The problem—that’s not the right word, but I can’t think of a better one—is that every time we believe it’s the end, he miraculously pulls through. We cry, we say good-bye, we let him go. And then he opens his eyes the next day, not recovered, not remotely improved, but definitely still here, still alive. We rejoice and cry happy tears. But as time stretches on, something new happens; he appears to have an episode of some kind or his heart rate fluctuates dangerously, the doctor says he won’t make it through the night, and everyone rushes back to his room. We cry, we say good-bye, we let him go. And then he opens his eyes the next day again, and we rejoice again. This happens three times before his condition seems to stabilize. It’s an emotional roller coaster unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

Tonight, the elders (that means my mom and all four of my dad’s siblings and their respective spouses), Priscilla, and I are in the visiting room with the door shut. It smells like the eggrolls that my cousin brought back after lunch, and the air is stale, overwarm. There aren’t enough chairs, so as the youngest and least important, I’m standing with my back against the wall, hugging my arms to my chest and trying to blend in with the wallpaper. I’m so tired that I’ve been seeing double, but I do my best to focus. This is important.

I watch as Priscilla explains the situation and guides the discussion. Her Cantonese is excellent (I’ve been told) for someone born and raised in the States, but she still has to use English when things get technical. Words like paralyzed and feeding tube and hospice care stand out, and my aunts and uncles look stricken as they absorb the news. In an unusual physical display of affection, Aunt Linda rubs my mom’s back as she cries into her palms. She’s repeating the same sentence over and over, and even though it’s not English, I can guess what she’s saying: I thought he was sleeping.

There’s some back-and-forth, but it’s not heated. Everyone is sad and exhausted, not angry. However, when it looks like a consensus has been reached, Priscilla leaves the room without telling me anything. I have to race after her to find out.

Behind her in the hall, I ask, “What did everyone decide?”

Her no-nonsense, barracuda-in-the-boardroom stride halts as she turns around. “There wasn’t much of a choice. Everyone’s on the same page. We’re not putting Dad in hospice. They’ll just kill him with morphine. And he has to get the feeding tube.”

“They think that’s what Dad wants?” I ask hesitantly.

“He’ll die otherwise,” Priscilla states. “Do you want to be responsible for killing him?”

I shake my head quickly and regret that I said anything.

Priscilla sighs, looking more tired and stressed than I’ve ever seen her. “I need to go fill out the paperwork to get the procedure done and then look into transitioning Dad home, where we can take better care of him and help him get stronger.”

I nod dazedly, but I’m terrified. Priscilla seems to think our dad can get better, but based on what I’ve seen and heard from the doctors, I think it’s unlikely he’s going to get stronger or regain any quality of life. I’m just one opinion, though, and I’m youngest so I don’t count.

But she said “we.” That means her and me, taking care of our bedridden dad, seeing to literally all his needs.

What do I know about caring for anyone? I’ve never babysat or even kept a pet (other than Rock, who, despite his undeniable charisma, isn’t actually alive). I’m woefully unprepared for what lies ahead.

“You can take some time off from the symphony, right? You’re not a key player, so they should be able to fill your chair pretty easily,” Priscilla says, her tone all business. Her dismissive words sting, but I’m used to this. It’s tough love, meant to help me overcome my extreme sensitivity and be realistic about myself. “As for your record deal, I’m sure you can push that out. They should be understanding.”

“Yes,” I reply unsteadily. She doesn’t know that the symphony filled my chair months ago or that I’ve already pushed out my recording deadline because I just can’t play anymore. If I did it once, however, I can probably do it again, so I say, “I can make the time.”

Priscilla gives me a proud smile, and even though I’m emotionally overwhelmed, her approval fills me with warmth. “I have a ton of vacation time saved up, and if it comes down to it, I’ll just quit. We’re in this together, Mui mui. In the meantime, try to get some sleep if you can. I took a nap in Dad’s car earlier, and that was pretty nice. Just remember to open all the windows.”

She hands me the keys to our dad’s Mercedes and continues down the hall, her eyes focused like she’s on a mission, and I suppose she is. She’s trying, very valiantly, to save our dad’s life. That’s what you do when you love someone. You fight, no matter the cost. You fight even when it’s hopeless.

Right?

I wander down the hall, waving at my cousins seated on the benches, take the elevator to the ground floor, go through the lobby, where I wave at yet more cousins and second cousins and my cousins’ cousins who aren’t even related to me, and exit the building. The car is parked under a tree on the far side of the parking lot, its windshield matted with tree sap and white squirts of bird poop. I make a note to get it a car wash one of these days. My dad loves this car even though it’s older than I am—a tan 1980s convertible that he never lets anyone take the top down on.

The passenger seat is already reclined all the way back, so I get in on that side and roll the windows down—they’re manual, so I don’t have to start the engine. Shutting my eyes, I enjoy the feel of sunlight dancing on my face and will myself to fall asleep.

No matter how hard I try to clear my mind, however, my head keeps buzzing. Disjointed snapshots flicker behind my eyes. The doctor recommending hospice and pain medication to make my dad comfortable in his last days. My cousin, an exercise and health food professional, saying we should only give him natural products like marijuana extracts because when he gets better, we don’t want him to be addicted to painkillers. My mom repeating that same sentence over and over, seeking forgiveness from everyone around her because she can’t forgive herself. Priscilla, filled with determination to do the right thing. And my dad, moaning and flailing, trapped in his bed, trapped in his own body.

While I was watching him last night, he began thrashing about. His movements continued for several heart-stopping minutes, and when the nurse finally came after I paged her, she checked his vitals and inspected him only to determine he had to relieve himself. She kindly explained to him that he couldn’t get up to use the toilet and encouraged him to go in his bed, but he fought and he fought. He fought until his body finally won, and then he cried like he was broken, turning his face into his pillow.

I want a reprieve from these thoughts so badly that I consider turning music on, but the radio’s been broken since forever, just like the air-conditioning, and the same tape has been stuck in the cassette player for decades—Teresa Cheung’s Greatest Hits. When I was a kid, I asked my dad why he didn’t get it fixed, and he said why waste money on repairs when it was playing exactly what he wanted to listen to.

If I listen to that tape right now, it’ll destroy me, so I resort to the distraction provided by my phone. I’m pleasantly surprised to see messages from Quan: