FICTION
PATRICK CHILDRESS
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
Dear Son,
If you are reading this, it was worth it. Today you turn 40.
You can expect a lot of ‘over-the-hills’ and ‘hey old man’ messages today. This letter will not be one of those. That you made it to this day is a miracle of medicine, a blessing from God, and the fulfillment of my final wish.
As I write this, I’m sitting next to your bed at Providence Hospital. These 17 years have gone by so fast. You’re not quite a man yet, but you’re no longer my little boy. The boy who’d sneak downstairs at midnight to eat ice cream and then leave the carton out. We’d wake up to find a stream of Cherry Garcia trickling down the kitchen counter. I was mad at the time, but now I see it: those were the best days of my life.
Remember the last time we were at this hospital? Had to get you stitched up after that baseball to the forehead over at Markum Field. Lucky for you, you got those Sullivan eyebrows—plenty bushy to hide the scar. You’ll have some new scars soon. Nothing we can do about that.
I’ve sat here, in this same seat, for the last three months. You’ve been sleeping mostly—the doctors made sure of that—but know that your mom and I have been here every day. Every day we’ve waited for the call, but the phone’s not ringing. We pray and pray that some stranger roughly your size has a car accident tragic enough to kill, but not so catastrophic it renders organs unusable. It feels gross, praying for this. Un-Christian. I never imagined I’d wish death on a stranger, and I’m glad I no longer have to.
When they told us you had weeks left, not months, that’s when I first asked if this procedure was possible. Your mother’s first instinct was to object, but I insisted. And once they told us this could work, neither of us ever really considered any other path. We’re down to the wire now and out of good options. Letting you go was never an option we considered.
So, I’m sure you’ve wondered where I’ve been for the last twenty-three years. I’m sure you’ve felt abandoned, betrayed. I am sorry about that. But this is the deal your mother and I struck: if I agreed to the procedure, she would not—under any circumstance—let you feel any guilt for my decision. That’s when we came up with the whole ‘Dad left town’ story.
Mom was firm, though, that eventually we had to tell you the truth. But only once you were older, better able to process something like this. This 40th birthday letter is our compromise.
Please don’t be mad at your mother for any of this. In the end, it was all my call. And I hope you understand my decision. If you have kids of your own now, I’m certain you will.
I know this is a lot to take in. I wish I could be there to explain in person. But know this: I am with you. I never left. Each little thump in your chest? That’s me saying I love you, that I’m proud of you, and that I expect you to make the most of every single day you’ve been given.
They’re telling me I have to head down to the operating room now. I just kissed your head for the last time. Goodbye, Son, and happy birthday.
Love,
Dad
Patrick Childress is a writer and attorney living in Washington D.C. with his wife and two young sons. His fiction has been accepted for publication in Pithead Chapel, Isele Magazine, and Twin Bird Review. Twitter: @PatChildress
