The Warmth of Chain Restaurants

This narrative centers on Red Lobster, but first, let me share my experience on September 11.

I had just graduated from law school when I witnessed the second plane hit the second tower. I stood by a wall of windows in the cafeteria of a building at the intersection of Varick and Houston, which housed various federal offices. My friend Nancy and I had heard about the first plane about five minutes earlier and rushed up to the cafeteria to "watch."

As we rode the elevator, I couldn’t help but wonder what was happening with the air traffic controllers in New York. How could a plane crash into a building? And would I have enough time to grab a coffee?

Upon arriving, we found our colleagues standing silently, gazing at the burning first tower. I joined them beside an administrative law judge already dressed in his robes. Then the second plane appeared, slowly approaching the second tower. Suddenly, the judge exclaimed, “Get the hell out of here; we’re under attack.”

My mind was still processing the air traffic situation. But when the judge uttered “hell,” it jolted me back to reality, instilling more fear than the sight of the burning buildings. I turned to Nancy and whispered, “The judge just said hell! He said we’re under attack?” We bolted.

Nancy wanted to take the elevator, but I insisted we use the stairs—wasn’t that a rule in emergencies? Ultimately, we took the elevator, both of us in heels, absorbing the weight of the judge's words: we—the United States—were under attack.

We exited from the building’s north side and spotted someone raising an American flag; he hadn’t witnessed what we had and we screamed at him to take it down. An FBI agent rushed out, dropping his firearm, which slid across the pavement in slow motion.

We reached the corner and halted to watch the buildings burn, almost surreal. Subway passengers emerged, tears streaming down their faces, grappling with the reality I was still processing. Our friend Alice approached us calmly, suggesting we leave for her apartment.

“Alice,” I said, as if she were the one not understanding, “I’m watching these buildings burn.” But Alice had grown up in Israel and understood the gravity of terrorist attacks. She took my arm, urging, “Let’s go.”

Once at Alice’s apartment, she began changing into leggings. “What are you doing?” I asked, puzzled. Is there a dress code for a terrorist attack? “If work is canceled, I’m going to yoga,” she replied, holding up a sports bra.

Nancy and I exchanged looks. We were all in a state of disbelief. Despite Alice's earlier clarity, it seemed her understanding had faded. “They probably won’t hold yoga classes today,” Nancy remarked, attempting to reach her husband Jimmy for the fifth time.

When she finally got through, I noticed her eyes widen. “Okay, honey,” she responded repeatedly while listening to his urgent instructions. “He told me to withdraw cash from the ATM and pick up the girls from school and head to Westchester.” We exchanged glances. “He’s also going to the towers,” she added, her voice still robotic.

The second tower collapsed. Nancy called Jimmy back, but he didn’t answer. Her expression shifted from mechanical to human. “Jimmy is a coward,” I joked, “there’s no way he actually went inside that building.”

“Yeah,” Alice joined in, eager to comfort Nancy, “Jimmy cares more about his looks than you do, Nancy…he’s not a real cop.”

“You’re right, he is a coward,” Nancy laughed, playing along. “Can I borrow some shoes?” Alice handed her flip-flops, and Nancy discarded her heels, rushing out.

Alice and I lingered a bit longer, even attempting to grab lunch at a Cuban restaurant. However, we witnessed people streaming uptown, dust-covered and some bloodied, leading us back to her apartment. Alice silently offered me another pair of flip-flops, and I set off for my home in Brooklyn.

The Brooklyn Bridge was closed, so I walked from Soho to the Williamsburg Bridge. Dressed in a pencil skirt that was chic yet restrictive, I found myself contemplating whether to remove it to navigate over the concrete barriers that had inexplicably appeared. As I stood there, someone silently lifted me over to the other side. I never saw who it was.

A group of us walked quietly across the bridge. I remember thinking, I’m not mature enough for this; I’m still a child. I also thought, these terrorists are clever, and if I were one, I’d take out all the bridges. This thought made me want to run, but then I considered, If I run, everyone will run, and it will be chaos, as Judd Nelson articulated so perfectly in The Breakfast Club.

