The nurse tells me they’ll begin sedation tonight and operate in the morning. At home, I tell Mother everything went fine. She doesn’t want to stay in bed now; says she lies awake thinking; she wants to come out and watch TV.
I could move the TV back there but she wants to sit in the platform rocker.
She’s lonely and is being so good about things, I help her out and stack some pillows behind her head. I prop her feet on another chair. It’s Lawrence Welk night.
He really does bounce up and down saying “…and a one and a two and a three…” I try projecting myself. How will I feel when I’m seventy? What will be the equivalent then that I’ll enjoy? There’ll be something, some gimmick which will interest, comfort me, but will seem ridiculous to my kids and impossible to my grandchildren. I watch and listen. Mother laughs at all the corny jokes and sight gags. She keeps repeating how young Lawrence Welk is for his age and how beautifully he dances; and how he’s the same age as Daddy.
After that, we watch a movie; then I move her to the bedroom. I ease her into bed and give her some Valium.
I go back to the living room. I don’t want to watch TV anymore.
I write a letter to Vron. I try telling her my feelings of lonesomeness, of feeling disconnected. I need my own place, familiar things. I feel like a grown bird crawling back into last year’s crap-encrusted nest. I also feel ineffective, helpless; Vron could do these things ten times better than I can.
I go check Mother. She’s sleeping fine. I put on my sleeping suit and climb in bed. I think about Dad alone in the hospital. I think about how fast things have gone downhill.
Next day Joan comes. We decide to spell each other and go independently to see Dad. I go in first. He’s sitting up in bed and seems OK; says he didn’t feel a thing, didn’t know anything; he’s sore down there but that’s all.
He wants to know how it went; does he have cancer. He’s very anxious.
“Find out for me, will you, John?”
I tell him I’ll go talk with Dr. Santana, but I’m sure everything’s fine. I go to the urology clinic and catch Santana in his office. He’s wary seeing me, but we get right into it.
“Well, Mr. Tremont, I’ve just gotten the lab reports; there were several malignant tumors. I think I got them but we’ll have to do some chemotherapy. We won’t radiate, not with a man your father’s age.”
“But it’s definitely cancer.”
“Yes, a very virulent form. It’s a good thing we went in and got them when we did.”
“Please, whatever you do, Dr. Santana, don’t tell my father. He’s terribly anxious and frightened.”
“Come, Mr. Tremont, you’d be surprised what these old people can take. Their children tend to underestimate older people.”
His attitude worries me. He doesn’t seem to understand or want to understand.
“Doctor, this is not so in this case. My father’s deathly frightened.”
“There should be no shock, Mr. Tremont; this was a relatively simple excision; it hardly qualifies as an operation.”
I repeat, as forcefully as I can, how I’d appreciate it if he would hold off telling Dad he has cancer. I thought he was listening.
I go back to Dad and say the doctor feels everything went off fine. He doesn’t ask me again directly if it’s cancer, so I don’t need to lie but I’m ready to.
At home, I tell Mother how bright and chipper Dad is. I go into the living room with Joan and explain what the doctor told me. Joan’s more worried, as I am, about how Dad will take it than about the cancer itself.
After Joan leaves for the hospital, Mother wants to know what Joan and I were talking about; I lie and say I told Joan the same thing I told her.
“Tell me the truth, now, Jacky. Is there anything really wrong; does he have cancer?”
I’m usually a fair-to-middling liar but Mom has super antennae.
“Mother, I’d tell you if anything were wrong! The doctor said they got out the cyst; that’s all there is to it!”
It’s close, not too far off; but I know she’s still suspicious.
Joan comes back. Dad asked her what she knew and she told him the same thing I did. He accepted and was glad it’s all over.
Mother’s insisting she has to go see Dad herself. Here she’s only been home less than a week and she wants to visit the hospital. Joan and I succumb; if that’s the way she wants to die, OK. Joan needs to go home and cook for her mob; I say I can manage it myself.
I make dinner, keeping an eye out so Mom doesn’t come out of her bedroom checking to see her idiot son isn’t burning up the kitchen.
