Litsa Dremousis
There Are Never Enough Napkins When Dad’s in the Hospital
Late Sunday night, my brother calls:
“Mom says Dad’s in the ICU again.
Be downstairs in ten—
Jen and I will pick you up on the way there.”
Dad’s heart has tried to kill him
more times than he’s lied about quitting
smoking.
So, I suppose it’s a little bit his
fault.
I love Dad so much
and know
that if I
—like him—
had survived
the Nazi occupation of Greece
and its subsequent civil war
I’d pour Stoli
on my Cheerios
and crush barbecue potato chips
into my pizza
and that I’d do it
eight or nine times by Tuesday.
Really, then, what are a few cigarettes if they get him through the day?
Even if he ends up in the hospital
again
and again
and exhausts us
nearly as much
as the nicotine
exhausts his aortic valves?
Maybe I’m practicing
acceptance.
Or maybe I’m still being
a judgmental asshole.
I grab my large black purse
and stuff it
full
of the cloth napkins
Mom and Dad gave me
as a housewarming gift.
Tonight will stretch into the early
morning
and all of us will forage
in the cafeteria
for whatever’s edible
that can be carried
back to Dad’s room.
The only thing I’ve learned for sure:
There are never enough napkins
when Dad’s in the hospital.
~
“Mountains, Man”
My dog Thomas and I
are out for a walk
during the first glimmers
of Seattle April
when my phone rings
at 6:13 p.m.
Thomas barks
—he’s a good little dude but the phone is his sworn enemy—
and when I see
the name on my screen
I want to bark, too.
My awful doctor is calling.
He’s a misogynistic tool
and after our last appointment
I told my best friend:
I hope a nest of spiders hatches in his balls.
To the best of my knowledge
and despite my best efforts,
one did not.
A nearby Magnolia tree
is peacocking and its pink and white blossoms
seem to open and multiply
in real time
as Thomas barks louder
—You shall be vanquished!—
and I reflect on its beauty
and Thomas’ perfect face
before I answer
because I know, well…
I know.
“Over here, baby!”
We sit on the credit union steps
a few sidewalked feet away
and I pick up.
Dr. Awful tells me
my biopsy results
are a shitshow
and my thyroid gland
—a good friend I’d taken for granted, it seems—
must come out
immediately .
Like everything in this region
the credit union sign
has a mountain on it
and while I don’t believe in universe woo woo signs,
my best friend fell
to his death
in the mountains
and sometimes life
is as subtle
as an ambulance siren.
“Thanks for calling!” I blather
and hang up
because there’s no template
when the human equivalent
of congealed cheese
sounds matter-of-fact saying:
It’ll probably be
Stage Three.
Thomas and I keep sitting
on the cold cement.
I place my face
on the back of his nape
and stroke his soft brown fur,
too numb
to think about
all that must come
next.
Litsa Dremousis (she/her) is the author of Altitude Sickness (Future Tense Books). Seattle Metropolitan Magazine named it one of the all-time “20 Books Every Seattleite Should Read.” Her story “Slipping Through the Membrane” was recently nominated for Best Small Fictions 2026, her essay "After the Fire" was selected as one of the "Most Notable Essays 2011” by Best American Essays, and The Seattle Weekly named her one of "50 Women Who Rock Seattle.” The Believer, Bright Flash Fiction Review, Esquire, Filter, Flare Lit Mag, Flash Fiction Magazine, In Parentheses, McSweeney’s, Monkeybicycle, MSN, NPR, NYMag, NYT, Pangyrus, Paper, Paste, PEN Center USA, Pictura Journal, P&W, PW, The Rumpus, Salon, Shine Poetry Quarterly, Short Beasts, Slate, WaPo, et al.
