Stuff My Father Won’t Tell Me, Part 7

“Do you remember what you said?

“About …?”

“How you thought I was going to die when Bobbie brought me into the emergency room?”

“Yes, I remember that very clearly …”

My father lay atop his bedcovers, his head scrunched up against what appeared to be four fluffy pillows. It was almost 4:00 on a Friday afternoon. He’s been looking worn out these last several days. The “recovered and spry” dad of two weeks ago seems long gone. He hasn’t changed out of his bedclothes in several days. Makes me think recovery may be out of reach if not altogether unrealistic given my dad’s diagnosis.

You know … I have fooled myself.  I wish I were able to face Dad’s reality more squarely. I’m in denial. I have exaggerated the “highs” and understated the “lows” of my father’s recovery. Dad has his head on straighter than I in this regard.

“Alan, come on back here in the bedroom and sit down.” I grabbed the three-ring binder containing the several chapters I had printed out for my dad’s perusal. I sat down in the chair adjacent to his bed and started flipping through the pages. My dad wriggled around in his bed. I think it’s becoming more difficult for him to get comfortable.

“Do you have enough light son?”

"Yes, Dad. It’s fine. There’s plenty of light from the open curtains."

“Ach, how can you read like this? For God’s sake …"

“Dad, it’s fine really! I answered, slightly annoyed at his persistence, but that is my father. I figure were he not so persistent, he might not be alive this day.

“Open the closet door.” I paused.”Just open the door.”

I did. An overhead florescent fixture turned on.

“And the other door too,” he added. “Now you can read!”

“Thanks Dad. Do have enough pillows?”

“Yes, son thank you. Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure. Of course,” I responded.

“Wrap my feet up in that blanket. Kind of chilly in here.”

“How’s that? I asked. “Better?”

“Thank you, son.”

My father’s neuropathy of the feet has not really improved as he had hoped it might. His feet don’t sense contact with the floor as much they should.

“My gait is really slowed down. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like …”

He pauses, looking contemplative, searching out the best metaphor with which to explain the lack of sensation in his feet.

“It’s like having a really well-cushioned pad, almost like a pillow strapped to the underside of my feet. There’s no pain. It does not hurt when I walk. I just don’t feel the contact I know my feet are making with the floor. It feels like I’m either going to ‘fall off’ or ‘fall over’.”

“Kinda like walking on ice, right?”

“Yes, son something like that.”

“Afraid to take a fall?”

“You better know it!”

My father’s bed was disheveled. His bed clothes looked worn out. There atop his bed was that one sweater he had worn almost continuously for thirteen days at the hospital. It looked like it could stand some hot water and soap.

“I wasn’t ready to die that morning son.”

I listened. What is the appropriate response when a father says that?

“In fact, the thought never entered my head.”

“Well, I ‘gotta’ tell you Dad you looked terrible. I mean your skin was yellow. You were feverish, the diarrhea was unrelenting. I thought to myself …. I really did: ‘This is the end.’ “

Talk of death does not disturb my father. He accepts it because he can do nothing to prevent it.

“Take Meyer, for instance, you know Meyer, right? Bobbie’s cousin.”

“Yes, Meyer, I know him.”

“What I fear is ending up like him.” Meyer is wheelchair bound, severely afflicted with Parkinson’s Disease. “You see, son, that’s what scares me. Death? "Eh,” he says disdainfully. “I like doing things for and by myself, doesn’t matter what it is. Washing dishes. There is something I enjoy, and what’s even better? Bobbie doesn’t need to be bothered.”

I’ve seen it with my own eyes. My father needs to work. No, in fact, loves to work. He calls his patients from home to see how well they’re faring. It’s a slightly modified version of a house call, and were he a bit more mobile, he’d visit them in person.

“Huh, that’s funny. I like doing the dishes too. It’s good therapy for the hands and fingers,” I remarked, amazed he had mentioned dishwashing in particular.

My father is a fiercely independent, good guy and an amazingly considerate husband. How often do you hear the latter said?

“What time do you have?”

“4:45.”

“4.45! You better get going. I don’t want you to be late for ‘shul’.”  

I gathered my things.

“Have a great weekend,” I said.

“Good Shabbos,” he responded, kissing me on my cheek with the stubble of three days’ growth of beard.