Years later, I believe I read an article in The New York Times stating that everyone on the bridges shared the same thought: the desire to flee, yet no one did. Did I fabricate this? Likely.

What I do recall is the profound sense of unity that enveloped the city, akin to what I imagine close-knit families or small towns experience. Rudy Giuliani was an entirely different figure back then. He managed to calm our fears while also instilling resilience. “If London can overcome, so can we,” he stated in one of his many televised addresses. President Bush advised us to go shopping.

After crossing the bridge, I knocked on my boyfriend’s door. Jesse, who worked late shifts at upscale restaurants, lived in Williamsburg. Exhausted from walking, I took a risk by waking him up, hoping he wouldn’t be upset. He opened the door, tousled hair falling into his face. “There’s been a terrorist attack,” I said, standing in my now dirty pencil skirt and Alice’s flip-flops. “Can I come in?”

Jesse absorbed the news much quicker than I did. Soon, I lay in his bed alone, watching the only channel his television antenna could receive. Jesse and his roommate had rushed outside to offer assistance but returned after an hour. “People are gathering by the water to watch the smoke,” Jesse said, “but there doesn’t seem to be anything else we can do.”

I met my friend Jay a couple of months later, and we went out for tapas. He was a young doctor working in an emergency room near the World Trade Center and echoed Jesse’s sentiments. “We kept waiting for people to arrive needing help,” he recounted over tapas and drinks, “but only firefighters with dust in their eyes came in; we had to restrain them from rushing back to save their colleagues.”

What Jay was really saying: no one came in because everyone was already gone. I understood this by then, not just from news coverage depicting people leaping from the heights of the towers, but because I had witnessed one or two of them with my own eyes before Alice pulled me away. They appeared tiny, like fleas jumping off a dog.

While enjoying my second glass of Sangria, I discovered that Jay had a car. “Let’s go to Red Lobster,” I suggested. “I think there’s one in Queens.”

I explained to Jay that I thought it would be amusing. After all, we were too sophisticated for Red Lobster. We were a doctor and a lawyer in New York City, Manhattanites, for goodness' sake. It would be the height of irony, almost performance art. My commitment to irony and sarcasm was still strong, as any good liberal arts student’s would be. I ironically collected snow globes, vintage lunchboxes, and doilies from thrift shops, deriding those who came before me for their tastes. Visiting Red Lobster would be a natural extension of that attitude, scoffing at things associated with suburbia and those who watched too much television.

I wasn’t alone in this behavior; the entire 1990s felt filled with twenty-somethings expressing similar sentiments. It contributed to the 1940s rayon dress shortage in thrift stores, as we all donned them with combat boots, ironically mocking the enforced femininity of our grandmothers without considering whether they had any real choice.

Irony was so pervasive that after the World Trade Center collapsed, many intellectuals declared the age of irony had ended. A debate ensued over who first made this claim, but many did. Subsequently, others mocked this sentiment, arguing that throughout history, cynicism has helped us cope.

I was vaguely aware of this cultural discourse when I told Jay I wanted to go to Red Lobster, but if I were honest with myself, I would acknowledge that the same debate was raging within me. As pretentious as I was about the idea of lobster mac and cheese or any other offerings from Red Lobster, I secretly yearned for the comforting familiarity that chain restaurants provided.

I craved spacious booths with room to settle into on plush seats. I craved a parking lot, a laminated menu crafted by corporate headquarters, and waitstaff in uniforms. I longed for the feeling I had as a child visiting places like the Cheesecake Factory. Everything was consistently straightforward and reasonable. The food was occasionally excellent, often mediocre, but even when it wasn’t great, it was still reliably good, akin to a mild pleasure. I wanted dependability. I wanted simplicity.

