhaps. While her mother talked with a friend, the girl began to go through her basket of plastic shells, tiny fingers prying open each one only to find it hollow.

I watched her for a long while, waiting for the meltdown, the rage at finding nothing where something so delicious had been promised. She continued about her candy-less efforts, prying and fumbling, smiling and hoping. Each time, I braced for reality, for sadness, for this sweet-cheeked baby to realize her search was as empty as those eggs. But she didn't stop. Reality never appeared. She just kept on, seeking and not finding, completely undeterred.

*****

A few weeks ago, I opened an email with only one line:

"Where have you been?"

It was from someone that I only vaguely know, and I wasn't sure of the intent behind it; we had no plans to meet or talk, no appointments to keep. My response was that I was here, that I was working, that I was busy, that I was fine. And I was. I was all of that. The next day was another email:

"I don't believe you. Show yourself."

Out of context, these messages seem strange, possibly even a little overbearing at best and threatening at worst. But I knew the context. The context was here.

I haven't been here in a long while. Not since August. I couldn't tell you why. I don't really know why. It's not as though I ran out of things to say. Maybe I ran out of energy most days. Maybe I ran out of patience with the blank screen. Perhaps I had more to do. I don't know.

So I did some sorting within my own jumbled brain, searching for the reason behind my vanishing act. Why did I stop doing something that brings me such challenge, such release, such joy? I thought for days on end without coming to a logical conclusion, and then in a dream, there I was, at an Easter egg hunt, watching a little girl crack open egg after empty egg, waiting, hoping that in at least one, she would find something sweet as a reward for her search.

And as she dug deep into her basket, her eyes big, her smile wide and pure as she whispered, "A yellow! I like the yellow best!" And she hugged it tightly to her chest. And she went about her business of fumbling and prying and hoping.

I woke up with that dream-memory on my heart, pushing it around in my jumbled brain until it clicked into place.

How do we find joy?

As the prize inside the egg?

The act of the hunt?

Do we throw away each egg we find, certain it's already rotted or empty?

Or do we relish the moment we stumble upon it, hidden and waiting for our notice?

Or in the excitement of the split second as we feel the seam give way?

Worth It

I love where I work. It's pretty normal for me to say that because there's never been more than just a few hours at a time, in 15 years, where I thought seriously about working anywhere else.

A great deal of my love comes from the fact that I work with some of the greatest, most caring, most fun people ever. I issued the ALS ice bucket challenge to them, knowing full well that they wouldn't let me down. And they didn't.

No matter who leaves or who stays or who arrives, the spirit is there, the kindness present, the love unwavering. I think it's in the brick and mortar. 

But it's one thing to love your co-workers and another thing to love your work. Where I work, things are rarely easy. We fight battles we didn't sign up for. We feed them breakfast and lunch, but it's their soul that sometimes starves. We are someone for a few, and everyone for too many.

It has been 4 days since the start of a new school year. It has been 4 days since I rested well. It has been 4 days since I began seeing 5:30 twice a day. It has been 4 days since I didn't bring home a worry that I turned over and over and rubbed, worn, in my mind. It has been 4 days, and I'm as tired as if it had been 14.

And then, today, this kid came by my room. I can tell you with full confidence that his deodorant application in class was the very least of our problems last year. I worked with him for a full 4 months before he trusted me. And another 5 months, convincing him that I wasn't lying when I said he was smart or tricking him by promising that "today is a new day". We had as many tears as we had laughs and as many failures and breakdowns as successes. Probably far more. His swings between liking me and hating me were rapid and unpredictable and intense. I never knew where I stood with him because I was always waiting for the bottom to drop out.

This was our conversation today as I stood at my doorway, passing out index cards for our warm-up.

Me: Hey, dude! How are you?

Him: Okay, I guess. Can I have a card?

Me: Only if you write on there, "I miss Coach Naz."
Him: I will. Because it's true.

Then he walked away.

And it was worth it, y'all. It was so very worth it all.

Big Kid Stuff

Tomorrow morning, this little guy will head off to Kindergarten.

It sounds so cliche to say that it feels like yesterday that we were all at the hospital, awaiting his arrival into the world. But it does. Cliches may be tired, but that doesn't mean they're false. And it doesn't mean they don't make my heart ache just the tiniest bit.

The first time I became an aunt, I was 16, living 300 miles away. I missed all of this, and I didn't fully understand or appreciate what I was missing. The first words and first steps. The silly songs and scraped knees. The tiny hands around my fingers becoming bigger hands holding mine. Learning to tell a joke, ride a bike, write your name. I couldn't fathom how quickly Baby Stuff becomes Big Kid Stuff, and I couldn't imagine how much we'd miss that Baby Stuff again.

