Authors: Bob Morris
Assisted Loving (13 page)
He was right, of course, but it took me years to understand it fully. And by the time I did, she was dying, without her wits about her. By then all there was to do was sing to her and wait for the morphine to take her down and out, until her life had left her.
But now, today, tra la, there's this happy, snappy little hip-replacement miracle in which our Wonder Dad, so up for a good time, has pulled through with rosy cheeks and broad painkiller smile.
I feel tears. My brother is teary-eyed, too. It's for joy, and we shake our heads, amazed. Dad made it. He's going to be running around with more ease than before.
And then, because we suspect he'd do the same to us, we decide to ditch him. He'll be fine, we can see, and we go to dinner at a snooty French restaurant in upscale Manhasset, exactly the kind of place with genteel decor, uppity waiters, and overpriced entrées (no sharing plates) that Dad would hate. I'm glad to be out of the hospital and grateful my brother is easing up on the dutiful-son routine tonight. It's especially gratifying to play hospital hooky together on this, the end of the holiest day of the
Jewish year, and in what might be the most Episcopalian restaurant on Long Island.
“It was great you could spend the night and get him to the hospital today,” he says.
“Seemed like a good idea,” I say.
“He told me it meant the world to him that you wanted to be there.”
“Unusually selfless of me, I guess,” I say.
“Not unusual at all. You've been great. You're a great son.”
I blush with pride at the acknowledgment.
The following day, we're visiting Dad again, when a wide-hipped peroxide blonde runs into his room in a high state of alarm. “Oh my God! Joey! You're alive! Thank God!” She's wearing brown lipstick and mascara, tight black slacks, a turtleneck, and a little white fur coat. Her name is Mini. She is anything but. And she is shrieking.
“I really thought you were dead, Joey!”
“I don't understand,” he says.
“The security guard in your building told me you died in this hospital.”
“What made him say such a thing?”
“It was a terrible misunderstanding,” she says, as she fans herself with her hand.
“I'll say,” he says.
“But that's what he told me when I went to wish you a happy holiday. So I got very upset and spread the word. So now your entire building thinks you're dead. It's a national day of mourning at the Centra, Joey.”
“That's very flattering,” he says.
“I better get back over there to tell everyone that you're
still alive. Everyone loves you so much, Joey. They'll be thrilled. See you soon!”
Then she leaves, leaving my brother and me in a cloud of eau de something or other.
“Who was that, Dad?” my brother asks.
“Mini,” he says. “Just friends, nothing serious.”
A moment passes. It's a little awkward, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Later, in the hospital parking lot, my brother tells me, “Mom was right. Life with him may be irritating, but it's never dull.”
I
n a week, he's over in rehab. But even though his new hip is going to be fine, he's depressed. He's not a patient patient, and six weeks of recovery time looms over him the same way it would for a little boyâhe can't imagine taking that long to get back on his feet, and he's not interested in being stuck in a routine that isn't his own. To me, the rehab facility is kind of fabulous. It's in Manhasset, surrounded by woods, a low-rise brick design that could almost be Scandinavian. And at a time when celebrities are in and out of one kind of facility or another, the word
rehab
has a glamorous connotation. I wonder who else is in rehab with him. Maybe an elderly socialite or two?
“This place is surprisingly nice, isn't it?” I chirp.
I go out to see him often. To my dismay, he isn't get
ting many visitors. He doesn't like seeing friends when he isn't at his best, he tells me. What he needs is a wife to fuss over him all day long, bring him chicken soup, arrange his bedside table, do crosswords with him. He's bored. He spends hours watching TV, looking forward to visits from my brother, sister-in-law, their children, and guilty, guilty me. I'm busy in the city, working on revisions for an upcoming reading of a solo show, as well as a treatment I've been invited to pitch to a network. I am struggling to find a national audience. Meanwhile, I have become Dad's private entertainment.
Today, a week into his rehab, I am committed to getting a smile out of him. He's in a wheelchair in his room in a flannel shirt, with smudged glasses crooked on his nose. His mouth is turned down in a way that's unfamiliar to me. He's usually so sunny.
“Okay, ready for a joke, Dad?”
“Not in the mood,” he says.
“Oh, come on. Since when do you turn down a joke?”
“Okay, fine. Go ahead,” he says.
I pull my chair up close to make sure he's paying attention.
So two young woman and one old woman are sitting in a sauna. There's a beeping sound. The first young woman presses her forearm, and the beeping stops. The others look at her with raised eyebrows. “That was my pager,” she says. “I have a microchip under the skin of my arm.” A few minutes later, a phone rings. The second young woman lifts her palm to her ear. When she finishes, she explains, “That was my mobile phone. I have a microchip in my hand.” Now the older woman is suddenly feeling very low tech and out of it. But not to be outdone, she leaves the sauna, then returns with a piece
of toilet paper hanging from her rear end. “Well, would you look at that,” she says. “I must be getting a fax!”