Thus, we went. I don’t recall much from that night, aside from fleeting memories: Jay waiting for me outside my office building on a weeknight, and I was impressed he could manage to idle in a New York City street. We crossed a bridge—unsure which one—and settled into a U-shaped booth so comfortable I could have napped.

Inevitably, we overordered, as I insisted we needed several appetizers and main dishes for a “tasting menu.”

The food was decent enough that if it had been served at a small, dimly lit restaurant in the East Village, The New Yorker could have featured it in “Talk of the Town,” calling the menu “seafood forward.” But we were in Queens, surrounded by laminated menus and families whose children played peek-a-boo with strangers in the booth behind us. It was quite pleasant, though I was reluctant to admit it.

A few months later, Jay relocated to Seattle. I can’t recall if he cited his ER experience as the reason for his departure, but over the years, I’ve woven this detail into my memories of 9/11. A few years later, I returned to Los Angeles. We maintained contact, initially by phone, as was customary in 2004, then by email, text, and eventually Instagram. We even enjoyed a couple of wine-tasting trips together. Our communication varied; sometimes we spoke weekly, other times we didn’t connect for years.

On July 27, 2023, nearly twenty-two years after I crossed the Williamsburg Bridge in Alice’s flip-flops, I received a call from my father’s assisted living facility. He had been there for three years due to advanced Parkinson’s and they were sending him to the hospital because he was struggling to breathe. This was the second such incident that month. A week earlier, he had been taken to the ER for “acting strange.” The ER doctors ran tests and declared him fine, preparing to send him home until I suggested they check for a urinary tract infection.

Indeed, he had a UTI. “I don’t even have a medical degree, and I knew this,” I remarked to the nurse over the phone, half-joking yet irked. “You’re right,” she laughed. “Would you like a job here?” They sent him back to the assisted living facility with antibiotics, expecting improvement.

But he didn’t improve. I wasn’t sure if the antibiotic was ineffective or if he couldn’t swallow due to his Parkinson’s, so I pleaded with Kaiser Permanente (his primary provider) to issue a hospice order for a more holistic evaluation. They refused for no clear reason. No matter how much I cried, shouted about the advanced Parkinson’s, or begged, they simply denied my requests. I didn’t understand why. This was my first lesson: there are good people and there are bad people. Kaiser was among the latter.

Then I received the call about his labored breathing. This time, I knew I had to drive to the hospital, but I moved slowly, microwaving leftover Chinese food and bantering with Mike, the wellness nurse who called the ambulance, about Los Angeles traffic. “By the time I drive across town, he’ll probably be dead,” I quipped. Mike politely chuckled, but I sensed he didn’t find it humorous.

During the drive, a part of my mind that recognized something dire was about to happen kicked in. This part of my brain didn’t communicate with the other parts; perhaps it was being courteous. Yet, somehow, this part dialed my boss to inform her of my father’s impending death, so I wouldn’t report to work the following day.

Apparently, I hung up mid-sentence as I entered the emergency room, but I have no recollection of this. I texted another boss with the same message, but again, my memory fails me. The part of my brain making calls and sending texts was operating under a top-secret protocol, while the rest of me was in the dark.

I only learned about these communications when one boss reminded me weeks after my father passed. “When I received that text, I felt so sorry for you,” he said from behind his desk. I opened my mouth to ask, “What text…?” but I quickly realized it was impossible to explain that one segment of my brain didn’t communicate with the others. People would think I was insane. They’d make Sybil jokes.

When I arrived at the emergency room, Dad was on a ventilator. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We had clear documentation stating otherwise—not just an advance directive, but specific paperwork from the assisted living facility that should have accompanied him during the ambulance ride, which was somehow misplaced along the way. The ER doctor even contacted the assisted living facility, only to be incorrectly informed that Dad was “full code” and not “DNR.”

Naturally, the assisted living facility denied this, as we inhabit a litigious society where everyone is instructed to deny responsibility at all costs. However, the very pregnant, youthful ER doctor hadn’t received this memo, and she apologized profusely once I explained the situation.

