The Aerie
Well, that wasn't the best idea in the world
I started my Christmas shopping tonight (really) by taking the kids
out to shop for their mother, and for each other.
They're obsessed with Yu-Gi-Oh cards, which I've [1]discussed before.
So I had to take them to Shinders -- not merely because of their
obsession, but because last weekend I'd promised them a trip in
exchange for good behavior.
Stupid, stupid, stupid kid-flim-flam that it is, they were focussed on
get-get-get to the complete distraction of give-give-give. Eventually
I figured out what I needed to do. I asked each of them to pick out
the ten cards they liked, then I had them exchange them round-robin so
that each of them had someone else's ten cards. Then they each bought
the cards, and will give them to each other for Christmas.
Even then my youngest didn't grasp the situation and was having
trouble with the idea of spending his own money -- because they were
going to spend their own money to buy these things for themselves --
in order to buy someone else the cards.
In the end it worked out. Then I took them to McDonald's Play Place.
The twins, at 11, are starting to gather that they are too big for
that place, but they seemed to enjoy it. My youngest was of course in
his prime, bouncing energetically off of all surfaces. But, no, I'm
not one of those buffoon parents who lets their kids run roughshod
over the tots for whom the place was intended. Fortunately that never
became an issue, they were all very well-behaved, even if energetic,
and my daughter entertained the little ones by playing monster with
them.
Of course, we arrive at McDonald's and what do they have? Yu-Gi-Oh
cards. In the "Big Kids Meals" I was not intending to buy "Big Kids
Meals", but when I compared prices to what I was going to buy (one
large drink, three $1 burgers and three $1 fries) the price was almost
the same, so what the hell.
With their "meals" the got two YGO cards and a CD-ROM.
Gads I'm an old duffer -- the idea of a CD-ROM as a promotional toy
still boggles me.
After a relatively painless dinner (my hard-earned immunity to
PlayPlace screeching is still intact) I took the kids to visit
grandpa.
They moved my father from the hospice to a nursing home because, of
course, the stupid freaking insurance company wouldn't pay for the
hospice anymore. Okay, okay, so he no longer can perceive the comforts
of the hospice, I understand. I'm simply just as pissed off at the
healthcare industry as every other sane, compassionate person is
(which clearly explains why Congress puts up with it).
Okay, so anyway the insurance boots my dad into the nursing home.
Fine. I try to prepare the kids as best I can: behave; no shouting,
fighting or running; it will smell like urine and chemicals; smile at
the old people.
The room (on the upper floor, which always means "bad") is as I expect
it: sterile, odorous, and shared. My father's roommate has the TV
blaring at full volume, but is watching us with a froggy eye as we
enter and makes no response at all to the "Hi" I toss his way. He's
not particularly old, but I can tell that while the lights are on, few
of the rooms are in use.
Anyway we come in and look at my father. He is sitting peacefully in
bed, as much at peace as I've seen him. But he's wasting. Papery skin
hangs from his forearms and jowls. His fingers appear bluish. His left
hand is shaking slightly. He doesn't appear to be asleep, just
waiting, so I venture a "Hi Dad."
His eyes open, his face twists into a rictus, and he raises a palsied
hand to paw at the left side of his head, keening a high, moaning cry.
I'm terrified for the kids. I look at the kids, and I can see they're
terrified for themselves.
My first impulse was to run like the wind before this experience scars
them for life. But it's too late now, best to try to deal with it.
I approach my father and touch his unmoving right arm. No response,
just the continuation of the moaning. I try talking to him, no
response. I switch sides of the bed as if that's going to make a
difference. Nothing.
Finally I shoo the kids out into the hall for a moment. I get real
close to him, stroking his hair and speaking quietly but firmly into
his ear.
"Dad? Dad? It's okay, it's me, Bobby."
Nothing.
His eyes are still open, fixed on the far wall. I slowly move my hand
back and forth, side to side in front of them. Nothing. Towards, away.
No blink.
He is blind.
I stand there a moment, helplessly. If the roommate only has a couple
of rooms occupied, my father's house is completely vacant. There's
nobody there. He's not deaf, he responds to sound, but only with his
keening cry.
Three weeks ago I stood next to the man at Thanksgiving and talked
about how good the turkey was.
Two weeks ago I followed a rambling monologue about tomatoes.
On Monday we briefly discussed my daughter's health.
Today, Friday, as far as I can tell my father is dead. Gone. All
that's left is a shell and a set of autonomic reflexes.
Then I did flee. When I realized that there was no one there I told
him I was going, and then I took the kids out of that place. They
won't be going back.
I'll go again. I can always hope he has a good day sometime when I
visit. Maybe enough will resurface to hear a word or a phrase or two
more. But that's all I can hope for.
My father was a loud, judgemental man. He had a lot of flaws. We had a
lot of unresolved stuff between us.
And, realistically, I never expected to resolve it. But I had hoped
that I could at least forge my own character against his, grow my
compassion to the point where I could encompass his parental
button-pushing and his behaviors in order to have some kind of
relationship with him. Come to a place where I understood him enough
to see past the arguments and the noise.
I'm not going to get that chance. This still hasn't sunk in yet. I'm
still too emotionally stunned to feel anything, really. I'm just
slogging through this experience and trying to remain oriented and
somewhat sane.
Next week is Christmas. I don't know what I want.
Next: AT&T knows I don't use the Internet, and other fallacies
[2]Last
Posted by Albatross at December 20, 2002 12:00 AM