Dad doesn't laugh.
“Get it?”
“Yes, I get it.”
“You don't think it's funny?”
“Eh,” he says. “It's a little demeaning.”
“To who?”
“'Who do you think? The elderly. We're not that ridiculous.”
Maybe he's right. But that furrowed brow, weary voice of the dyingâI have to turn his spirits around. Outside his window, the October leaves are gold and red, sifting in the afternoon air. He's in the autumn of his life. I'm no spring chicken either. But I refuse to accept that this is how it has to be with him for the next five weeks.
“You know what, Dad? Let's get you in a sweater. If you're going to sit around depressed, let's take it outside.”
“No, I don't want to go outside.”
“Why not?”
“It's too cold.”
“You have no idea what the temperature is. It's a beautiful day, and if I schlep out here from the city, the least you can do is let me get some fresh air. Here's your sweater. I'll help you put it on.” I grab his beige pullover from a shelf and try to drape it over him. He refuses it, like a willful two-year-old, pushing it back at me.
“Come on, Dad!”
“Bobby, please don't nag me. You want to come and visit, that's great, but I don't want to be forced to do anything. I'd rather be left alone.”
He turns his attention to his TV. I let out a sigh.
“So that's it, Dad? We're going to have to spend the morning watching TV?”
“You can change the channel if you like.”
“No, I think I'll just go home.”
“You just got here.”
“Well, it's an incredibly busy week for me.”
His face lights up for the first time since I arrived. My career is his career.
“So what's cooking? Got a good assignment?”
“No, I told you what I'm doing. We're staging another reading of my show. And I'm pitching a TV show in L.A. next week.”
The smile vanishes. He shrugs, makes a face as if he's just tasted sour milk.
“I'm excited, Dad. But you don't look pleased.”
“You've been trying to get that show off the ground for two years. I hate to see you set yourself up for more disappointment.”
“Pardon me?”
“I just think that this pie-in-the-sky stuff is going to give you nothing but heartache. Are they paying your way to California for the TV meeting?”
“Um. No. But it's a big deal to be invited.”
“Big waste of your money, mark my words.”
Irritation is bubbling up in me now, along with self-doubt I would rather ignore. A couple months ago we were gleefully writing songs together in Vermont. Why all this negativity now? He's in a bad mood. Nothing seems hopeful to him at the moment. And like me, he's too self-involved to check himself.
“I just hate to see you do things you don't get paid for, Bobby.”
Why does he think I need his approval? He's never done anything that would make his advice worthy. I mean, what was his career? He rose all the way from Bay Shore real estate lawyer to administrative law judge for the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles, an appointment that allowed him to proudly refer to himself for the rest of his life as
Judge
Joseph Morris. He was no Thurgood Marshall. When I was in my twenties, failing at getting a career started and living at home, he used to come back from work and bore me at dinner with lackluster accounts of his day. The case of some poor schmuck who accidentally ran over the neighbor's dog. Drunk-driving adolescents. Speeding arrests in parking lots. Moving violations that were anything but moving. Dad kept asking me to come to court so I could see him on his elevated throne of justice, judging traffic criminals. “You'd be very intrigued,” he told me. “And it would make a great TV series. If you write it, I'll sign on as an adviser.” I'd snicker. What did he know? Now, twenty-five years after I rejected his dream, here he is rejecting mine.
“All I'm saying, Bobby, is that you should stick to what you're good at.”
“I don't want to keep doing journalism for the rest of my life,” I whine.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of when it comes to work. You're clever, and you've mastered a certain kind of writing. You get paid to write for a prominent publication that millions of people read.”
“Except you, Dad.”
“You know that I don't like the politics of that paper.”
“Is it so wrong to want more from my career? I need to feel hopeful right now.”
“Fine. But when it doesn't work out, remember who told you so.”
I bolt up from my chair and push it into his bed so it clatters.
“Okay, Dad. I've heard enough. I'm going to go. I've got a busy week.”
“As you like. Thanks for coming.” He extends an arm to me as he always does for a hug. I ignore it and give him a cool pat on the shoulder instead, then storm out. Driving home, stuck in traffic, as I so often am on my tedious trips to him, I seethe.
“He's just frustrated, don't pay attention,” my brother tells me later.
“I really can't stand him sometimes,” I say. “I don't know why I visit.”
“Because you know he loves his visits with you more than anything.”
“We're always fighting. We drive each other crazy.”
“That's not what I hear. He's always thrilled to see you.”
“He loves when you bring your kids,” I say. “He loves watching sports on TV with Ian. To him that's a perfect visit with a perfect grandson.”
“Maybe. But it's not the same as you. Don't you know how much he adores you? He thinks of you as his soul mate.”
“He does not.”