Her apology struck a chord with me. I had just spent a week pleading with Kaiser, and here was a human being filled with remorse, extending her apologies. I placed my hand on her arm and said, “It’s alright. I understand chaos.” I would have forgiven her for nearly anything.

A look of relief washed over her face. She then used complex terminology to describe Dad’s condition, but all I heard was, “Your dad is in serious trouble. His kidneys are failing. Very badly.”

I realized that straightforward questions were crucial for navigating this situation. “What’s the next step?” I inquired, and then I actually listened. The options: “keep him comfortable” or “attempt everything.”

I stepped aside to allow three large men wheeling someone on a stretcher through, tangled in a mess of tubes, and then I sidestepped again to avoid a cabinet that seemed to be overflowing with more tubes. The ER felt reminiscent of my parents’ garage, with furniture crammed into corners, stacked on top of one another, leaving no room to maneuver.

How could this be? This was nothing like the emergency rooms depicted on television, which is why it struck me hard the first time. My dad was going to die crammed into a corner, next to a trash can. “Let’s keep him comfortable,” I stated, grateful that my dad and I had already discussed this, although it turned out we hadn’t had that conversation nearly often enough.

Soon, the same large men who had pushed the other Tube Guy were maneuvering my dad through a maze of hallways. I struggled to keep up in my flip-flops—my footwear of choice in emergencies. “Where are we headed?” I asked, striving to keep my questions as straightforward as possible.

“To the ICU,” one of the male nurses retorted, as if I should have been aware, as if it were obvious, as if it were routine for tubes to be inserted down fathers’ throats. As if an infection that originated in Dad’s urinary tract could choke him.

Typically, I would have retorted. Usually, I would have snapped, “It’s my first experience with a dying father, you idiot.” How was I to know the ICU was where they kept people “comfortable”? (Spoiler alert: the ICU is not where they keep people comfortable). However, on this night, I knew I had to remain calm and polite. Just like on the Williamsburg Bridge, I understood that I couldn’t run around screaming.

Similar to the Williamsburg Bridge, the ICU was silent, reminiscent of the kind of silence I experienced when Dad made me take science classes as a child and forced me to visit an anechoic chamber at UCLA, a place where sound waves go to die. A pretty nurse emerged, and I thought Dad would appreciate that. Then the doctor entered, and words spilled from my mouth: he wasn’t supposed to be intubated/but the paperwork was lost/but I forgive the ER doctor/she was kind and it was chaotic, you know/Dad didn’t want extraordinary measures/kidneys were in dire straits/I just want to keep him comfortable/but how do you do that with a tube in his throat?/Can we remove the tube?/What’s the procedure?/Is it game time?

“Actually,” he said while standing in the doorway, “I think he can pull through. Let’s give the antibiotics a chance to work.”

People often describe moments like this as whiplash, but for me, it felt akin to putting on glasses with an overly strong prescription. My right eye hurt, the doctor appeared enormous, the nurse seemed small, Dad looked blurry, and I felt nauseous. “But the doctor downstairs said…?” I protested. He waved this away. “Go home and get some rest.”

I have no recollection of the drive across Los Angeles, nor of the return journey the following day. However, I remember the guilt I felt for not rushing back, for walking the dog first, for leisurely sipping coffee. I was so late that the doctor called while I was en route, and I nearly asked him if I should turn back. Did my Dad pass away while I washed my face? “I’ll just talk to you when you arrive,” he said calmly.

The new nurse was also attractive but covered in tattoos, which somehow put me at ease. Some form of trauma likely inspired her to take ownership of her body, and that made me trust her. (Always trust trauma survivors). I explained my confusion: the first doctor said Dad was in critical condition, while the second insisted he wasn’t. I just wanted to ensure he was comfortable if he was going to pass away anyway?

“First,” she said, looking me directly in the eye, “thank you for prioritizing his comfort; I detest torturing patients without reason.” Relief washed over me. Surely, if she believed this, the new doctor would also be on the same wavelength. The doctor from the previous night was merely an anomaly, and all the staff would now be aligned. The new doctor entered, appearing around fifteen years old.

