Old

by Stan Charnofsky

  To be human is to suffer from the consequences of abstract awareness and to come up short on external, concrete awareness.

  Damn, we are complex creatures!

  So, how do I encompass the abstract awareness that my oldest friend is going to cease to be? And a corollary question: how can I be with him while that grim scenario is being played out? Seventy is no longer old, old. Zandor could, in this day of miracle medicine, live to ninety. I expect to, why not him? Do I then, openly and bluntly, mourn his early demise? Do I encourage him to fight hard against the dying of the light? Or, as is the case in stage four cancer tableaus, lean on him to accept the closing out of his life peacefully, with dignity and resignation?

  Why in hell do I focus so intensely on me, on my posture, on how I ought to handle things? Why in hell can’t I simply spend time with Zan and see where he is going with it all? It is his life. It is his death.

  A cool breeze tweaks my face and I am brought back to the immediate external, concrete environment.

  I sit up and gaze around the comforting arboretum, spy a plot of Blue Fescue across the path, their steel-blue, spiked clumps covering a small hillock like miniature, thorny planets. Above them is a podacarpus bush, grown into a tree, its thin leaves like elongated, verdant fingers, which, in my sudden fantasy, are perfectly suited to play an elegant piano.

  As if communing in this way with the planet’s floral abundance has tripped a part of my brain that un-muddles muddled thinking, I stand authoritatively and catch myself saying aloud: “Confront Zandor with the reality of his condition, challenge him to engage the enemy, encourage him to use the medical people as allies, not adversaries.” I pause, and pick up again: “Megan wants to be my ally; allow her, cultivate her eagerness to be a friend, see where it leads.”

  Clearly, the universe has been listening to my pronouncement, absorbing my resolve, since a brisk wind now begins to buffet the trees in my verdant hideaway, eliciting a glorious, low moan that sounds like an affirmation.

  I sit beside Zandor’s bed reading Artists in Crime, an Inspector Alleyn mystery by Ngaio Marsh, a woman born in 1899 in New Zealand. Ngaio is a Maori word, meaning “reflections on the water.” Her portfolio of mysteries earned her the title of Dame Commander of the order of the British Empire, way back in 1966. She died in New Zealand in 1982. Clever book, ingeniously plotted and woven together.

  Beside me, Zan is reading a biography of Thomas Jefferson, one of his all-time favorite American heroes. We find a lovely communion seated side-by-side, very little said, sharing space and time, absorbed in the written word.

  I have an agenda, however, and know that in due time I will break the silence. Fear hovers over me, tugs at my stomach. I don’t know how he will take it.

  We hear the phone ring and Gwen’s distant voice saying “Hello,” which, for me, shatters the spell and gives me an entrée.

  “Hey, buddy, I just thought of something important.”

  His eyes linger on his book for a time, then, wearily he slides them over to meet mine. I am heartbroken by his obvious physical decline, the once robust look now drawn, sallow, a dismal resignation clouding his eyes. He has a spiky growth of beard, shaving too much a chore, but the look eminently in style these days, all the hunks of Hollywood choosing the hairy-dog appearance.

  “Tell me,” he says.

  “You’ve got this damned cancer business, and it is turning out to be more than you and Gwen thought. So, I know a doctor, a former client of mine, who is on the staff at City of Hope. How about if we contact him to see if a consultation is possible. They’re on the cutting edge of cancer treatment in the world, have the latest techniques, know all the newest cocktails that combat the disease. What do you say?”

  He smiles at me, a smile which I am wont to take in as patronizing, nods his head without vigor, and says, “Whatever you say, old pal. I trust your judgment.”

  He is gaming me. I don’t want to become angry. I know how he operates. ‘Yes’ can mean sometime way off in the future, when we get around to it. I anticipate and cut directly to the timing. “Good. I’ll call him tomorrow. We can set it up for this week.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’ll see how I feel. My ankles are kind of swollen—the meds my doctor has me on—and it makes it hard for me to drive.”

