Father and Son
Another gray hair springs up on my head:
a dandelion in a suburban lawn.
I’m getting old.
I now strategize how I am going to pull myself off the floor,
which result in pushing,
but not too hard,
cause then my bum left wrist will act up,
sending pain messages:
"This is a test of the Emergency Alert System.
Sometime in the distant past you fucked up your wrist.
We don't know why, but it hurts so don't put much pressure on it.
This is only a test."
Oh, my, I’m getting old.
I’m getting old.
I now strategize how I am going to pull myself off the floor,
which result in pushing,
but not too hard,
cause then my bum left wrist will act up,
sending pain messages:
"This is a test of the Emergency Alert System.
Sometime in the distant past you fucked up your wrist.
We don't know why, but it hurts so don't put much pressure on it.
This is only a test."
Oh, my, I’m getting old.
Taking a shit
is now a sort of study session,
where two hours later I reappear after finishing the latest double issue of Rolling Stone.
I'm debating moving a book shelf into the bathroom,
so I'm never forced to abort
because I finished what was at hand.
Yet, I'm peeing every 20 minutes
as if my prostate has swelled and now presses up against my bladder
like dancing with a drunk cowboy at a Country & Western Bar.
Oh, my God!
I'm getting old.
Oh, yes, I can tell you who I voted for in 1984-Reagan,
then switched over to Democrats every year after that,
have lived long enough to watch schools that I went to demolished,
parks paved over by interstates,
and what life was like when you had to use a rotary dial telephone and a party line.
Oh, my God, I'm getting old.
The other day I saw myself in a picture,
and despite what I thought,
I looked fucking pregnant.
It wasn't a joke.
I'm all toned legs, then arms
and then this medicine ball below my breast.
And I've aged,
but not like a fine wine or some cheese,
more like rotting meat or vegetables in a compost heap.
I may be good for some thing, some day,
but I ain't gonna look like this when that happens.
then switched over to Democrats every year after that,
have lived long enough to watch schools that I went to demolished,
parks paved over by interstates,
and what life was like when you had to use a rotary dial telephone and a party line.
Oh, my God, I'm getting old.
The other day I saw myself in a picture,
and despite what I thought,
I looked fucking pregnant.
It wasn't a joke.
I'm all toned legs, then arms
and then this medicine ball below my breast.
And I've aged,
but not like a fine wine or some cheese,
more like rotting meat or vegetables in a compost heap.
I may be good for some thing, some day,
but I ain't gonna look like this when that happens.
Now, don’t get me wrong, there are indeed benefits.
I'm called Mister or Sir a lot,
people think my opinion really matters,
I'm called Mister or Sir a lot,
people think my opinion really matters,
I’m not dismissed as young and inexperienced
and can actually look at women without the first thought
automatically being,
"Sex!"
No, that thought is a little bit later,
after the one that starts out with,
"What the fuck is that shooting pain in my...."
or "Damn, I’ve got to stop drinking coffee."
or "Coffee. I need more coffee."
"Sex!"
No, that thought is a little bit later,
after the one that starts out with,
"What the fuck is that shooting pain in my...."
or "Damn, I’ve got to stop drinking coffee."
or "Coffee. I need more coffee."
Oh my God!, I'm getting old.
Sunday morning and I've been trying
to touch base with my father a bit more.
But today, my wife is calling to wish my mom and early, “Happy birthday.” So after 20 minutes, my wife hands me the
phone, and I'm talking to my mother.
[Gordon & Sue]
"So, what are you planning on
doing for your birthday?"
She notes that she's probably
not going to do anything, but hopes that they'll be able to go up to the mountains
and celebrate her birthday as well as their anniversary (which is also in the
same month).
[Cabin]
It's
their 55th anniversary, which is long time to be with someone, she notes,
"even if that someone is asleep in his chair with his mouth open."
I didn't think much of the comment
at first. Now, however, I'm struck by
how it didn't really surprise me that he'd be asleep in his chair.
[Retirement,
the early years]
When my mother finally retired, my
parents set out on the road. In a move that was a bit
"disconcerting," they sold their house in Bailey, Colorado, dumped quite
bit of the money into savings, and took the rest and bought a trailer--a 5th
Wheel.
[5th
Wheel]
For the next few years, they
traveled from campground to campground. Sometimes they were the
campground hosts; sometimes they just hung out. As they traveled they developed a recurring
circle of stops. One such stop, which eventually became permanent,
was Deming, New Mexico.
[Deming]
Deming is a small town near the
Mexican border in western New Mexico. I'm not entirely sure what prompted
its town founders into putting a town there, but "sleepy" is an apt
description. Deming has brutal summers, but the winters are mild beyond
belief.
Now, I'd like to downplay my parents'
concern for my well being and ignore Deming's proximity to Albuquerque, about
3.5 hours, but their choosing Deming highlights the changes that would take
place during their tenure there. Thus, not too long into my parents'
retirement, my longtime girlfriend, Maria, and I broke up.
