The nurse was late meeting us when we got him home. We were sitting outside their house, a 1969 model mobile home, with the small garden plot he'd planted jutting out in front, three of his vehicles lined up in a row parallel with the trailer, and a myriad of tractors, snow blowers, and other garden and yard implements in various states of rust and decay -- though that decay lovingly halted by a covering of blue plastic tarps over some -- and a small deck of a front porch and five steps separating us from the front door.
And the nurse was late. She was to help us get him inside. Sage insisted that the best way to get him out of the back seat was to follow him out of the car with the portable oxygen tank. Trying to tell him that the line was long enough for him to stand up and step aside, then grab the tank out of the back seat, was not successful. He was being stubborn, and it was apparent I had to either completely embrace him or deny that he was my son. That's a joke. About stubbornness being in the blood. Not a very funny joke. I tried.
So Sage asked him to stay put while he ran up, unlocked the door and retrieved the new walker that had been delivered early in the day. Mother had one that she never used, but this one had wheels....and will probably have a motor if Dad lives long enough. There was still the issue of the steps on the porch, but I thought I could get him to pause long enough to sanely and rationally explain to him the best way I thought we should go inside. He had other ideas.
We wound around the first of the tarped tractors, between the Olds Bravada that he bought for Sage (who still doesn't have a driver's license -- a result of my ennui, if you ask Dad), beside the garden, which Dad had to stop and inspect and demand that a head of cabbage be cut as it had turned black and why the hell wasn't anyone keeping an eye on these things, anyway? The whole place goes to hell when he's not there, he'll tell you, if you just stand still long enough. Then, up over the paving stones he set when they moved out of the old house (the old house, still sitting there, not many windows left, and words like "WALL" and "CLEAR" spray-painted on the exterior from the volunteer fire company using it for fire school), stones that had better not shift this summer, as he's no longer in any shape to bend over and reset them. One stone, two, three, steps.....
I told him, "You need to stand straight, let Sage hold your arm. I'll get rid of this walker and we'll steady you up over the steps. Just be careful, and hold still." As I swung the walker out of his way, he wavered for a moment in front of those steps, and I could feel the fabric of his sweatshirt slipping through my fingers as he dropped to all fours and crawled, one step at a time, up onto the porch. Sage stood behind him, tank in hand, looking helpless.
I was fighting an urge to force a rewind, back him up, dive in and help him. He was on his own, proving he could do this. He didn't need all this damned help, and if we would just be quiet and let him be, he'd do what needed to be done. Up on the plywood platform of the porch, he stopped, denim ball cap askew on his head, military-style glasses slipping off the end of his nose, suspenders holding his sweatshirt snug to him, saying, "I just need to get some air on my face. Goddamnit, if I don't get some air, I'm going to pass out." I stood there, helpless, blowing on his face. Blowing on his face! It was mid-eighties outside, and here's a terminal cancer patient, colostomy bag wiggling out of the top of his unbuttoned blue jeans, held in only by the suspenders that are hugging the heat to him, and I'm blowing on his face, thinking....how am I going to explain this to the ambulance crew? I thought he could come home, thought he could do it, stand it, survive at least the fucking trip through the door!
He made it. Couple of minutes, and he caught his breath and crawled the last few feet through the door. It took some more doing to get the door shut behind him, with my mother standing there, watching her domineering husband crawling like a scolded dog on the floor. He finally got to his feet, got to the chair I brought him, a recliner that had been in my basement for a couple of years, smelling of mildew but which I knew would soon be overtaken by the smell of sickness.
He got settled into it, and immediately began giving orders. He wanted everything done at once. I sat down and watched my son dart one way and my mother dart another and thought....how did I become convinced this could work? Later, the hospice nurse told me, "If he was controlling before, it will get worse before it's over." I could see that already. Anything, any quarter he gave in the hospital, was perhaps because he knew his fate was in the balance. If my mother said, "No, I can't take care of him," there would be no choice left but a nursing home. He played his cards right. Well, here he is! What do we do now?
To be continued....
Till later...
And the nurse was late. She was to help us get him inside. Sage insisted that the best way to get him out of the back seat was to follow him out of the car with the portable oxygen tank. Trying to tell him that the line was long enough for him to stand up and step aside, then grab the tank out of the back seat, was not successful. He was being stubborn, and it was apparent I had to either completely embrace him or deny that he was my son. That's a joke. About stubbornness being in the blood. Not a very funny joke. I tried.
So Sage asked him to stay put while he ran up, unlocked the door and retrieved the new walker that had been delivered early in the day. Mother had one that she never used, but this one had wheels....and will probably have a motor if Dad lives long enough. There was still the issue of the steps on the porch, but I thought I could get him to pause long enough to sanely and rationally explain to him the best way I thought we should go inside. He had other ideas.
We wound around the first of the tarped tractors, between the Olds Bravada that he bought for Sage (who still doesn't have a driver's license -- a result of my ennui, if you ask Dad), beside the garden, which Dad had to stop and inspect and demand that a head of cabbage be cut as it had turned black and why the hell wasn't anyone keeping an eye on these things, anyway? The whole place goes to hell when he's not there, he'll tell you, if you just stand still long enough. Then, up over the paving stones he set when they moved out of the old house (the old house, still sitting there, not many windows left, and words like "WALL" and "CLEAR" spray-painted on the exterior from the volunteer fire company using it for fire school), stones that had better not shift this summer, as he's no longer in any shape to bend over and reset them. One stone, two, three, steps.....
I told him, "You need to stand straight, let Sage hold your arm. I'll get rid of this walker and we'll steady you up over the steps. Just be careful, and hold still." As I swung the walker out of his way, he wavered for a moment in front of those steps, and I could feel the fabric of his sweatshirt slipping through my fingers as he dropped to all fours and crawled, one step at a time, up onto the porch. Sage stood behind him, tank in hand, looking helpless.
I was fighting an urge to force a rewind, back him up, dive in and help him. He was on his own, proving he could do this. He didn't need all this damned help, and if we would just be quiet and let him be, he'd do what needed to be done. Up on the plywood platform of the porch, he stopped, denim ball cap askew on his head, military-style glasses slipping off the end of his nose, suspenders holding his sweatshirt snug to him, saying, "I just need to get some air on my face. Goddamnit, if I don't get some air, I'm going to pass out." I stood there, helpless, blowing on his face. Blowing on his face! It was mid-eighties outside, and here's a terminal cancer patient, colostomy bag wiggling out of the top of his unbuttoned blue jeans, held in only by the suspenders that are hugging the heat to him, and I'm blowing on his face, thinking....how am I going to explain this to the ambulance crew? I thought he could come home, thought he could do it, stand it, survive at least the fucking trip through the door!
He made it. Couple of minutes, and he caught his breath and crawled the last few feet through the door. It took some more doing to get the door shut behind him, with my mother standing there, watching her domineering husband crawling like a scolded dog on the floor. He finally got to his feet, got to the chair I brought him, a recliner that had been in my basement for a couple of years, smelling of mildew but which I knew would soon be overtaken by the smell of sickness.
He got settled into it, and immediately began giving orders. He wanted everything done at once. I sat down and watched my son dart one way and my mother dart another and thought....how did I become convinced this could work? Later, the hospice nurse told me, "If he was controlling before, it will get worse before it's over." I could see that already. Anything, any quarter he gave in the hospital, was perhaps because he knew his fate was in the balance. If my mother said, "No, I can't take care of him," there would be no choice left but a nursing home. He played his cards right. Well, here he is! What do we do now?
To be continued....
Till later...
Comments