  “I’ll drive. Or Gwen. Don’t worry about the transportation.”

  He frowns, and says, “Teddy, I don’t worry about things half as much as you do. I mean, look at you. You’re sitting here trying to fix me, and I can see how off balance you are. My nickel to your dollar says you’re still frustrated in love. And you know what? I’ll bet your little stepdaughter, Megan, is a major player.”

  “Changed the subject nicely, didn’t you?”

  “The subject of me is not very complicated. I’m sick. Maybe somebody will figure out a treatment plan, maybe not. You aren’t sick—except love-sick—and the only maybes with you are what you’re willing to do about it.”

  I’ve been getting nailed recently, once by Megan and now by Zandor. Didn’t realize I was so transparent. Without fanfare, I decide to consider the City of Hope possibility a done deal, will follow through first thing in the morning, and that frees me up to respond to my friend’s challenge.

  “Okay, so I have some relationship issues. But, Zan, you have to realize there isn’t a chance in hell of me solving that with my own stepdaughter. She is a sparkling young woman. I’m a settled old man. We aren’t on the same life chart. I’d make a complete fool of myself if I start getting all lathered up over her. Can you imagine, an old fart like me coming on to a florescent female like Megan? She’s in her prime and I’m in my dotage.”

  “You can talk yourself into anything. Or, you can stay open to possibilities. No way are you an ‘old man,’ regardless of society’s classifications. You come here and scold me about fighting for my health. Well, how about you fighting for your happiness?”

  We are interrupted by a knock on the door, as Gwen slides into the room carrying a phone. “Here you go Ted; your friend, Megan, wants to speak with you.”

  Zan and I exchange looks—he actually laughs aloud, but it is cut off by a staccato cough that wracks his body with spasms. Gwen goes to him with a glass of water from the side table.

  “Megan,” I say softly.

  “I want to come visit Zan,” she says. “I remember him from my teen years. I want to re-connect with him.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ask him. See if he’d like to see me.”

  The water seems to calm him and Zan looks at me curiously as I hold my hand out, point to the phone, and say, “Megan would like to come over. She wonders if that would be okay with you.”

  Accompanied by his most animated look of the evening, he says, “You tell her if she doesn’t, I’ll cut her out of my will.”

  “Gallows humor, buddy,” I say, and to Megan, add, “he’s decidedly open to that possibility. In fact, insists on it.”

  “When?” she asks, which is her typical ‘do it now’ style.

  I ask Zan, “How about tomorrow morning, you name the time.”

  “Tell her I’ll expect her at ten o’clock sharp and won’t tolerate her being late.”

  I pass on the message, and Megan says, “Tell him to get ready for a big bear-hug.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I decide not to be there when Megan arrives. Whatever the motive, it needs to be her agenda, done in her way.

  My curiosity is enormous, and I can only hope that one of these two closest people to me (well, my son, Aidan has to be included in that category as well) will pass on the details of their meeting.

  It is the following evening. I am bursting with frustration—wanting desperately to know if Megan’s visit with Zan went well, what they discussed, and mostly why she wanted to see him. I vacillate between wanting to go over to Zan’s and have him report the details, and calling Megan to ask her to lay out what happened.

  I did call my former client, and he was most
cooperative, assuring me that he could get Zandor into City of Hope. He suggested it would take him a day or so to arrange it, a bit of research to identify the specialist in advanced-stage skin cancers, and some strings to pull to set up an immediate appointment. There was nothing for me to do but wait.

  Wait. Throughout my life that has been my main frustration. I am hopelessly impatient. Once I settle on something I want or need, I must have it yesterday. Here I am waiting about Zan’s consultation, and waiting to learn how my two friends managed their reunion.

  When one is old, waiting becomes more of a burden. I recall my own elderly father, in his eighties, sighing heavily, a far-away look in his eye, and when I asked him what was the matter, he forgot for a moment, then said softly, in a resigned voice, “I don’t have any future.” Yes, alas, from an older perspective, time is running out. Things must happen now. The elderly are the true existentialists.