Words spilled from my mouth again concerning keeping Dad comfortable. “No, I think he can pull through,” he stated, siding with the other ICU physician. The tattooed nurse shot me a knowing look. He departed, and I turned to her, “But…?” She was tucking a blanket around my dad and looked up, “He’s basing his opinion on his medical training, and I’m basing mine on nineteen years of working in the ICU.”

What I didn’t grasp then, but certainly understand now, is that she attempted to convey something, but couldn’t or felt she shouldn’t express it directly. She was trying to indicate that young doctors tend to focus solely on “recovery”—whatever that entails. That they have so much technology at their disposal, that “recovery” seemed almost guaranteed, in that they could eventually wean my father off the ventilator and he would be technically “alive.”

But I wasn’t catching on to her message. It didn’t occur to me to ask what the doctor meant by “recovery.” I simply assumed it would result in some version of life. Later, the tattooed nurse made another attempt. “The doctor mentioned that your dad will need dialysis for the rest of his life. Would you want that?” she inquired, staring unflinchingly at me. “No!” I practically shouted, as if I were on a game show, because my dad and I had a specific conversation about dialysis two years prior. I was thrilled to score points for the right answer. “Right, so then…” she said, trailing off but maintaining her gaze on me.

But I still didn’t understand. No one informed me that I should ask the doctor what “recover” actually signified. No one told me I could pose this question, then insist they cease all care for my dad and commence administering the appropriate medications. No one provides guidance about anything.

I don’t recall the drive home that night either. I don’t remember buying a pack of cigarettes. But I do recall sitting in my tiny backyard, surrounded by bougainvillea, finally reaching out to Jay.

“Whoa, whoa,” he interrupted when I reached the part about recovery. “Recover to what?” he asked, aiming to ground me in reality. I didn’t comprehend why he was the only one doing this, and to this day, I still wonder. What do others do if they lack a friend like Jay? “They didn’t elaborate on that part?” I asked, oblivious to the fact I should have demanded they clarify that aspect.

Fortunately, Jay was abundantly clear, articulating what the tattooed nurse couldn’t bring herself to say. “If he’s going to ‘recover’ to lying flat, only consuming puréed foods, would he desire that? If not, instruct them to keep him comfortable.”

No, he wouldn’t want that. Panic surged through me. Now I understood that a window was closing. If my dad “recovered,” I would never have the opportunity to grant him a gentle passing, accompanied by Dilaudid and Ativan to ease him into whatever lies beyond. Once he was “recovered,” it would be impossible to request a lethal overdose disguised as pain management.

This closing window meant I had to return to the hospital as quickly as possible on Saturday morning, but first, I fulfilled a favor for an acquaintance who knew my dad was in the ICU. I still don’t understand why I did this. I don’t know why I didn’t skip the favor and rush out to save my father from a future that would undoubtedly be torturous for him. I don’t know why I hesitated.

Eventually, I made my way there and encountered the same fifteen-year-old doctor. I echoed Jay’s words precisely: Recovery? Supine position? Puréed foods? Comfort instead? “Yes, we can remove him from the ventilator,” he affirmed, “he’s breathing independently now.”

The disorienting sensation returned. If he was breathing on his own, he was now recovering, and the antibiotics must be effective. Maybe I was too late? Was it too late to switch lanes?

I left when they removed the ventilator because I couldn’t bear to watch. When I returned, the new ICU nurse—tattoo-free, older, kind—was placing an oxygen mask on my dad. “Oh, is that to keep him comfortable?” I inquired. “We’re still treating him, dear,” she replied, somewhat librarian-like, “because you didn’t specify ‘comfort care.’”

I DON’T HAVE TIME TO GO TO MEDICAL SCHOOL!! I screamed internally. I DON’T KNOW THE LINGO. “Oh, well…that’s what I meant when I said ‘keep him comfortable,’” I explained, using my best “I’m a good girl” voice. “Well, now we need to call the doctor back,” she sighed.