[Maria
and Don]
To say that I was emotionally
prepared to handle this break-up, however much I saw its necessity, is to
downplay what certainly guided my parents' decision making. For much of
that year, my parents split their time between Deming and a campground at the
top of nine mile hill due west of ABQ.
I was lonely, depressed, rundown,
and in way over my head. I was also operating on a plan that went something
like this: get a teaching job, get out of the restaurant business,
and start a family. But depressed, around Thanksgiving, a little voice
inside my head said, "Instead of offing yourself, why don't you just quit teaching
at semester?" Smart voice. So in the winter of '97, I quit
teaching and went back to waiting tables.
This afforded my parents time again
to travel and their retirement changed from a series of circles to
out-and-backs. They'd travel in spring and summer and then come back to
Deming to sit out the winters. My dad liked playing golf and the
constant travel was beginning to wear thin. A few short years later, they
bought a small house in Deming and parked the 5th wheel in the backyard.
Their days of traveling were over,
and I was led to believe that they were just tired of the rootlessness of being
an RVer. What I later learned was that the physical demands of
having to get the trailer ready for every trip was just too much for my
father. My mother never really adapted to driving with the trailer
so their time on the road meant that he was behind the wheel the whole time as
well.
Yet the house, at first, didn't
offer much more than the 5th wheel, so my parents began a series of
projects. With my father as lead project manager and chief laborer, they
installed locks on the doors, tore out a brick planter in the front, replaced
their casement windows, tiled the floors, remodeled the bathroom, knocked out a
wall between the living room and carport and enclosed the carport greatly
expanding the living room, built a brick fence around the front with gates,
added a half bathroom, stuccoed the house, and installed a new door from the
kitchen to the back patio. On the back patio they covered it with the
awning.
The Awning
A being capable of anything:
long drives without bathroom breaks,
driving around me on the basketball court,
asking for the Phillips head, flathead, crescent wrench,
socket set
as I stumbled through the basic fixes,
unable to summon the patience
to read directions, pay attention,
to think before I acted.
Now, in a year when I actually worked on my car and made
it better not worse,
to think that I would be the missing variable
in the equation of his retirement awning.
I was the one who climbed up on the ladder,
who lifted the heavy, yet not unbearable weight above my
head
and up and over and down the post,
the crossbeam resting on both sides in position for the
washer, bolt, washer, nut.
I was the able body, the patient mind, the driving force.
In the afternoon, I knew he was tired,
wanted to call it quits and disappear into a cold shower,
the leaning rock of recliner,
but I insisted.
Let’s get as much done today as possible.
He plugged away, though watched me work more often than
in the early morning hours.
And we did as much as we could with the materials at
hand.
In a small town, 60 miles from the next bigger town,
we were stuck.
This suited him fine,
and I looked at the mass of wood, crossbeams, canopy
pieces, bolts, hoists, joints, and nails,
and knew that I was strong.
I was the body that my brain could still abuse.
And my father, once capable of anything, was old.
[Prostate
Cancer]
To
be honest, I don't really know when my father got his diagnosis. As is
common in our family, we just don't talk about those things, or, more than
likely, it is just not something my parents shared with me. The whole notion of having to think about
what my body is doing is, frankly, a little strange, so to think about what my
father’s body is doing is even stranger. For example, I don't
remember me and my father ever having "the talk." I know me and
my mother talked about it when I was in late high school. From my cloudy
recollection it went something like this.
My
mom, "What is she doing in your room?"
Me,
"Um....nothing. We're just hanging out."
"No.
You cannot, under any circumstances, be alone with a girl in your room
with the door shut."
"But...we
were just talking."
"Right.
How are you going to feel when you meet her sometime in the future and
you've had sex with her but aren't with her anymore?"
So,
it doesn't come as much of a surprise that I don't know when he was actually
diagnosed. I do remember periodic updates on what his PSA count was and
what steps they were taking. My parents have an aversion to taking
pharmaceuticals and even with a prostate cancer diagnosis my father tried to
supplement what his doctors required with avoiding certain foods, taking
whatever miracle cure my mother researched, and vitamins, lots and lots of vitamins.
These
attempts to manage the cancer came to a screeching halt in the winter of 2008.
In a frantic set of phone calls and negotiations between me and my sisters, it
was determined that I needed to get down to Deming and assess what had happened.
At
first, they thought my father pulled a muscle working at the country club (he
was helping out part-time so he could play golf for free), so he laid low for a
little bit, got a massage, and loaded up on Tylenol hoping it would just go
away. It didn't go away.
