“Mother, you can’t take care of him. If we bring him home, I’d have to do it and I’m sure they can do a better job with him at the hospital.”
Dr. Ethridge finally calls at four.
“Mr. Tremont, I saw your father and at this time he seems confused. I also talked with Dr. Santana and he feels you’ve attacked his professional judgment.”
This gets me.
“Dr. Ethridge, Dr. Santana was absolutely wrong telling my father he had cancer after I’d warned him repeatedly concerning his unnatural fear of this disease. The result is there now. My father fell into this state immediately after Dr. Santana told him.”
“Mr. Tremont, these are decisions we doctors make. If your father uses our hospital facilities, you must trust our judgment in these matters.”
Then he goes into a harangue on the theme “we know our business.” I listen till he winds down.
At this point, I’m ready to drop Ethridge, Santana, Perpetual, the whole mess, and start over. But I don’t; I’m too unsure, angry, scared.
Dad’s in the hospital five days. I spend all the time with him I can. Joan spells me with Mother. I talk to Dr. Santana every day and he’s getting more and more nervous. I never let a day go by without asking for neurological and psychiatric testing, observations. I’m combing a new copy of the Merck Manual I bought at the UCLA medical library, looking for some reasonable explanation to what’s happened.
I’m up against stone walls with the hospital staff. At the same time, I’m trying to stay calm at home around Mother, assuring her everything is proceeding fine.
At the hospital they keep telling me it will all go away when he recovers from the shock. But Dad continues in his deep, disturbed, anxious, removed condition. He’s lost control of his bowels and bladder. He needs to be hand-fed and it’s very difficult feeding him. He doesn’t have any desire to eat, and is beginning to waste away. All his senses seem cut off.
The nurses are too busy to get sufficient food into him. I take over the feeding; they don’t mind much. It can be two hours just getting half a small meal down. It’s worse than feeding a six-month-old infant. He bites down on the spoon so it’s hard to get out. He twists his head back and forth. A good part of the time I’m waiting for him to swallow. He’ll tuck the food into one side of his mouth or the other like a squirrel, or sometimes spit it out. He avoids my eyes or stares at the spoon, or nothing, but not my eyes. I talk to him about the food, about Mom, about Joan, anything I can think of, but there’s no response.
Now the hospital starts taking up Mom’s idea he might “come around” at home. I’m beginning to agree.
But I know it would never work with Mom there. She’d have to live with Joan and that would be hard. But something happens which decides me.
A part of Dad’s dilemma is he’s constantly twisting, turning, trying to escape. He’s also continually pulling at his catheter. After the first few days, they lace him into a sort of straitjacket. It’s tied behind and has straps attached to wristlets which can be slipped over his hands. He has relative freedom but can’t reach down to the catheter.
He fights against this; it’s pitiful watching him struggle, like a puppy on a leash. When I feed him, I take it off but keep an eye on his hands.
The nurses are also afraid Dad will develop bedsores. He’s losing weight fast and with the constant twisting-turning of his struggle, he’s rubbing his butt and back sore; the skin is wearing off.
Starting about the fourth day, they sit him in a chair beside the bed while they change sheets. They leave him out there an hour or two to get air on his back but he’s secured by his straitjacket.
I come in one evening for the dinner feeding and find Dad still tied to the chair. He’s defecated and somehow pulled out the catheter so he’s soaked in his own urine. He’s twisted and one of his hands is caught under the handle of the chair. The circulation is cut off; the hand is blue. Also, he’s wiggled around so his hospital gown is twisted up to his waist and he’s naked from there down.
I’m shocked. I kneel beside him and his legs are ice cold. This is all happening in the surgery ward of a modern hospital, not in a nineteenth-century mental institution. I don’t know how long he’s been this way but his legs and feet are mottled red and white and the urine is drying on them.
I ring and holler out. A nurse comes running in and I lay it on her hard. She helps me untie Dad and change his gown. We slide him back into bed. I yearn to comfort Dad but he doesn’t seem to realize what’s happening.