The fifteen-year-old doctor returned, and I reiterated everything: puréed foods/supine position/advanced Parkinson’s/I mean seriously? I can’t recall what else I said, but soon they were removing all the tubes, including the intravenous antibiotics. I wished the tattooed nurse were there to give me a high-five.

And then, nothing. It wasn’t like the movies where they turn off the machines, and everything goes beeeep-beep; someone looks down and announces, “he’s gone,” followed by hugs. It wasn’t anything like that; my dad was sedated but continued to breathe. The young doctor remarked, “You don’t reach nearly ninety without a strong heart and lungs.” I told him my dad was an avid swimmer, and he nodded in approval.

Suddenly, I felt famished. I ventured to the hospital cafeteria, sitting outside while consuming the hospital’s version of Peruvian food. I recalled that the last time I felt this panicked and bewildered, I was fleeing a cafeteria with Nancy, and perhaps there existed some sort of magical balance in it all or a mathematical equation: if you’re in the midst of a tragedy, will there be a cafeteria nearby?

A breeze from Santa Monica beach blew my hair into my mouth, and while I was pulling it free, my acquaintance texted to inquire about the status of the favor I had done for her hours earlier.

My father is dying, I texted back, dazed. Of course, no worries! she replied, followed by a barrage of messages culminating in her wishing she could help me, which infuriated me. For every tattooed nurse who tried to assist, there was someone who viewed another as a means to their ends, believing the other person cared about their favor while they were watching their father pass away. For every person who picked you up and carried you over a concrete barrier during a terrorist attack, there was someone who wouldn’t let you over on the freeway while you drove across Los Angeles to see your dying dad. Another kind of balance.

I returned upstairs and sat in my father’s room. My cousins had already visited in the past few days. My cousin’s wife, the only one in the room not related to my father by blood, had cried the hardest. She wailed as she recounted how kind my dad had been to her children; how he had picked them up from school when she couldn’t, how he had helped them with their math homework.

I was unaware of any of this; it must have happened while I was in college, then law school. I sat in the hospital’s version of a Lazy-Boy chair while my dad snored, contemplating all the things I didn’t know about him and how I would never know what I didn’t know. Then the nurse/librarian entered with a gift bag.

“I’m getting…swag?” I asked, finally laughing. Indeed, I was receiving swag. It turns out that at UCLA, you get swag when someone passes away. This swag included a blanket, which I placed over my dad, a notepad, and various other grief-related items I can’t recall. The nurse/librarian and I sat together in silence. “I’m just glad to be here with you while you provide your father a good death,” she said, holding my hand.

But he didn’t die. And he didn’t die the following day, either. By this point, he had been moved to the critical care unit, which confusingly differs from the ICU. The critical care unit housed cancer patients completing laps with their IVs, and families softly conversing with frail, bald patients, each in private rooms. While the ICU was quiet, the critical care unit buzzed.

Despite the clear decision I believed I had made, confusion continued to escalate. I was informed that Dad could enter the hospice program, and did I wish for that? But wasn’t that what we were already doing? I asked. He was now receiving a steady stream of Dilaudid and anti-anxiety medications, snoring peacefully. Well, they explained, yes, but if he entered the hospice program, you’d receive free counseling for a year. But it was Sunday, and the hospice team wasn’t available to evaluate him. Don’t people pass away on Sundays? I inquired. Sure they do, they responded, not addressing my question.

The hospice nurse arrived, expressing her eagerness to care for my dad, but again, the hospice team needed to approve. “But isn’t that what’s already happening?” I cried, suddenly sobbing. “What is there to assess?!”

This is just how it works, she explained. There’s paperwork, she clarified. And even though he would receive the same medications and treatment, hospice was still somehow different.

