Wednesday, 06 May 2009

• I Want That

  His mostly-gray hair is shorter than usual. It juts up and out in random patches on top and lays completely flat on the back of his head. He's clean-shaven for the first time in weeks today. His right arm is swollen, heavy with fluids that his disabled kidneys cannot process. Occasionally, he coughs; his face reddens with the strain, but these episodes are silent. The ventilator and IV pump provide a variety of interesting, and sometimes alarming, sounds. He mouths his words less carefully the first time than he does the third time and, when frustration at our incomprehension boils over, he points vehemently at the laminated sheet with the alphabet on one side and pictures on the other. He's been bedridden for 61 days.
  
  When we walked in, he was staring at the closed blinds on the enormous window three feet from his bed. He greeted us without a smile, but scooted up slightly in the bed. I showed him a card I bought for him to give his wife on Mother's Day, reading it to him. Talk about an awkward purchase. What does a man say to his wife when no one else is around? Especially a man who so seldom speaks? It was sweet and seemed to reflect the way he has lived, ending with a sentiment something like: "But, most of all, it means that I will spend every day of my life with the woman who means everything to me." He nodded and said it was a good card, but he wasn't feeling up to signing it. I slid it into the top drawer of the nightstand and said that maybe he'd feel like doing it later, or tomorrow. He did have dialysis today and that's tiring.
  
  The first question he asked was whether I'd talked to his wife. She was doing yard work when I saw her and said she would be up to see him later. He nodded at that news, and frowned. We babbled on about the news and mundane happenings that take place in daily life, but his interest peaked when I asked if he'd heard about Chrysler. We talked about the automaker's bankruptcy and the unfairness of setting a time limit on negotiations with Fiat. He hadn't heard yet that Wagoner was forced to resign and looked genuinely concerned at the news. He shook his head and rolled his eyes when I told him that Wagoner took a $20M severance package, though. He asked who replaced Wagoner, but I didn't know. I assured him that I would find out and report back to him tomorrow. Apparently, Wagoner was replaced by Chief Operating Officer Frederick "Fritz" Henderson.
  
  He asked, only once, what time it was. There's no clock in his room. He's asked every day for the last three days about the time. It passes slowly for me, as a visitor; I can't imagine how slowly it passes for him. He flipped through the channels on his television over and over, finally settling on the news. Twice more, he asked if I'd spoken to his wife. Several minutes after the third inquiry, he asked me to go call her. Thankfully, she was getting in the car when I called.
  
  She walked in, freshly showered, but still looking tired, and headed directly to the left side of his bed. His eyes brightened, opening wider than they'd been the entire visit, and he patted her side several times before running his fingertips over her belly. He smiled, resting his hand on her shoulder until she donned gloves and could hold his hand. We made polite conversation, the four of us, over his bed and then the girl and I excused ourselves.
  
  This year marks their 40th year of marriage, yet my father literally came alive when my mother entered the room. I won't pretend that they don't have their differences or that they never fight, but I can never remember a time when my father expressed any sentiment short of complete adoration for my mother. Until I saw that subtle interaction at his hospital bedside, I'd almost forgotten that they were more than my aging parents. They are lovers and the best of friends. Though I have made grievous mistakes in my marriage, this is the love I aspire to have: a strong, enduring love that cannot be stemmed even in the worst circumstances.
  

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