Old Man: Part II - Metastatic

He would never forget that sound. The final moments of his father's life, laying there in that medical bed, set up in the spare room at his parent's home, with a view of the front porch that hadn’t been used in twelve months.

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When death is imminent, and the body has lost all ability to clear the airway of saliva and flehm, a rattle forms on each fading breath. Matt couldn't remember where the Hospice nurses said the sound came from... the back of the throat or the lungs... but it sounded straight from some remote corner of hell.

His father had fought hard, beating back the cancer for more than a decade, but once it spread to his spine, it was like he'd been hit by a bus. Two vertebrae had fractured, not from any bus or fall or impact, simply from the cancer eroding his bone to the point that leaning forward caused everything to shatter. There was so much pain, Matt's father spent his days trying not to laugh and praying not to sneeze or cough for fear his spine would explode.

And so the last thirteen months of Dean Ward's life had essentially been spent bedridden. On the good days, in his best moments, Matt's old man had scraped up a small bit of energy, like the last half-melted bite of mint-chip ice cream in the bowl, and he'd scooted around the house in a wheelchair.

Matthew, in moments he still despised himself for, had resented his dying father, disgusted that he had to watch the titan from his youth become a shell of a man. Firm and poised, had fallen to feeble and pathetic, and it was more than Matt had the stomach for... to watch as the strongest guy he'd ever known waved off any attempt to try and tackle the simple act of putting his feet on the fucking floor.

Though he'd never admitted it to anyone, there were times Matt had made plans just to have an excuse not to be home when his Mom would inevitably place that call to come help change his father or adjust the bedding. It was only by some curse of Chronos that he had even been present when his father passed.

On A Wednesday afternoon, his mother had texted and said there was a problem with the WiFi, asking if Matthew could swing by and take a stab at resetting it. He had promised to be over in half an hour.

It was 40 minutes later when he walked in the front door. Before he could even muster a "Hey, Mom", Nadia, the Hospice nurse on shift, had jumped from the doorway of the guest room and waved her hand frantically, saying just a single word.

"Now!"

For all the hiding he had done, all the cowardly avoidance, he hadn't hesitated for even a second, sprinting into the room and gripping his father's hand. Matt remembered the eyes, partially open, rolled over white, like a shark in the moments that it attacks.

And then that sound.

The nurse had left to go gather Matt's mom and his little brother. For a moment, alone in that room with the shell of the man that had taught him how to carefully remove the hook from the mouth of a walleye, Matt had squeezed his father's frail fingers and wondered if the weight of what was next would break his back too.

*****

Las Vegas, NV

Late September, 2025

“Alright. Here goes.”

They’d not said more than a dozen or so words in the two-and-a-half years that had passed since Georgie packed a bag, in the days leading up to Culture Shock 2023, and bolted for Vegas.

But, after the hundredth unanswered call… he’d finally left a voicemail. A simple “I’d like to talk.”

She was twenty, which meant a text, just saying “Ok.”

And so, a week later, Matt found himself standing at the door of a second floor apartment on the outskirts of Las Vegas, NV, as the sun set somewhere off in the desert.  He took a couple of deep breaths before knocking, working through the most appropriate greeting. As Matt was debating between ‘hey stranger’ and the Titanic Meme ‘It’s been 84 years…’, the door opened, freezing him in place.

“I…he…”

“Hey, Dad.” Georgie stepped to the side and brushed her dirty-blonde hair behind her ear. “Come in.”

“Sorry,” Matt cautiously stepped into the apartment, “caught me a bit off-guard there.”

“I saw you coming across the parking lot. Seemed nervous. I thought you might stand out here for an hour debating on whether to knock or turn back. You want something to eat or drink? Tequila?”

“Tequila?”

“I picked up a bottle of Siete Leguas when you said you were going to come out. It’s not half-bad.”

“I forgot.”

“That I’m 21 now?”

“Yeah.” He crossed the living room and sat down at a small two-person dining table, scuffed and scratched, with a slight wobble. “Not sure how I feel about that.”

“Nothing to feel about it, Dad. It just sorta happens. People have birthdays, get older.” Georgie opened a corner cabinet and pulled out the stubby bottle of reposado tequila, pouring a double over a block of ice in a rocks glass. “So, lets talk. I’ve got work and training tomorrow. I don’t want to be up too late.”