Next day I plow into both Ethridge and Santana. They say it’s difficult to care for somebody in my father’s state at a normal hospital. I tell them I’m taking him home; he’s not getting proper care at Perpetual.
I go home and try to avoid Mom. I sneak back into the garden bedroom with a can of beer. I drink in the quiet and try to think. I want to do the right thing for Dad and Mom, not just work off my own anger.
I get Mom down for her nap and phone Joan. I want to tell it straight, not too much artist-type exaggeration, no heightening for effect. When I finish, there’s a long pause. She’s crying.
“That’s awful, Jack. We’ve got to do something. Mom’s right; we must bring him home. Could you take care of him there if Mom comes out here with us?”
“I think I can do it; I know I’ll do better than they’re doing at the hospital. But can you handle Mom there with Mario and all? You know how she is.”
“We’ll manage. I’ll put her in Maryellen’s room; it’s next to the bathroom and I’ll keep her in bed as much as possible. Mario can work out in his garage or in the garden. With playground supervision, he’s not home till six anyhow. Mario understands; don’t you worry about it.”
So it’s decided. When Mom wakes, I tell her. She wants to stay with me and help. I’m firm. I tell her it’s impossible. She’d have another heart attack for sure and I can’t take care of them both at the same time. She can come visit when Dad’s better.
I help her pack. We get in the car, she puts on her eyeshades, and I drive her to Joan’s over Sepulveda, not the freeway.
When I go get Dad next day, the nursing supervisor comes tearing out. She’s a big matronly type and gives me a time about telling off the nurse yesterday, but I’m not so easily managed. I tell her to get out of my way. All these people are only thinking of their own prerogatives.
She calls in the security man. I explain to him what’s been going on. He nods and pretends to listen. Together we get it worked out. He helps me dress Dad in his pajamas and bathrobe. I gather the rest of his personal effects in a paper bag. I tell the supervisor to hurry it up, to get me discharge papers and a wheelchair.
The security guard gives me a wink; perfect man for the job. Together we maneuver the wheelchair into the elevator. Dad’s sitting there shivering, jibbering, worrying his bathrobe with his fingers. It’s hard to believe this could ever have been a functioning human being. Even his fingers and toes are curled under, practically cramped; his head hangs as if it’s too heavy. He looks like the drawing van Gogh did in an insane asylum, the one with a man pushing his face into his fists, only Dad doesn’t even have enough control to do that.
I roll him across the parking lot in the wheelchair and struggle him into our car. He has no idea what’s happening. I drive him home.
I almost have to carry him across the patio, up those steps and into the house. He puts one foot in front of the other but they don’t take any weight; it’s like walking a giant doll. He’s wearing his old aircraft-carrier cap and it gets twisted around to the side. He’s nodding and mumbling, not noticing where he is.
I decide to dress him in his regular clothes. He’s not actually sick, only debilitated. I’m sure if he can regain the feeling of being his own self, he’ll recover. I take him into the back bedroom, sit him in the armchair and dress him. I choose slacks, a blue shirt, a button-down-the-front sweater and his other cap, the one I gave him.
He reaches up, takes the cap and throws i
t on the floor. Then he almost falls off the chair bending down for it. I put it back on his head. This time he leaves the cap on. I think maybe a warm head will increase the blood circulation and rejuvenate some neurons in his brain. I’m grasping at any straw.
I guide him into the living room and sit him in his platform rocker. It’s a comfort for me seeing him sit there after all the days tied to that sterile hospital bed. I don’t know if it’s doing him any good, but it’s great for my morale. Appearance means much to me, probably too much; could be why I’m an artist, redoing things to the way I want.
I’m hoping if we can only go on as if there’s nothing wrong, he might slip a gear and get it all on track again.
I go into the kitchen and start making my parents’ classic lunch. It’s a toasted cheese sandwich, served with relish, about ten Ritz crackers and a glass of beer. I run back and forth checking him. He’s sitting there, more or less calm, staring at their clock over the TV.
I bring the sandwiches into the living room and set up a collapsible tray between his chair and Mother’s. They use these trays when they watch TV. While I’m running back and forth, Dad leans forward a few times as if he’s going to get up, but the rocking action of the chair defeats him and he falls back.
