‘Medically speaking, that could make sense, Mr Tremont. Do you have a special reason?’
‘The convalescent home where I’d like to place him would prefer it.’
I leave it at that, hoping he’s not up on the details for this kind of thing. He looks at me again. He has papers in his hands he keeps going back to.
‘All right, Mr Tremont, we’ll leave it in.’
He walks away. I go to Sam and start explaining. He’s leaning against the urology sign-in desk, holds up his hand.
‘I heard. OK. He’s scheduled for discharge tomorrow, right?’
‘That’s right. Thanks a lot, Sam; thanks for everything.’
We shake and I head back downstairs.
I tell the lady, whose name is Mrs Trumbull, the catheter will stay in. She glances over her cards.
‘There might just be a place available at Cottage Villa. I’ll call.’
On the phone, she goes over Dad’s situation. She looks up at me and smiles as she hangs up.
‘There’s no opening right now but there will be soon. They want you to come for an interview.’
She pulls out a card with an address and signs it. Cottage Villa is about a half mile away, on top of a hill near the San Diego and Santa Monica Freeway Interchange. I drive there.
From the outside, the place looks great. It’s built with an open U-shaped front enclosing a large lawn with flowers. There are colored umbrellas spread around and picnic-type tables. It could be a low-priced golf club in Palm Springs.
Extending back from the turns of the U are two long corridors. The wheelchair in all its variations is the main theme; stainless steel and strained faces, pale wrinkled skin, white hair, everybody in dressing gowns. I work my way to the office.
The lady there tells me how convalescent homes are 70 percent women; the men die young. I’m in luck because there’s a man who should die within the next forty-eight hours; Dad can have his place.
She asks if I want to see the room but I don’t have the courage. She shows me another that’s exactly the same. It looks like a small motel room with high-sided beds. There’s a door on the corridor and a window to the parking lot. A man is sitting in a wheelchair by the window playing with himself.
She says she’ll call the hospital and tell them when to move my father; the hospital will supply the ambulance. I tell her about the indwelling catheter and ask if it can be removed soon as possible without Dad losing Perpetual coverage.
‘Don’t you worry, once he’s here we do what we want; the doctors are very understanding.’
I’d hoped it would be something like that.
God, it’s good getting outside again. I look up at the sun, then across the green to an almost motionless scene on the patio. I feel footloose, carefree, potent. I swing without pain into the car, gun her up and charge out of the parking lot, something nobody back there will ever do again.
At home, Mother comes shuffling up the hall. Before I open my mouth she starts. She can’t accept the idea of Daddy in a home. Couldn’t we hire a professional nurse and have her stay here with Daddy in the house? We could fix up the back room so she could live there.
It’s something I hadn’t thought of. I’m just feeling I have everything settled, now this. I sit down to get my breath, listen to her, nodding, trying to make it fit.
I pick up the phone and call Joan. It’s the best way to tell Mom about the home without being interrupted. There’s something magic about a phone. Most people will interrupt if you’re talking to them or talking to somebody else in the room but won’t interrupt if you’re talking to someone else on a phone. I explain the situation to Joan, including the indwelling catheter. Joan agrees to it all.
‘Remember, Jack. It isn’t the end of the world. If we don’t like it, we can always take him out.’
I bring up the new idea of having a nurse. Joan says she’ll talk to Mother. I hand over the phone, go back in the bedroom, stretch out on the bed, pick up the receiver and listen.
Joan’s doing it again. She’s already worked out an angle.
‘Look, Mother. It’s no different from having him in the hospital, only it’s closer. He’s getting medical care, something we can’t give him. It’s not so far to visit. While he’s there we can start looking for a nurse to stay at the house. We can’t just find somebody overnight, it’ll take time. We’ll call the Catholic Welfare Agency.’
I put down the receiver and try to relax. I’ve been tense all day and my blood pressure’s pounding. One of Mother’s Valium and a glass of water are beside the bed. I slug it down, stretch out and wait.
It’s amazing how fast it works. Maybe it’s all in the head but I feel myself unwind. The creeping worries around the edges of my unconscious recede and fade. I don’t feel like sleeping but only staying in this rested, as opposed to restless, state.
Mom comes back to me after she hangs up. Just walking down the hall, it seems, she’s changed her mind. She starts off with how nobody cares about old people.
‘Even if you have money, they only want to tuck you away somewhere with strangers. It didn’t used to be that way. Oh, no! My sisters and I took care of my mother for seven years when she was half paralyzed. Then when she died we shared Pop around too.
‘And you sure can’t count on a visit or a phone call from grandchildren, even if you’ve had two heart attacks and your husband’s dying in the hospital; they couldn’t care less. Nobody cares about you when you’re old.’
She isn’t crying, only tolling off these facts as if she’s repeating some kind of litany. I can’t argue with her.
I’m still riding loose on Valium. I’m listening to Mom but she isn’t bugging me at all; I’m almost enjoying it. I feel like the master guru, ready to advise the world.
Next day, Joan begins looking for a nurse. Mother’s willing to pay eighteen dollars a day, room and board; but she’s never going to get any trained person at that price.
And Mother has so many restrictions. This person has to be Catholic, can’t drink or smoke; of course, can’t be black or Mexican or Cuban. Mother has a special category for Cubans. In fact, it can’t be anybody with a foreign accent of any kind. And nobody too young or too old. We’re looking for an ugly female, over forty, under fifty, who’s competing for sainthood. I’m glad this is Joan’s end of things.
I’ll spend as much time as I can at the convalescent home. I want to see what kind of care Dad gets. I’ve heard the usual horror stories of mistreatment, oversedation, neglect. I’m hoping he’ll only be there a week or two till Joan finds somebody.
The next morning I get a call from Perpetual; Dad’s being released to Cottage Villa. He’ll arrive there before noon in the hospital ambulance. I tell Mother, give her breakfast and go over.
He arrives on a stretcher. He has the indwelling catheter. I walk beside the stretcher while they wheel him to his room. I help the nurse settle him into bed. He’s anxious, jerking his head around, watching but unaware. He doesn’t recognize me and doesn’t respond.
The attendants start with the lunchtime meal. It’s on Dad’s chart that he’s to be spoon-fed. A lovely, pale brown woman, with one brown, one almost green eye, settles down to the job. We crank up the bed; Dad’s wearing a restraining belt attached to his waist and wrists. She opens up the containers, talking to him all the time in a soft voice. She’s gotten his name from the chart but pronounces it ‘Mr Truman’. I give her Dad’s pronunciation. She asks for his first name and starts feeding, calling him ‘Jack’ to get his attention. Dad’s eyes are riveted on hers but he opens and closes his mouth when she touches his lips with the spoon and he’s swallowing.