“Yes, he does. He's always telling me how much he identifies with everything you do. You're doing everything he wishes he could have done with his own life.”
“And what are you, Jeff? Chopped liver?”
“He loves me, he loves my family. But he is thrilled by you.”
“Do you think he senses you're angry at the way he treated Mom?”
“Maybe. But I'm not as angry as I used to be.”
I'm glad about that. For all of us. And I guess I could be flattered. My father thinks I'm a thrill. Don't some sons fight their whole lives to get that kind of reaction from their fathers? Instead, I just feel guilty that in a few days I have to leave him for a week to go to L.A. So, upset as I am with him, I drive out for another visit, leaving all kinds of work behind on my desk. He's still wallowing in depression, slumped in his wheelchair in his room, and devoid of the wonderful willful vitality that has always defined him. But I have a plan today. I know he still has it in him to sing. Without letting him argue, I wheel him outside into the warm autumn afternoon. I place him in front of a bench, and I sit down and get out my ukulele. The birds are almost shrill. I strum hard.
I want to be happy
But I won't be happy
Till I make you happy tooâ¦
Am I seeing the trace of a smile? The lines on his forehead relax, and his eyebrows descend, and his face goes from showing consternation to contentment to enjoyment. Then I see him start to speak the lyrics. I do want to make him happy. It's all I want.
But the happiness doesn't last long. When I wheel him back inside, I can't get him to show any enthusiasm for anything. I wonder if he is getting a look at his future and doesn't like what he's seeing, confined, controlled, dependent. He is eighty-one, now, after all. Even with a
new hip, how much longer will he be able to frolic, flirt, run around from bridge games to concerts and salad bar restaurants?
One evening, when I'm back from L.A., I'm wheeling him into dinner at a long table with the other hip patients. (And I don't mean
hip
in the downtown sense of the word.) They are all in wheelchairs, which doesn't make for the most delicate dining. All women, mostly in their seventies, nicely dressed in muted colors, decent jewelry, well-tied scarves. Hip-replacement surgery is elective, and therefore selectiveâjust the demographic I'm looking for, for him. A match! Why hadn't I thought of this before? A rehab romance, in-house and short-term, could be just the thing to cheer him up, put a little fizz in his day, set me free from worrying. Fifth Avenue Florence won't have to know. This could be a little starter course before he starts up with her for real in Florida. I can't help noticing that all the woman at his table look like pretty classy birds. And some of them are eyeing him like the cutest little worm they've ever seen. That ash blonde at the end of the table with excellent manners would be very attractive accessorized with something other than an IV pole. But Dad, who is usually so flirtatious, is paying no attention, even as they try to engage him in chatter.
“We didn't see you at bingo this morning, Joe,” one says.
“Have you gotten an absentee ballot for the election?” another says. “It's less than a month away, and you're staying here through mid-November, right?”
“Yes, I'm aware,” he says. “You don't have to remind me.”
He eats his dinner in a sullen daze. I don't understand
this at all. He's got a new hip, a new life ahead, Fifth Avenue Florence in Florida, and plenty of good fishing for affection right here, right now. How can my Love Pelican be letting all these lovely lady fish get away? “Dad,” I say, as I wheel him back to his room after lunch, “those women at your table look really nice. Have you seen any husbands around?”
“Not one. I think they're all widowed.”
“So why don't you chat with them a little more?”
“What do I have to chat about?”
“Anything. Or you could ask one to join you for the movie tonight.”
“No, Bobby, I don't think so.”
“What about seeing if any of them are bridge players?”
“Playing bridge with four wheelchairs at a table is a physical impossibility. I tried it once, and it was like the Mad Hatter's tea party.”
We're halfway to his room and another attractive ladyâwearing pearls and a small Star of Davidâis wheeled past us. She says hello. Her eyes are a lovely shade of blue, just like my mother's. “And how are
you
this evening?” I ask.
“Better every day,” she replies.
“How much longer will you be here?”
“Another four weeks, I'm told,” she says.
“Oh! Dad! That's the same as you, isn't it?”
“Don't remind me,” he says.
He won't perk up. And after a few more niceties, she excuses herself and disappears down the hall. I wheel him back to his room. “Okay, now
she
was exactly your type,” I say. “Why don't you ask if she'd like to have lunch with you tomorrow?”
“No, not now, thanks.”
“Why not?”
“I don't feel like socializing.”
“Okay, you know what? I'll go ask her for you. You have four weeks to get to know each other. You've already wasted too much time. I'll be right back!”
He brings his hand down firmly against his wheelchair.
“Bobby, please!” he yells. “Leave it alone already!”
I freeze right over him, a looming shadow with an agenda. I should recognize that all he needs right now is my hand and some affection. Instead, I want to fix him. I just can't stand to see him so resigned to wallowing in his loneliness, so not himself.