I turn on the television and find one of their favorite “Crying Annie” shows. That’s what they call them themselves. Dad stares at the TV but with blank incomprehension. He leans slightly forward, reaching slowly with one hand as if to pick something out of the air about two feet in front of his face. He does this several times, then gives up.
I slide the glass of beer into his hand but he doesn’t do anything. He looks at it, then at me. It’s as if we have no relationship, nothing of being the same species, let alone related. I’ve seen circus acts where chimpanzees have been trained to drink out of a cup and eat off a plate. Those chimpanzees looked more human than my father. He stares at that glass of beer, no idea what to do with it. I put my hand over his, around the glass, and bring it up slowly to his lips; his hands are cool, trembling. I tilt it so the beer goes into his mouth. About half runs out the corners but he gets some and swallows. I lower his hand and wait to see what happens.
Nothing. I take the beer out of his hand and fit half a sandwich into it. Then I bend his arm again, moving it up to his mouth, but he won’t open his lips. His jaws are locked tight.
So I cut the sandwich into small squares and have more luck. He opens his mouth to take the squares, chews and swallows. This way, I get half a sandwich down. He’s tasting and it’s something he likes. I try the beer again. It’s easier this time but he hasn’t worked out the difference between eating and drinking; he chews the beer. He almost bites off the edge of the glass. Next time I’ll use a mug.
City Hospital comes on TV. This is one of my parents’ favorites but I’m not up to watching it right then. Dad doesn’t seem to notice what’s on; he’s only staring at the movements and colors. I flip around until I find the Dinah Shore show. Dad is watching TV the way you’d look in a kaleidoscope. He’s watching the movement, hearing the sounds; it calms him, holds him in one place but that’s about all.
I chatter on, about the TV, about anything, but he doesn’t pay attention. I’m getting restless; patience is not my strong suit, especially when there’s no feedback. I talk about Joan, her kids, about Vron, our kids, about Mother; about what I remember from the work he did at G.E. and then at Douglas. Nothing.
The television is fine in the daytime, but when evening comes, things get difficult. There’s something about colored TV light flickering on the rug.
My parents have the weirdest damned pattern in their living-room rug. Mother bought this rug because she said it wouldn’t show the dirt. It’s different colors: red, green, brown, orange, yellow in tiny dots, like a mad pointillist painting but with no image.
The flickering of TV colors on that rug drives Dad crazy. He keeps sliding off his rocker to the floor; feeling the surface, or trying to pick up the lights and shadows or smoothing them out.
I kneel with him. I run my hand over the rug saying it’s nothing and trying to calm him. I help him back up on the rocker several times but then inevitably he slides down again.
Finally I let him do it; he isn’t hurting himself and it’s something to do, better than sitting in the rocker like a vegetable. He crawls along on his hands and knees, touching and wiping the rug. It’s night by now and eerie. He doesn’t make any sound, nothing but the rubbing of his hand on the rug. It reminds me of when he taught Joan and me to shine pennies.
It’s painful seeing him reduced to walking on all fours; but I don’t know what else to do. Nobody’d ever prepared me for anything like this. I’m totally spooked sitting there in the dark while he crawls along the floor in the quiet house. I know I should be starting dinner but I can’t get myself to move.
Whenever there’s a sudden sound or a change in light coming from the TV, he springs back and cowers, pushing himself into a sitting position. This is primitive man, man before he’s gotten up on two legs. He’s frightened by any change and doesn’t understand what’s going on around him. It’s as if he’s come from some other planet, another star; this world is totally unfamiliar to him. Here he is a grown creature with a certain motor skill and no idea what to do with it. Whatever he is, whatever his intellect might be, he’s unrelated. His world-wise, rational capacity is gone. He’s back there in the furthest part of his mind.
I squat and stare at the new light. I think of everybody still sleeping up at the house, still safe in that other place inside themselves. Meadowlarks start from the grass, they fly just over the reed tops. Twisting, turning, catching early insects. Almost like barn swallows.