Mother doesn’t comment on the food but she doesn’t complain. After dinner we go back to her room and she tells me what she wants to wear. I get clothes from drawers and off hangers. She says she can dress herself while I do the dishes. I’m wiping off the dining table when I hear her shuffle into the bathroom. I phone the hospital, and ask if a wheelchair can be ready in the lobby.
When I put down the phone, she comes out of the bathroom. You wouldn’t believe she could possibly be sick. Mother is a master of disguise. Her hair is fluffed out and she’s wearing high heels. She’s tickled pink with herself; the way things look means a lot to her. I’m almost ready to call back and cancel that wheelchair. It’s going to look ridiculous pushing her through the hospital glowing like this.
But it only lasts a minute. She’s made her show, now she’s getting pale under the color. I help her into the platform rocker.
“You sit here, Mom, and get your breath. Have you taken a Valium?”
She nods her head. I’ll never know if she did or not.
“Do you have your digoxin with you?”
She pulls a bottle out of her purse. She doesn’t talk; she’s still too fatigued, or in pain. Mom’s a tough cookie.
I go warm the car and roll it out of the patio. I close the doors and sit there gunning the accelerator, giving Mom a chance to calm down. I go in and she’s up; I help her into the car. She doesn’t want to lie out in back, wants to sit in front. She pulls out the eyeshades she uses for sleeping and puts them on. Damned smart idea. She’s way ahead of me. So long as I don’t do anything sudden, she’ll be fine.
I drive like a one-man funeral cortège through the back-from-work traffic. A couple guys look in to see what’s up with this jerk driving in the right lane at twenty miles an hour. What they see is an old lady with the darkest, opaquest sunglasses, sitting straight up in the front seat ignoring everything. I try talking with her but she’s holding herself in. It finally dawns on me she’s just holding back from crying. Maybe Mom is a witch; it’d explain a lot.
The wheelchair is waiting; I help her in it and wheel her through the parking lot, past the reception desk, to the elevator. Mother turns her head.
“It scares me just being back in this place, Jacky. When I think of being sick, I think of niggers and Japs.”
We get to Dad’s floor and I’m hoping he’s asleep or under sedation. If only she can visit him, see he’s OK, then we can go.
I roll her into his room and immediately I know something’s wrong. I’m tempted to twist the chair right around and push Mother out of there. I should have, but I’m going into light shock myself.
Dad’s awake. Boy, is he ever awake! His eyes are wide open so you can see the blue isolated in the white. He glances at us when we come in but there’s no sign of recognition. He’s twisting the sheet in his fingers and staring at the door to his room.
I quickly go to Dad and take his hands; they’re ice cold. He looks at me, briefly; nothing; tiny concentrated pupils. He turns away with a jerk as a nurse goes by the door.
When he looks at me again, his lips start trembling. His whole body is shaking; he’s trying to speak. I bend close to listen. His voice comes out, rattling, juicy, deep, scared.
“What’s that! What’s that out there?”
I’m torn between getting Mom away and comforting him.
“It’s nothing, Da
d. You’re here in the hospital and there’s nothing the matter. You’re fine.”
He looks me in the eyes without belief, neither in what I’m saying nor in me. Mother has pulled herself up beside me. Somehow she’s gotten out of the wheelchair and reaches past me. She leans over and kisses Dad. He kisses back, lips puckered big, like a child kissing, burlesque of a kiss. Mother isn’t crying yet; she whispers in Dad’s ear.
“Hello, Jack, sweetheart; are you all right?”
She holds his face in her hands. He stares that same round-eyed, childlike stare at her. He smiles but it’s not a real smile; it trembles, a smile of a child smiling on command. Mom holds his head against her breast and runs her hands over his bald head.
“Baby, what’s the matter?”
She looks at me in despair, tears starting to roll down her cheeks. She mouths the words, “What’s the matter with him, Jacky?”
