When I get married, I hope my dad is dead so I’m not obligated to let him walk me down the aisle.

I’ve always pictured my brother walking me down the aisle. Gerad’s in a nice pressed suit, his thin hair finally being uncovered from his greasy Matco Tools hat, while I’m in a pretty white dress. The dress will be soft and delicate and frame my curves. Maybe a smooth satin while my hair’s in a tight french braid. My sister, Stephanie, will be my maid of honor, standing next to all of the different friends I’ve made throughout the years, while my mom sits up front, right next to my grandma. I can’t picture my father there.

In January of 2018, my dad lost feeling in his legs. I was twenty, he was forty-eight. He was in our living room, keeled over the recliner when he started shouting for my mom. “Kristy! Kristy!” She expects him to die at any moment, so she went running for him, her legs, thick from years of hiking, carried her towards him, and found him bent over rubbing his calves. His legs looked like the legs of a corpse: pale, lifeless, cold to the touch. She wrapped his arms around her neck and supported the majority of his hulking body to the car. When my parents went to the Emergency Room, they were informed he needed surgery to remove a blood clot.

The surgery went well, and he had blood flow restored, even if he insisted he didn’t. He doesn’t believe doctors—they apparently have no idea what they’re doing. At his follow-up appointment, which he didn’t want to go to because the doctor “doesn’t know shit,” they found another clot. So they ripped him back open, tacking on a skin graft and draining blood transfusions. The doctors removed a large patch of skin from his upper thigh to repair the area that they cut into over, and over, and over again. A large pink area was left in its wake where the skin had been removed. It looked malleable, it looked like if I poked it too hard, the skin would rupture leaving puss oozing out of the wound. He was in pain, so of course he was given pills. The doctors never considered that he was self medicating.

His family was visiting when it happened. The Canrights lined the perimeter of the room, some leaning against the window, others hiding back towards the door. My grandma was the only one sitting. With her head held high, legs crossed, hair sitting high on her head from the curlers she sleeps in every night. She sat perched on the edge of the chair right next to her baby boy. She always thought he was perfect; she thinks that the doctors are killing him, not that he was killing himself. She made excuses when we tell her about his eating habits and she helped him out with rent when he blew all of his money. She has so much love for him and he thanks her by laying unresponsive, no idea what is going on. She has to watch the nurses shine lights in his eyes and ask him what he took, while he lied about his drug use. My poor grandma had to watch my dad almost overdose. She had to watch her only son unable to piece together where he is—his voice raising in agitation as the nurses asked him question after question: “What did you take?” “Where are you?” “How old are you?” His words began slurring together as his body thrashed as much as a severely overweight body can, while opioids coursed through his veins.

Eventually his words turned into a stream of confused grunts and moans until he fell asleep. The next day, the hospital took him off the prescribed pain meds leading to him draining his personal supply. He always popped pills like candy, washing them back with a slurpee or Starbucks frappuccino. While in the hospital, he only had enough for his habit to be fed for a few hours. My mom wasn’t there when he ran out, so he called her and said, “I fucking hate this place, I’m leaving.” That was it. He said nothing else and hung up the phone. My mom called and called but he didn’t answer. The friend that sells him pain pills picked him up, the friend that always smells like mold and has a thick mop of greasy hair. My dad left the hospital at 10 AM, and didn’t come home until after 6 PM. When he did come home, his shoes were missing, his walker was broken, and he limped down the hall into the living room with a large slurpee and Chinese takeout. He was supposed to stay at the hospital another week, and ended up getting an infection when he left. It wasn’t until the wound was crimson around the edges and oozing puss that he went to the doctor.