At this point, I surrendered to the chaos. I’ll do better when my mom dies, I thought. I settled into the hospital Lazy-Boy and pulled my sweatshirt over me. It was July 30, 2023, in Los Angeles, 88 degrees outside, but frigid inside. “It won’t be long now,” the hospice nurse said, “I can see it in his face.”

On Monday, I was informed that the hospice team couldn’t decide whether to admit him but had authorized significantly more Dilaudid. By this stage, I was beginning to giggle at the absurdity. My dad was on a Dilaudid and Lorazepam drip but wasn’t technically in “hospice.” Alright, whatever. When I disclosed to a friend with an opioid issue what Dad was on, she remarked, “Oh, he’s having the time of his life.”

I crossed the street to the assisted living facility to have lunch with my mother. As soon as I entered, the receptionist asked me how my dad was, and I burst into tears. “Do not cry, Adeline,” she admonished, “stay strong.”

“But he’s dying,” I explained. Surely, I was allowed to cry if my father was passing away? Yet she refused to accept this. “He was just in exercise class last week!” she snapped. Employee after employee from the assisted living facility approached, echoing the same sentiment: my father could not possibly be dying; he had just been exercising/playing chess/solving crossword puzzles last week.

I attempted to explain: UTI. Supine position. Puréed foods. Dialysis. The Parkinson’s, as you all know? Still breathing, yes. No idea why. But no one would accept these explanations; they shook their heads slowly, as if I had made a grave error, as if they had encountered this scenario before, and I had somehow messed it up.

As I pulled out a chair to sit with my mother for lunch, she looked up at me and declared, “I’m not going to the hospital; you have to handle this all by yourself.” Her friend Enid appeared horrified. She stood and embraced me. “Your daughter is hurting; she’s in trouble,” Enid said, still hugging me and speaking to my mother. “You need to support her.”

I didn’t bother informing Enid that help from my mother wasn’t forthcoming. I squeezed her and laughed, “Don’t hold your breath, Enid.” Then I ordered a hot dog and returned to the hospital. My cousins visited again, and we gossiped about other relatives. Then I went home once more.

I was sitting in my backyard, smoking and speaking with Jay when a call from the hospital interrupted. “I’m Doctor So-and-So, and I have unfortunate news,” a kind female voice chimed in. “I’m sorry to inform you that your father has just passed away.”

“No, it’s good news,” I wailed. It wasn’t merely tears spilling from me; I felt as though I were exhaling something from a dark tunnel, releasing nothing, as if all sound waves had ceased, just like that anechoic chamber. “Please, please, please tell me I did the right thing,” I cried into the phone, aware I was placing her in an impossible situation. Because what could she say?

Yet somehow, she managed to convince me that I had made the correct decision. Fish returned home with his dog walker Susie, who rushed up to embrace me while I was still sobbing. Jay mentioned that individuals with dying loved ones in hospitals experience their own personal 9/11. If that’s accurate, Susie was a first responder, racing into a burning building without hesitation.

I arranged a funeral. I smoked in my backyard. I hired someone to clean out my dad’s room and relocate my mom to a smaller unit at the assisted living facility. I spent time feeling upset that I hadn’t heard enough from Camaro Man, followed by more time chastising myself for caring about romantic entanglements when my father had just died.

And then, I began to second-guess myself. Images of the assisted living facility staff shaking their heads at me replayed in my mind. I recalled a conversation I had with my dad a few years prior, where he expressed that he did want antibiotics if needed. “But you didn’t consider the possibility of sepsis,” I muttered to no one in particular. I had an appointment with a therapist, where I pleaded for Xanax and labeled myself a murderer.

When people inquired, I attempted to explain why I couldn’t stop crying, why I was chain-smoking, why I called myself a murderer, and why I sought a therapist who worked in a jail, as my mental anguish surpassed superficial cognitive behavioral therapy. People tried to assist: you had an advance directive, they asserted. And there was no chance for recovery, right?