I don’t know what to do. I lean out, signal to the desk frantically. Mother could just up and die right here. How much can a heart take? My own heart feels as if it’s jumping into my mouth. I can’t make myself pull Mother away from Dad.
No nurse comes. I hold Dad’s hands while Mom holds his head. He makes no resistance. We hold him like that, hoping he’ll come back. He’s gone, this is only a shell; whatever he is is gone.
He keeps trying to see past me out the door. The reflection in the glass has him frightened. I go over to show him it’s nothing, only a glass door reflecting light. I run my hand in front of it, explaining all the time. He’s not comprehending. He’s frightened at a level beyond anything rational. Finally a nurse comes. I stop her at the door.
“What’s happened?”
She looks at me, coldly, disdainfully.
“Why? Is something the matter?”
“Is he under heavy sedation?”
She looks at the chart.
“No, not really. It’s not necessary in a case like his.”
“Then what’s the matter with him? He doesn’t recognize us and is in terrible shock.”
She comes in past me. Mother’s still holding on to Dad’s head. She glances at the wheelchair.
“What’s that doing in here?”
I hold myself back. No scenes.
“My mother’s a heart patient, only five days out of the hospital.”
She looks at Mother, then leans forward to hold Dad’s wrist for his pulse; she slips on her cuff and takes his blood pressure. I’m having that terrible smothering feeling you have when you know you’re not getting through.
But the BP and pulse mean something to her. She looks into Dad’s eyes and feels his head. Mom is starting to sob. I go to her.
“Whatever can it be, Jacky? He doesn’t even know me. What can be the matter?”
“Come on, Mom, sit down over here. The nurse can handle this. They probably doped him up so he’s half asleep; after an anesthetic you know how it is.”
God, I wish it were easier lying to her. But she lets me take her back to the wheelchair. I know I need to get her away and home. Or maybe I should leave her here in the hospital. If she doesn’t have another heart attack now, she’s never going to have one. I go close and whisper to the nurse.
“I’m taking my mother home, then I’m coming back. I want to see Dr. Santana immediately.”
She looks at me, low-level authority brimming in her eyes.
“Dr. Santana was already here to see your father this afternoon. He’s not in the hospital right now.”
I begin to smell the rat.
“Look, you have the hospital call Dr. Santana. Tell him there’s been a tremendous change in the condition of Mr. Tremont and that his son Dr. Tremont wants an immediate consultation.”
I figure now’s the time to get some mileage out of that dumb Ph.D. Her eyes light up at the word “doctor.”
Twenty years ago, I helped run a study on nurses. We were trying to find out what made some nurses stick it and others drop out. The ANA was financing the study; they wanted to avoid training nurses who didn’t have it. It was a three-year study in depth and breadth. The two factors we found most highly correlated to long-term professional continuance were a father fixation and sadistic tendencies. The ANA didn’t publish our results.
But I can see I’ve automatically fitted myself into the father role with this girl. I’m now one of the white coats. I’m sure she’ll call Santana.
In the lobby I phone Joan. I give her a quick idea of what’s happened and ask if she can come stay with Mother. She’ll be there in half an hour. Mom cries all the way home and I’m trying to calm her. I have a hard time keeping panic and anger out of my voice, so I’m not much good. It’ll be better with Joan; she hasn’t actually seen Dad.
I get Mother into bed and give her two Valium. She insists I’m making a drug addict out of her but I know somehow I need to get her to sleep. Joan comes just after Mom’s swallowed the pills. She walks into the bedroom and Mother breaks down again. Joan looks across the bed at me while she’s hugging Mom. She begins to look scared too; it must be in my face. I leave them alone and go into the bathroom. I look awful. I comb my hair, wash my hands and face. Joan comes out of the bedroom as I leave the bathroom.
“What is it, Jack? Mother says Daddy’s crazy. What’s happened?”
“I don’t know, Joan. I’m going back. If my suspicions are right, Santana told Dad he has cancer and Dad’s gone into shock. I asked them to get Santana there.”
I put my coat back on.
“Keep an eye on Mom. I don’t know how she survived this. I don’t know how I did.”