I begin to feel maybe some kind of serious cerebral accident has happened, that he’s stroked and a big part of his brain is permanently lost to him.
I’m thinking if he can only regain control of his bladder and bowels it’ll be a big step. Every hour, I lead him to the bathroom. This works, sometimes, at least for peeing. I take his penis out and aim but he wants to hold it himself. He mostly makes the toilet but sprays the wall when he loses concentration. I’d rather wipe up than take away this one pleasure. The urine is a fairly normal color, not bloody, but it stinks to high heaven.
We don’t eat much for dinner, French fries and hamburger. I feed him French fries one at a time and chop the hamburger into small pieces. He eats about half.
At ten o’clock, I lead him into the bedroom. I’ve arranged the room to make it safe for him to sleep. Normally, everything in that room is symmetric. The bed’s in the center of the wall with night tables on each side. The dresser is on my mother’s side, the closet on my father’s. The cedar chest is at the foot of the bed, with a desk under the window. It’s been this basic arrangement in our house as long as I can remember.
But I’ve changed it around. I’ve put both night tables on one side of the bed. Then I shoved the bed against the wall. I’ve lined up three dining-room chairs to block him from falling off the open side. He’ll be safe this way, I hope. In the hospital he’s had a high-sided bed.
I get Dad undressed and into his pajamas. He doesn’t fight me, he’s nervous and twitching, but he lets me lift his arms or legs. He’s very sensitive or maybe I’m rougher than I think, because, several times, in my shifting around, getting trousers off, or an arm in a sleeve, he moans or grunts as if I’ve hurt him.
I pull back two chairs and ease him onto the bed. It’s hard getting him to relax and lie back. I slowly lower his head till he’s resting on the pillow. He stares at the pink ceiling, his eyes wide open, hardly blinking, as if he’s watching something.
I begin to think lying down is a major event for him; maybe he’s lost his ability to compensate movements in space. Maybe, lying down, he’s seeing everything sideways. What used to be on top is straight ahead, and he can’t adjust. It’s as if a motion picture camera were tilted up. I try to think that way, get inside him somehow.
&nbs
p; His eyes have begun drifting over the light-and-shadow patterns on the ceiling as if it’s a whole new world, at least as interesting as the sidewise world. He’s seeing the way an infant sees. If it weren’t my own father and I weren’t so emotionally involved, this could be fascinating. It’s amazing to see how he’s participating in this world with such intensity. He’s probably seeing forms, shadows, colors and movements in an original, personal sense, the way an artist tries to see and never can.
So I tuck him in, folding his hands across his chest. I pull the covers up. To protect the bed, I’ve put a plastic tablecloth under the sheet; but I’m not sure about an electric blanket. If he urinates in the night, can he electrocute himself?
I take off the electric blanket and throw on a couple regular blankets from the cedar chest. Before I leave, I get some water, tilt his head with my hand and give him his regular medicines plus five milligrams of Mom’s Valium. I say good night and hope for the best.
In the side bedroom, I change into my sleeping suit. Then I go out into the living room. I’m looking for something to read; the only thing around is that lousy Hearst paper the Herald-Examiner. I make a snack, and sit in the rocker letting myself be worked through several articles about murders, rapes and Communist plots to destroy the moral fabric of America. Half an hour later, I go back to see how Dad is. I peek through the door carefully, trying not to make a sound. He’s gone!
I can’t believe it. I push the door open all the way and turn on the lights. The bed’s empty! The room’s empty! I dash back down the hall and look in the bathroom. Nobody! I look in the middle room but he isn’t there either. He’s vanished! I stop for a minute and try to breathe. I look in the kitchen, then back in the living room.
I don’t know what gives me the idea, finally, to look under the bed but that’s where he is. He isn’t asleep, he’s quietly moaning to himself under there. I should’ve heard this when I was looking but I was looking so hard I wasn’t listening. He’s moaning and trying to turn onto his stomach. He’s up on his side pushing his shoulder against the springs of the bed. The bed’s too low and he can’t turn over.
Dad Page 14