When
I arrived, my father was "sleeping" in a chair in the living room
because he was in too much pain to lie down. He couldn't feel his
legs, but thought maybe it was just because he couldn't lie down. They'd
go to the hospital, wait for the specialist to come out and see if the
specialist called for further tests. By this time, my parents thought it
was his gall bladder, but the doctor wasn't convinced because some of his
complaints were asymptomatic; he was in
constant pain and it didn't get noticeably worse when he ate fatty
foods. So they'd been going to the hospital, waiting for the
specialist, getting a test, then waiting for the results, then meeting with
another specialist, all while my father was losing the ability to control his legs.
My
God! Just last week they thought he'd
pulled a muscled and now he couldn't even stand up on his own; he couldn't get
up and down without help. He couldn't
control his legs.
My
father is not a small man. He's six foot three inches tall and, at this
time, hovered around two hundred pounds. My mother is five foot five inches
tall and maybe clocks in at one hundred and twenty. Having to help
him get up and down, move about the house was a big undertaking for her.
For me, it wasn't physically demanding, but emotionally I was a bit freaked.
Similar
to what I did when my father laid out a year hoping his ruptured disc would
heal in the early '80s, I poured myself into a role playing game. Then
it was Dungeons & Dragons and I'd spend hours copying my character onto new
and improved character sheets, designing dungeons, reading up on the monsters,
etc. This time, I poured myself into World of Warcraft, spending hours playing
the game to just distract me from my complicated and unpleasant emotions, and
avoiding my real life role of son.
[WOW Screenshot]
Deming,
a perfect town when they were healthy, was too far away from me and my sisters.
What followed was a series of phone calls trying to determine the best course
of action. My oldest sister, while agreeing that this was a big deal
wasn't sure if my solution (moving them to Colorado) was actually the best
idea.
Finally,
things came to a head and we took my father to Las Cruces, the emergency
room.
[Las Cruces]
We
tried to do as much as we could in Deming, but the lack of any tangible results
and the constant waiting was too much. Once removed, the pain would
subside and he'd recover the feeling in his legs and be back on his feet in no
time.
In
the emergency room, they drugged him up, scheduled an MRI and checked him
in. He was right; it was his gall bladder, but it was also something
else.
At the Hospital
At 3:50 in the
morning, the computer, asleep,
like I should
be,
doesn’t wake
fast enough.
Writing, I
realize,
is all secretarial,
taking dictation,
and it is only
at 3:54.
and the words
are coming faster than my finite motor skills can type them.
We are all so
frail, fragile, complicated machines
that can do so
many things.
Yet upon
spending any time at all in a hospital
we make these
silent pronouncements,
these
proclamations,
“I will never
pass this way.”
And, “I will
not be such a burden.”
And, “I will
not ask my family to do this and that.”
But in the end
I realize that those words are hollow, meaningless.
I don’t have
control of that either,
and when my
machinery gives out,
I will ask a
stranger, the nurse,
to help turn me
over,
a family member
to put a pillow behind my head,
stretch my foot
(clad in tube sock and smaller, frailer than I thought it'd be).
Does dignity
have meaning?
Are vows hot
air?
My body, in its
long slow decay, surrenders to mechanical failure.
That is my
realization
not bitter
betrayal.
Words
forgotten.
Letters that
couldn’t be typed fast enough,
and a period
placed, then erased, then replaced
as the words
(once so clear at 4:01 a.m.) just decay
and no longer
betray the once clear thought.
that you
transcribed this day.
The
initial guess that the loss of feeling in his legs being due to not being able
to lie down was wrong. His prostate cancer had metastasized and there was
large tumor pressing on a nerve that ran down to his legs. They removed the
tumor, but the damage had already been done and my father's days of playing
golf were over.
[Golf]
It
seems silly characterizing the complications and further damage as meaning
nothing more than the end of a hobby, but golf was part and parcel of who my
father was. He'd always played golf and sold me on Deming because he
could play in the winter. With the question now being, "Is he
ever going to walk again?" the question, "Why Deming?" was
answered in new way. They were in Deming because he could play golf. And
if he couldn't play golf, let alone walk, there was no reason to stay.
A
few more phone calls and it was decided. My parents would move up to
Greeley, a few blocks away from my oldest sister. My other two sisters
were in Denver, about an hour away, so, to me, the move made perfect sense.
In
time, some of his mobility would return, but he’d walk positively shaky. He'd never regain the balance he had before and
certainly grew more dependent. The
transformation was more than physical, for both my parents. Clearly, they need help now, and their
independence, once prized, they shrugged off.
Still gracious, but not so proud.
I
find myself, upon visiting them, insisting that my mother give me a list of
things they need done. Inevitably, it
involves moving furniture, crawling under desks, scaling ladders, all those
things that my father just can't do anymore.
He's grateful, communicates what he wants, and doesn't seem to mind the
shortcuts I inevitably take. It just
seems like old age just suddenly caught up to them. Maybe old age catches us all?
[Rainbow]
[exeunt]
Comments