  Naturally, as so often happens, the dilemma is solved by someone else’s action. My phone shakes me from my historical reverie, and the voice on the other end is Gwen’s.

  “Zan is kind of expecting you. Are you coming over?”

  “I can. Is it critical?”

  “He wants to talk. I think he’s about the same. No terrible pain. Still in denial.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  He is downstairs, sipping tea. I get a strained smile as I enter the kitchen and sit across from him. I am torn between bravado, to try to stir his juices, and anguish, which would reflect the obvious mood he displays.

  Typical of me, I choose somewhere in the middle, and say, “So, big guy, how’s the tea?”

  “Tea is for women and old people.”

  “You’re neither.”

  “It’s also for the sick. Top that if you can.”

  “Won’t even try. I know you’re sick. I’m here to make you feel better.”

  “The only thing that can do that is the ultimate orgasm, and to be frank, I don’t expect that any time soon.”

  I display a sardonic smile, one he is familiar with from me, and simply nod my head.

  “But,” he adds on, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.”

  “Say, Teddy my boy, you’ve got quite a woman on the line.”

  “I do?” I reply, deliberately obtuse.

  “Come off it. You know what I mean. Megan is a jewel.”

  “You like her?”

  “If I weren’t sick I’d make a move on her. Was, in fact, tempted when she was here, but Gwen was in the next room.”

  “Really, Zan, tell me what went on.”

  “We hit it off really well. She wanted to re-connect with me. Said she remembered me from her teen years. Told me shamelessly that she thought of me as a fox.”

  “You were. You still are.”

  “Did you know that ears and noses grow with age? Mine are half again their youthful size. In a contest, they would say my nose is too curved and my ears are too long.”

  “So? That only gives you distinction. You have a uniquely arced nose decorating your grizzled face, and two elongated ears helping you to hear better in your elder years.”

  “Always the bull-shitter. But I did appreciate Megan’s compliments. It helped break the ice, so we could get down and dirty.”

  “What about?”

  He smirks and says, “You, asshole. I think that was the prime reason for her visit anyway.”

  “What? Me? I thought she wanted to renew her old connection with you.”

  “A by-product. She really wanted to ask me questions about my life-long pal. Said she had been away for thirty years and didn’t know you very well.”

  “True. We are getting to know each other all over again.”

  “She sees you differently now. Not as a father figure.”

  “Well, I’m her professor now. She sees me as a teacher.”

  “Shut up and listen. She sees you as a man.”

  I am puzzled. Of course, I’m a man. What is he saying? Lamely, I say, “How? Tell me what you mean.”

  “My take on it is she’s a bit scared of you. In awe, more likely. But, whether you can envision such a thing or not at age seventy, she also—by my reckoning—has an attraction for you.”

  “Now who’s bull-shitting?”

  “I said it was my take on it.”

  “What did she say? I mean actually?”

  “Let’s see if I can remember her exact words. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, so I’ve been forgetful.” He pauses. “‘Zan,’ she said, ‘I wonder if Teddy has any idea that he is an appealing man. Never mind his age.’”

  “So, that’s a lovely, indirect compliment. How does that translate into her having an attraction for me?”

  “I told her she was mistaken, that you were a curmudgeon, decrepit and lethargic, with no energy and no goals, and that you were a sexless septuagenarian.”

  “Zan!”

  “Truthfully? I said you no longer thought you could attract an appealing woman. And she replied, ‘He attracts me.’”

  “She said that? She said she is attracted to me—I mean in that man-woman way?”

  “That’s it.”

  My mind is racing. If she said those things, what is she willing to do about it? Knowing she feels that way, what am I willing to do about it?

  “Okay, so what next? Did she say she’d talk to me? So far, I haven’t heard anything.”

