Eventually, my body forced me to stop pretending I could handle both.
One morning, I woke up on the bathroom floor at school.
I had apparently sat down against the wall and fallen asleep.
That afternoon, I submitted the paperwork to leave medical school.
Dad came over that evening.
“You are not quitting.”
“I already did.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
His face turned pale.
“Do you understand what you’re giving up?”
“Elliot can’t manage this alone.”
“Then find help.”
“We tried.”
“Try harder.”
I stared at him.
“He needs me.”
Dad hit both palms against the kitchen counter.
“And your life doesn’t?”
That sentence stayed with me for years.
So did what came next.
“If you do this, don’t expect me to stand here and watch you destroy yourself.”
Then he left.
I assumed he would cool down.
He didn’t.
I called the following week.
No answer.
Then a month later.
His birthday.
Christmas.
The anniversary of Mom’s death.
Eventually, I stopped calling.
Now, five years later, he finally spoke again as I pulled into a hospital parking lot.
“You work here?”
“Yes.”
He straightened.
Something almost hopeful appeared in his expression.
“You went back to medical school.”
“I didn’t say that.”
The hope disappeared.
I got out of the car.
Dad followed me inside.
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When I walked past the elevators leading toward the medical-school offices, he noticed.
“Alyssa.”
“This way.”
We entered another wing.
A sign beside the doorway read:
FAMILY CARE EDUCATION.
Dad read it twice.
Inside were several training stations prepared for a weekend workshop.
One coworker looked up.
“Alyssa, did the transfer bench finally arrive?”
“It’s in my living room.”
Parenting
She laughed.
“Of course it is.”
Dad looked at me.
“You store this equipment at home?”
“Only when storage messes up.”
“You have storage?”
“Very glamorous career.”
Before he could ask anything else, an older woman entered pushing a walker.
She pointed at it.
Dictionaries & Encyclopedias
“I broke it.”
I crouched beside the front wheel.
“You didn’t.”
“It clicked.”
“Everything clicks when you use it as a chair.”
She looked offended.
“I did not sit on it.”
I stared at her.
She sighed.
“Fine. Maybe once.”
Dad almost laughed.
I tightened the adjustment knob.
Then I handed the walker back.
“Show me what they taught you yesterday.”
She positioned herself.
