“I’m going to need the surgery,” I said in a soft voice. I looked down at the pale green carpet, then back to my dad and Uncle Homi. Their mouths opened slightly but nothing came out. I looked out the living room window at the streetlights. Orange orbs glowed against the dark night sky.
I sniffed to break the silence. “This Remicade stuff isn’t working, so there’s really not much else to do.”
My dad reacted as he usually would when faced with bad news—his faced drooped, he closed his eyes, pressed his hands together as though he was praying, and held them against his thin lips. The same sad expression I saw when he and I spoke to Dr. Steinhart about the possibility of surgery to treat my ulcerative colitis. The same sad expression I saw when I told him I wanted to take a job in Halifax and move there alone. The same sad expression I saw when I told him Jodelle and I were more than “just friends”. The same sad expression I saw when I told him the Zoroastrian religion didn’t shape me as it did him.
Uncle Homi reacted as he usually would when faced with bad news—he propped up his chin with both of his palms, cast his eyes to the floor, and made a “tsk tsk tsk” sound with his tongue.
“Well, if that’s what has to be done,” said my dad, his eyes still closed.
Another “tsk tsk tsk” emanated from Uncle Homi; his brown eyes were wide and still fixed on the pale green carpet.
“It’s been coming for a while now. I mean, nothing’s really worked properly over the last couple of years,” I muttered. “Maybe this way I can just get it done and move on.” I turned away from my dad and Uncle Homi, towards the stairs. I took two steps and started crying.
“Damn it,” I shouted. My eyes welled as I collapsed to my knees and pounded my fist into the pale green carpet. “I tried! I tried!”