Nursing Home Day

It wasn't his  fault he'd gotten older. Time is a gentle current. It sweeps us slowly down the shore of life, drifting by milestones: high school, college, marriage, and eventually divorce. We end up far away, lost to some extent. We try to gain our bearings before being swept out to sea.

He tried to  remember things, tried think clearer. He even wrote them down in a little red book. But they always got away. No matter how hard he held his pen. The thoughts hit the paper and never stuck. At this crossroads he was lost, scared and  frightened of the future. The reality of losing himself was terrifying.

Last week they had spoken of nursing homes again. That much hedid remember. Pieces of the conversation rattled about, "Dad, maybe it’s not such a good idea for you to  live alone . . . nursing home . . . I'd feel better if you weren't there alone .  . . It's such a big house . . . I miss Mom, too, but we all have to go on living." The questions blurred. Damn it! He thought to himself. How can I organize my thoughts if I can't even remember them?

Today was  here. It always is. But this today was special. His head came off the pillow. In  the first second of the morning his stomach turned. With his eyes circling the ceiling back and forth, he waited in bed and hoped that the day would never  come.

The day of "the trip." "The trip" that they were going to take together. The topic started  coming up last week. Only pieces of the puzzle were left. "Dad, I think . . . a trip next Saturday . . . I want you to pack a bag . . . just a night or two . . . we'll come over . . . get you . . . help you . . . your things." He may have been old, but one plus one still equaled two. He could connect the dots.

For most of  the morning he sat at the kitchen table, his hands trembling. Over and over, his  stomach twisted and his face felt pale and empty. Every time he looked at the  clock it seemed to move faster. It was laughing at him. His son would be here any moment. Why did time have to be so cruel?

Suddenly there was a knock . . . it was here.

"Hey there Pops. You ready? It doesn't look like it. Why haven't you been packing?"

"I guess that  time slipped by . . . sorry." Damn him! Damn him! Why did he have to do this . . . all this pretending? I can't take it anymore! I can't take it!

"Christ, Jim,  STOP IT! I know why you're here! I know . . . I." He broke down at the table, sobbing like a child, his hands over his face. Jim's face was gray.

"Dad . . . Dad . . . I didn't know what to say . . . I didn't know what to say or how to tell you. I'm so sorry . . . I wanted to tell you but I was afraid you'd be upset."

"Upset? Upset! Jim, my life is over now."

He finished  packing his things. It only took a few minutes but seconds crawl slowly across  empty silence. Jim sat and watched, tapping his fingers. Everything in the house  seemed to be saying good-bye, the house he grew up in. A chapter was ending.

They loaded  the car together, locked the door, all without saying a word. The mini-van  cruised to the stoplight; he entertained an idea about jumping out, running  away. And then they were off again. He tried to hold his voice together, tried  to keep some dignity, but it came out like squeaky gravel.

"Jim . . . I'm sorry. I know you want to help. I . . . I'm just scared."

Now it was Jim who started to sob, "I know . . . I know . . . It must have been tearing you up. How did you find out?"

"I heard you and Susan a while ago, something about taking out a loan to help take care of  me. I guess you just feel these sorts of things. Anyway, somewhere I knew I  couldn't go on at home alone." He looked down at the floor then out the open  window speaking under his breath but loud enough for his son to hear. "It's hard  to be terrified with dignity, Jim. It's harder than I ever imagined." There was silence again, empty silence. It was even more awkward than before. Both men  felt sick but neither of them wanted to make the other feel worse. After  forty-five minutes of unbearable driving the van stopped. He looked around, surprised and turned to his son who had already started a sentence.

"OK. Get your  stuff, Dad. Come on. It will be OK."

"Jim? This is  . . . this is . . . your house."

Jim laughed a  little, confused. "Yeah . . . last time I checked it was."

"But what  about the nursing home?"

Jim's face softened, his laugh stopped, and his expression was a mixture of love, pride,  sorrow, and irony. "Oh, my God. Dad, is that where you thought we were going?"

"But I heard you and Susan talking about the loan."

"That loan was for fixing up the guest house Dad. We just thought you should come and stay near us for a little while. Mom only died last month, and you haven't been the same.  We thought it would cheer you up to be around your family. You can stay in the  guest house. You have your own bathroom. I thought you might feel like you were imposing—that's why I sprung it on you."

"Jim, I don't  know what to say."

"Neither do I. But I love you."

"I love you  too."

John Grace,  M.D.

Class of 2000