I didn't know how to be Aunt Deana back then, and I never really caught up. Even now, I sometimes feel that I'm just catching on. I'm thankful that I have friends who make me practice.

As I was driving home tonight, I found myself thinking about tomorrow morning. School will be starting for me as well, and even though it's the 15th first day as a teacher, I still get butterflies. Wondering how the day will go, worrying that I will forget something important, curious what my students will think. Seventh graders in my school come to me almost like Elliott will appear to his teacher: nervous but excited, curious but cautious, hopeful for a good day, a good week, a good year.

I would say that I'm worried, but I know my friend, Courtney has the market cornered on that, and rightfully so. But I am claiming "hopeful" for tomorrow as my wish for Ell is the same wish that I have for all of my students.

I hope:

• you are more excited than nervous.
• your dad packs your favorite lunch, maybe even with an extra dessert.
• you like who you are sitting with.
• you don't feel too lost.
• you are kind and others are kind to you.
• you make a friend.
• you make lots of friends.
• you (and your mom) have more smiles than tears.
• you learn a little something.
• your teacher makes you feel appreciated and welcome.
• you go home, bubbling with stories, ready for the next day.

But mostly, Ell, I hope you always know how loved you are -- bigger than the sky and deeper than the ocean -- today, tomorrow, and every day. I can't wait to hear all about this next big adventure.

Little Girl Lost

It's Father's Day.

I tried to write this morning, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. The weeks since I last saw my dad have been tense and sad. He was not in good shape, physically or mentally, and it's been difficult. It's funny since I've written about my dad and his illness several times here. (And here and here and here. Or here.). Far more often than I ever thought I would; I am a private person who shields herself with a loud and feisty public personality. In this way, yet again, I am my father's daughter.

But to untwist him from my life, to remove him from this space, would be damn near impossible. For the last seven years, his path has become my own. We wander hand-in-hand, lost in a world where we don't recognize ourselves. I have found myself there again today, but this time, I am alone.

My entire childhood, I feared the death of my dad. I thought it would be the undoing of me -- that I would wake up one morning, and he would suddenly be gone. Often, I would lie in bed, wondering how I would get along as if his absence would hobble me as if I had woken up to have my leg amputated or my eyesight lost. How does a little girl imagine life without her hero?

And then I would hear him coming down the hall, and I would wiggle my toes and open my eyes, knowing that the world was still on its axis.

I never stopped to think that there are things worse than death. Because there are. My dad is my hero still, but he has not been allowed a hero's death. Heroes die in battle. They die strong. They die with their wife's kiss and their children's names on their lips. They don't die inch-by-inch.

I woke up this morning with my dad on my heart. I pulled up old posts and pulled out old pictures. I thought a lot about when I was a little girl. I thought about his hands, so calloused and worn. And how he was old pearl-snap shirts and trucker hats before they were cool. And how he smelled -- like Lava soap, freshly-mown grass, WD-40, and Certs breath mints.

I waited until I knew that lunch would be over and the dining room quiet before I called my mom's phone. He doesn't hear well, and his booming voice is often barely a whisper. I knew she'd be there, visiting him at the nursing home because even if he didn't know it was Father's Day, she would.

When she put him on the phone, he didn't have much to say. Even in his prime, the telephone was difficult for my dad who so loved to see someone's face as he told them a story or reeled off his latest joke. Our conversation was stilted and one-sided as I asked him questions he didn't know how to answer.

When my mom got back on the phone, she confirmed what I had begun to suspect several months ago. My father didn't recognize my voice. She's also noticed that he's stopped referring to me by my name and instead calls me "Sister", the nickname my family used for me until I was 10.

I once wondered how a little girl loses her hero, but I never once thought to wonder how the hero forgets his little girl. Now I wonder how long I will live in his mind at all.

I've always thought that the cruelest thing that has happened to my father is not that he is dying but that he is dying in a trap. His body broken, his mind intact. But even that is no longer true, and I am devastated.

I remember when I was six, my dad tried to teach me to take a fish off the hook. I kept recoiling at it, claiming I couldn't do it, putting on my best scared little girl act. It flopped and fought against my hands, its gills fluttering and flailing for oxygen, and I asked why I couldn't just wait until it died to remove the hook. Surely it couldn't take much longer. "Because it's in pain" was his reply. I can still remember the crease in his eyebrows, the frown on his face, 32 years later.

I've always thought about that moment, seeing my father as the fish in that desperate fight for independence and dignity. But it's only in hanging up the phone and hearing my own ragged gasps that I begin to understand what it feels to be on the end of that line.