How could I articulate that there was a chance for recovery, but no one understood what that entailed? He could have recovered and played chess, or he could have emerged as some version of a vegetable. And there was the Parkinson’s, relentlessly advancing. How could I explain that I had no idea what would transpire, and I chose this path nonetheless? How could I convey that even if everything had been entirely clear, deciding someone should die is not a decision one person should make? It surpassed my abilities, and everyone’s.

To escape this quicksand, I resolved to visit Jay. He still resided in Seattle, near a beach adorned with broken oyster shells and beautiful rocks, on land populated with trees older than Los Angeles. I recognized I needed nature, I needed to gaze into the void, and that void should likely encompass an ocean.

On my first night there, we dined at a trendy restaurant featuring Mezcal cocktails and raw yellowtail delicately arranged with shiso leaves. But on the second night, we went to Red Lobster.

We didn’t arrive at this decision lightly. I can’t remember who proposed it first, but the thought process was something along the lines of: it’s been two decades since we visited; would it still be amusing and ironic? Or would we genuinely enjoy it? It was the perfect experiment since we knew Red Lobster hadn’t changed. Sure, there might be new specials on the menu, but the architecture, the philosophy, the essence of Red Lobster remained consistent, like all chain restaurants. We, however, were not the same. Lives had been lost. Hearts had been broken, and I had gained weight while he had lost some hair.

We drove to one of those complexes featuring all the chains: Red Lobster, Olive Garden, Chili’s, Panda Express, Best Buy, Target. It’s almost magical if you stop to think about it. We parked in the enormous parking lot and took a path through “the courtyard,” a grassy space situated between Olive Garden and Red Lobster. We hesitated, beginning to doubt our decision. “There’s no one in Red Lobster,” Jay noted, before we realized that Red Lobster had tinted windows, obscuring our view of families already present, passing around bread baskets. It was 5:30 p.m.

“Should we try Olive Garden?” I suggested, pondering whether this might disrupt some equilibrium I had begun to suspect existed in the world and mattered—cafeterias seemed to coexist with tragedy, for every selfish individual, there was a selfless one—but I couldn’t articulate why or how. “No,” I concluded, recalling that the best way to make decisions is to push through. “We are here for Red Lobster.”

Unsurprisingly, the young college student who seated us was sweet and cheerful, but not overly so. I remembered why I craved Red Lobster after 9/11: dependable kindness. The waitress exhibited that same corporate warmth, recognizing we were novices and kindly suggesting which appetizer we should order.

In 2001, Jay and I had ordered half the menu. But tonight, we opted to share a single platter of lobster and shrimp, accompanied by a side of vegetables. If this wasn’t a sign of aging and fatigue, I didn’t know what was.

I believe it was around the moment we both sampled the garlicky shrimp that we exchanged glances and finally admitted it: Red Lobster was absolutely fantastic. The staff was friendly. The seats were cozy. The food was delightful. My shoulders relaxed, and somehow, I felt that everything would be alright—even though I was navigating a world without my father, even though I might have been responsible for his death, as the employees at the assisted living facility seemed to believe.

There’s nothing quite like a drink menu crafted by corporate headquarters. I ordered a margarita with a side shot of Grand Marnier. When it arrived, I was at a loss. “How do I do this?” I asked, looking up at the waitress for guidance.

“Sweetheart, just shoot it or stir it in,” she replied, smiling at me. Finally, someone provided straightforward instructions. Finally, there was no ambiguity, yet there remained a choice. Finally, there were clear directives, no winks or nudges, no claims that I hadn’t asked the right question, no confusing situations of being in hospice while also not being in hospice, and no assisted living facility staff shaking their heads at me.

Just a question and a simple answer. I gazed up at her, contemplating whether to slide out of the booth and hug her. “Oh dear, you look exhausted.” As soon as she said it, she slapped her hand over her mouth, apologizing. “I’m so sorry; I know that’s an awful thing to say, it’s not that you look bad, but…”

“It’s alright,” I replied, mixing the Grand Marnier into the bowl-sized margarita. “I know you said it with love.”

Twenty years later, Red Lobster came to the rescue once more.