“I heard you’re finally getting goin’ in some real matches.”

“Yeah. Aunt Lindz made me earn it, that’s for sure.” Georgie sat down at the table and slid the drink over to her father.

“Well, if you hadn’t noticed, she’s been pretty successful. Knows what she’s doing, for sure.”

“Sounds like you two haven’t spoken much lately. Other than you biting her head off a couple weeks ago.”

“Ya saw that, huh?”

“Yes, Dad. I own a television.”

“Sure.” Matt glanced at the wall in the living room. “What is that a 50-inch? 55?”

“Dad…”

“Right.” Matthew sighed and took a sip of tequila. “Why did you run off for Vegas?”

“You know why. You wouldn’t train me.”

She was right. He’d started with a bit of softball question, something obvious, to ease into the conversation, though he wasn’t sure who the easing was for. As his mind formed the next words, he figured it was futile. Whatever he would say, the entire conversation was happening about two years too late.

“I don’t want this life for you.”

“But I do.” Georgie reached across the table and grabbed her father’s drink, taking a rather large sip of his tequila. “I’m the daughter of a wrestler. Period. I grew up bouncing on the bad knees of one of the all-time greats. You didn’t punch a clock at the office or the factory. You punched people in the face and… yeah… that’s weird and a little dangerous, but I loved it.”

“You know how much I missed because of wrestling? I wasn’t there at your first dance recital.”

“You’re right. But you were at the second. And then the third. And the fourth, fifth. It’s ok to miss something here or there. You weren’t some absent father… and you gave me something to be passionate about. I think you’ve spent way too much of your life apologizing for what you love. Stop.”

“I just don’t understand why you think you need this.”

“I don’t. I want it. Dad,” Georgie leaned forward and gave his hand a quick squeeze, “wrestling is in our bones. It’s alright.”

“Ok.” It was all he knew to say, but he squeezed her hand too, harder, and held his grip.

For a moment, neither said a word. Matt reached across the table and took back his tequila, but he didn’t take a sip, opting to just roll the glass in his free hand.

“So… Farthington, huh? Youngblood three years ago. The Uni Champ now… you sure know how to bite off more than you can chew.”

“You saw th…” Matt cut himself off as he caught the living room television out of the corner of his eye. “Right… TV.”

“I think I’m gonna order a pizza. Ya wanna hang around for a bite?”

“Thought you wanted to get to bed early?”

“It’s fine. We’ve got some catching up to do.” Georgie pulled her hand free and grabbed the cellphone from her pocket. “Besides, we should probably talk a little strategy so Cecilworth doesn’t kill you.”

Matt chuckled.

“Probably.”

*****

An Hour or Two Later

Away from the hustle and vices of the strip, Vegas could be quiet and empty, much like his rural Midwest upbringings. Only the sound of the radio filled his Chevy Colorado. As Matt hung a left, maybe 5 minutes from the Homewood Suites, he hit the brakes as he came across a train, barreling down an old set of Sin-city tracks. Stopped on his path, he shifted to ‘Park’ and took his foot off the brake, his knee popping and cracking as he stretched his leg.

Matt hadn’t been sure what to expect, speaking more than a few words to his eldest daughter for the first time in over two years. Georgie was right, he probably would have stood outside her front door for hours had she not opened it and invited him inside. And while they hadn’t ended the evening on the same exact page, or parted with the world’s warmest embrace, they’d at least talked… a lot… and reached some level of understanding.

He gave a flick of the switch and rolled down the window to his rental. Turning off the radio and taking a slow breath, Matt let the dry desert air and the sound of the train rattling the old tracks, fill the truck.

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Georgie had also been right about wrestling, how ingrained it was in their lives. Matt knew his career was almost over, all that was left was how to write those final moments. He thought about what Farthington had said on ReVival... that his Universal title had been earned through blood and grit and glue.

Alliteration of ‘grit and glue’ aside, they didn’t offer much. And then there was the blood.

A piece of paper, drug carelessly across the tip of a finger could draw red. It was all there, just beneath the surface. Blood was only skin deep. Wrestling, through the years, had got to Matt’s bones.

Flashing red lights went dark as the last of the train cars disappeared down the line. The crossing guard raised and cleared the way ahead.