RMJ 96 May 21

WEDNESDAY, MAY 21 ● Los Angeles

I felt a lot better this morning. Everything went smoothly, and the kids really enjoyed the flight because Continental upgraded our tickets to first-class. We took a taxi to my folks’ house, and we arrived around 2:00.

Everyone was happy to see us, and I was relieved to learn that my father was still alive, but I was uneasy about seeing him on his deathbed. When he had his cancer surgery, I had come to terms with the abstract idea of his death. Then I was further reconciled to it when he had his first stroke, ten years ago. When he fell and broke his hip, it was further evidence that he was losing his grip on mortality.

But what would he look like now? How would I react? I felt strangely detached. But I felt certain this would change when I saw him.

 

On the way to his room, we passed an open door to another room, where an elderly man lay — looking for all the world like a cadaver. He had no color; he was frozen in time, eyes open, mouth agape. This is what I expected to see with my father; it is similar to what I saw the last time he was sick.

But this time, my father’s brain was broken in the area that controls breathing. Before I even saw him, I heard him: frantically gasping for air, churning like a freight train.

When I saw him, I was frightened. His desperate grasp for life was incongruous with the vacant look in his eyes. I knew he wouldn’t hang on like this if he could just let go, but his body wouldn’t let him. It clung to life like a drowning man clings to a lifeguard: frantic, and with unimaginable strength.

My mother walked into the room and took his hand.

“Larry and Judy are here now,” she said. From what I had been told, he couldn’t hear what we were saying, let alone understand the meaning of the words. 

“Hi grandpa, we love you,” granddaughter Katy said, leaning over and giving him a hug.

Katy was his favorite; the feeling was mutual. She is my sister’s oldest daughter, and the first grandchild with whom he was able to have a close relationship. Katy lay there upon him, and when she came up, her face was awash with tears.

Judy and Ryan stood back; I could tell Judy was saying a silent prayer.

I approached him and held his hand.

“It’s Larry,” I said quietly — sheepishly. I couldn’t say anything more; couldn’t think of anything that felt right. If anything, I felt guilty for being more scared than sad. My eyes filled with tears once again, but they did not overflow as I thought they might – indeed, hoped — they would.

Of our children, Ryan had/has the closest relationship with him. He looked detached, uncomprehending. Julia came up and rubbed his arm, but she looked uncertain in her grief, as well.

And he just kept churning away at his oxygen mask. If he knew what was going on in the room, he would have been embarrassed.

I remember what it was like as he recovered from the first stroke. He kept saying that he wished he had died, because he was so discouraged by his ineptitude. He lived his life to help others; now he had no life without the helping hands of others. This was so frustrating to him that he seemed on the verge of tears all the time.

As distressing as this was to us, at least it was a hopeful situation. We knew he would not die, and we hoped he would regain his faculties — which he ultimately did, with a voluntary effort as great as his body was now involuntarily demonstrating.

Katy was weeping silently, and my mother joined her. I was weepy too, but more for them than for him.

Then I had the most disturbing thought of all: that I was weeping more for myself than anyone else. Was I bemoaning my own mortality at a time like this? I shuddered at the thought. But the thought wrapped me up like a strait jacket.

Still, the tears would not come. Not enough, anyway. Was I this insensitive to the collective misery of everyone I loved? I could not answer this question; couldn’t even plead insanity.

I wasn’t confused. I was quite simply, and disgustedly, numb.

 

We didn’t stay long. No one had the appetite.

The night before, as Judy and I were sleeping in Houston, the family was called to witness the end. For two hours, Katy held his hand.

“You were a great grandpa,” Katy said. “I love you so much.”

The others — Rick and Susan, Laura Lynn and John, Ashley and Lily — sat in grim silence. But death would not come.

Finally, they were told that the crisis had passed. They left the hospital feeling helpless; the next crisis might be the last. And they might sleep right through it. 

The next morning, they visited again. No change. No hope. Just the heaving body of a great man going down — but not easily.

As we returned to the house, they said that they found it easier to go in small groups and stay for brief intervals. We had no way of knowing if he could hear our voices; but assuming he could, we tried to keep up the vigil, little by little.

I went back later, with Laura and Katy. It was much the same with me. I just couldn’t summon an honest, honorable feeling.

 

At home, it was much better. The kids spent a lot of time in the swimming pool, as usual. The adults visited on the lanai, as usual. I watched the Rockets lose to Utah. During the commercials, I switched to ESPN2, where sports news and scores crawled across the bottom of the screen, with race cars winding out above.

First it was Astros 2, Reds 2, in the fourth inning. Then it was 3-3 in the eighth. It stayed that way long past the end of the basketball game, and into extra innings. Rick and I sat in the backyard and had a drink. The ladies stayed in the lanai. I smoked a cigar. Life goes on.

 Suddenly, my mother let out a scream.

“We won it 4-3 in the fourteenth,” she said. This was the best news I could I imagine. Not just that we won, but that my mother cared enough to keep following the score — and that she was excited enough to scream about it.

This was the best win of the year for me, though I had no part in it.

 

I went into the house and called the Dome. Bill Virdon picked up the phone, and I said, “What the hell are you doing, using up all my pitchers?”