“Now, you take it easy; you’re fifty-two years old, you know. Don’t go around playing macho-hero.”
When I get to the hospital, Santana is in Dad’s room. There are two nurses with him. He turns to me.
“What is this, Mr. Tremont? I don’t see anything drastically wrong with your father.”
I look at Dad; he’s grinning and nodding with his “Yessuh, boss man” smile.
I hope he really is back in contact, but he still seems traumatized.
“Dad, do you remember seeing Mother today?”
He stares at me, no response. He isn’t even blinking his eyes. He begins nodding his head up and down again. He’s staring and smiling at Santana.
“That doesn’t look like normal behavior to me, Dr. Santana. I consider it serious. He doesn’t recognize me and he didn’t recognize his wife.”
This gets to Santana. He uses his light to look in Dad’s eyes, checks his pulse. He leans forward toward Dad.
“Mr. Tremont, this is Dr. Santana. Do you know who I am?”
Damned if Dad doesn’t start it again, nodding, smiling, saying, “I’m fine, yes, I’m just fine, Doctor. Thank you.” Santana leans back, turns to me.
“Yes, he’s in shock.”
He sends the nurse out to get some medication. He motions me to go outside the room with him. He’s being more reasonable now.
“This is standard with older people, Mr. Tremont. They often go into delayed shock like this even after minor surgery. He has a history of arteriosclerosis, you know.”
I nod. I’m trying to hold back, trying to think it out.
“Well, this is a form of senility—”
I interrupt.
“But he wasn’t senile when he came in, Doctor. Why should he suddenly go into senility?”
Santana runs his hands through his hair, sighs.
“Senility is a strange thing; it can go on and off. You get a stress situation like this and it crops up. We don’t know as much about these problems as we’d like to.”
I figure now’s good a time as any to ask.
“Dr. Santana, today did you tell my father he has cancer?”
He stares at me and steps back. He doesn’t have to say anything.
“I told you before, Mr. Tremont, I have an ethical obligation to be honest with the patient.”
“Do you mean, even after I warned you of what might happen, you disregarded my
advice completely and told him?”
I point to Dad.
“Just look what your ethical honesty has brought about!”
I stare Santana in the face. I’m talking in a whisper but I’m furious. Santana is a little guy and steps back again; maybe he’s worried about his surgeon’s hands.
“It could also be physiological, Mr. Tremont. Perhaps as a result of the operation, or the anesthetic, there was a reduction of blood circulation to the brain. That could cause this kind of reaction. I’m sure rest and proper medication will correct the situation; don’t you worry.”
My impulse is to attack, but I back off. I’m too emotionally involved to be effective.
I stay with Dad for another half hour, trying to make contact, but he’s unavailable. He’s not my father at all. Whatever Dad is as a person is not there. There’s a monkeylike quality in the way his head is hunched inside his shoulders, something he never did; he’s using his hands to caress and feel everything. He’s rubbing his lips one over the other, grimacing, smiling and muttering in a totally unrelated way. I’ve watched my share of mentally disturbed people but never one I love.
I go home. I tell Joan Dad’s still the same, that I’ve seen the doctor. I want her to visit; maybe he’ll recognize her. She says Mom is being reasonable but is terribly shaken up; she’s convinced Dad’s crazy.
Joan leaves and I go back to see Mom. Joan has pulled all the blinds and Mother has a cloth on her head. This is an all-purpose family remedy for anything; even if you don’t have a fever, put a wet cloth on the head. I think it’s more a signal “I’m sick” than anything else. But Mom looks bad. I sit on the bed beside her. Now she starts with the theme that becomes a common one.
“There’s craziness in that family, Jacky. Daddy had a cousin who was deaf; Orin, his brother, wasn’t quite right in the head.”
This is one of my uncles, who is very eccentric, I must admit.
“Joey’s another one, a drummer in a jazz band. They finally had to put him in a crazy house, too.”
Orin’s son, called Joey, had a serious motorcycle accident, causing a skull fracture, so he had to retrain his motor skills.