4/28/10

4/28/10

Correction: Obviously, my last entry, which was dated March, should have been dated April. It took my therapist to point this out, because I am way too zombified to know what month it is.

I've been spending A LOT of time at the hospital, keeping an eye on Dad along with various members of our crew, and crying. When I'm not there, Dad asks for me and tries to climb out of bed. When asked where he was going, he said, “I'm going to Bay Ridge to visit K . . . K . . K . . .” He seemed happiest when Kate S and I each sat on either side of him, one holding each hand. “Small,” he said, and I squeezed his hand. “Big!” and she squeezed his other hand. Back and forth, back and forth. “How many Kates are there?” he asked. “Just two, Big and Small,” I said. “What happens if we combine them?” he wanted to know. “You get one REALLY big Kate,” I told him.

The hallucinations continue. “I thought I was going to be killed,” said Dad, quite unexpectedly. “Killed?” I inquired. “20,0000 . . . 50,000 people. I thought there was going to be a riot with all those people.” “They're peaceful people,” I told him, trying to guide the vision in a less upsetting direction. “I thought there would be more violence,” he responded. “They're just singing songs,” I told him. “Will we have guards?” he asked. “A whole battalion,” I told him. He seemed impressed by that. “How come I wasn't killed?” “Because Kate and I protected you with our magic powers.” “Oh, OK.”

“He was a good man, right?” said one of the nurses' aides, impressed by the rotating cast of characters at Dad's side. Her use of the past tense “was” started me crying again. “I can tell by how many people want to take care of him,” she said. Trying to be comforting, she told me about her husband's death. “We were just kids when we married, 15 and 20. We grew up together. I had my first daughter at 17 and by 20 I had three kids. We were together 35 years. Then suddenly he was gone. I couldn't sleep and I gained thirty pounds. You have to pray.” This only made me cry harder, wondering if her perception of Dad as an old man in his final illness was more true than my image of Dad as a tough geezer going through a temporary struggle.

“I AM GOING HOME!” said Dad in a definitive tone, trying to get his legs out of the tangle of sheets, blankets, oxygen tubes, and IV pole. “You can't,” I said, trying to sound stern. “Why the hell not?” he demanded. I had to think fast. “The last train already left. We can't get a train out until the morning,” I explained. Suddenly, he stopped struggling. “Do we have to transfer between Washington and New York?” he inquired. “No, we stay on the same train,” I told him. “OK,” he said and settled down.

Later, the night nurse came in to introduce herself. “My name is Mercy,” she said, in a Haitian accent. “Mercy,” Dad repeated. “You're here to distribute mercy,” he said and she laughed and laughed.