  He becomes diffident and says, “She may not talk to you. She’s cautious, after all. Women aren’t supposed to be the aggressors.”

  “You’re saying it’s up to me? I need to push the issue?”

  “As well as I know you, Teddy my boy, you won’t do a frigging thing. But at least you know there might be an opening. As they say in the sordid world of professional sport, the ball’s in your court.”

  ‘Wait’ was my word a few hours ago. Now it is ‘fear.’ Nothing will be handed to me. I need to rev up my courage—the way I almost did when Gwen’s phone call interrupted Megan and me in my kitchen. I was about to touch her, hold her face in my hands, take a huge risk. I know more now. I know that she might be receptive to an advance from me. Might be….

  “Zan, my client is setting up a meeting at City of Hope. I’ll call you as soon as I know the time and day.”

  “There you go, asshole, changing the subject again.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  My life is like a tent and hope is the tent pole. If I sink into despair, I truly will become old and collapse, old in shape and form, old in manner, ancient in my heart of hearts. Zandor keeps me hopeful. He always has. His disrespectful, insulting style forces me to turn inward, examine my deeper feelings. How could friendship do more?

  Two days after my enlightenment with him, Zan joins Gwen and me in our jaunt to City of Hope. It is over an hour’s drive. Traffic is annoying. I haven’t heard a word from Megan. Well, first things first. My buddy’s health status has priority.

  The room we are escorted into is pure white, walls, ceiling, even the chairs with their hard backs and soft, padded arms. It is not, strictly speaking, an examination room, but rather one for consultation. There is, however, a high, long bench in one corner, with a roll of cream-colored butcher paper covering its leather surface and its pillow on the far end.

  The doctor who attends us is a woman, perhaps forty, pretty, prim, all business, with dark-rimmed glasses pushed out on the edge of her nose so that she often looks over them, her head tipped forward.

  Gwen explains the details of Zan’s condition, hands over a copy of his file from their regular health plan, and finishes with, “I do hope that your hospital’s name will prove to be auspicious, and give us a more profound meaning of ‘hope.’”

  Dr. Lamont looks at us with a bemused smile, though I can see the seriousness behind it. “All our patients come in with elevated expectations. We have a fine reputation. We are not miracle workers. Let’s get to work to see what options we have.”

  She asks Zan to
sit up on the bench and to remove his shirt. With professional acumen, she peers in at the now aggravated skin eruptions, the one on the arm, ugly and repulsive. Without words, she nods and shifts her position to examine the rib-rash, a festered sore dressed with a clear salve the previous doctor had prescribed.

  Nothing is touched, but she turns her back and begins to read through the oncology report. Waiting again. After a time, she turns, purses her lips, and says in a monotone, but with care, “These lesions, if addressed early are eminently treatable. In your case, they were not addressed early, and the cells have migrated to other parts of your body. I am willing to do another scan to see if our findings match your previous tests, but I will tell you that your other doctor believes the disease has passed the threshold for curative treatment. We have certain chemical cocktails that are the latest in the field, and we can try those, but there is no guarantee they will work.”

  She pauses to gauge our reactions, her eyes scanning each of us, her head pressed forward, the black-rimmed granny glasses teetering as if about to fall off. At last she says, “Can you spend two hours here now? I can set up the scan and other tests.”

  I don’t know about Zan, since he camouflages feelings well, but Gwen’s face shows gaunt and defeated. My own heart sinks and I catch the futility of our quest. We are not miracle workers echoes in my mind. Not addressed early resounds in my thoughts. Passed the threshold for curative treatment sears my brain.

  “Dr. Lamont,” I say, “this is a one-of-a-kind person. I know all lives are precious, but I want you to know that this man is a magnificent human being who needs twenty more years. Any possible breakthrough treatment would be deeply appreciated. Money is not an issue.”

  Again, a bare hint of a bemused smile. “Absolutely,” she says. “We look at each of our patients as marvels, unique in the world, to be treated with the highest respect and dignity.”