The Complete Collection. William Wharton

calvados or a good marc de Bourgogne.

      ‘Boy, John, that’s some coffee. Was that decaffeinated? Your mother and I only drink real coffee in the morning.’

      I assure him it’s decaffeinated.

      ‘Well, it certainly is strong. Is that the way they make coffee in the army?’

      ‘No, that’s French style, Dad. They drink tiny cups of very strong coffee, usually without cream or milk.’

      ‘I sure hope I sleep tonight.’

      After dishes, we head off to the hospital. This time Dad can point out a few street names. It’s coming back. I explain how in an emergency he might need to drive Mother to the hospital.

      ‘But I don’t have a driver’s license, John.’

      ‘It’d be an emergency, Dad. If it’s a question of life and death, they’re not going to arrest you.’

      I ought to have him drive me around the block a few times, for practice.

      Mother’s complaining. They won’t let her watch TV. There’s a TV hanging on the other side of the room but the nurses won’t allow her a control panel. She wants to know if there isn’t some way I can make them take off the monitors.

      ‘It’s driving me crazy, Jacky; those dumb green lines wiggle up and down and that red dot’s blinking all the time making different numbers. It’d drive anybody insane.’

      I explain about the pulse and the electrocardiograph; how the nurses watch all the time.

      ‘See, they’re only using me as a guinea pig! I knew it! How’s all that going to help me get better? They’re experimenting on me. We pay good money and they don’t care if I live or die.’

      Dad shakes his head.

      ‘Now, Bette, you just do what the doctors say. They know their business. You’ve got to trust them.’

      As we’re about to go, he comes out with it again. I was hoping I’d get him away in time.

      ‘When are you coming home, Bette?’

      Mom gives me another look. She has a way of not only raising her eyebrows but dropping her left eye in a slow, lewd, knowing wink. Dad sees and shrivels.

      ‘Don’t you worry, Dad; Mother’s comfortable here and we’ll have her home soon’s the doctors say she’s ready.’

      Mother charges in.

      ‘Believe me, nobody wants to get out any faster than I do.’

      Mom insists I talk with the doctor about her indigestion theory. I tell her I’ll make an appointment.

      When we get home, I talk to Dad about the things he has to learn.

      ‘I’ll never remember all that, Johnny. You have to remember I forget.’

      I start making lists. I print these lists in capital letters with a felt-tip pen on five-by-seven cards. It’s like computer programming. I reduce it all to yes-no facts, on-off thinking; binary. I try to make everything simple and clear. For example, when I say wash dishes, I list every act involved in washing dishes. There are thirty-seven distinct steps, such as: put one squeeze of soap in the water, or pull stopper from sink, wring out sponge. I hang this card over the sink. For dusting, I list all the things that need to be dusted, where the dustcloth is and finish with ‘put dustcloth back on hook in hall closet.’

      It’s fun for me; and Dad enters into the spirit of things. He isn’t insulted. He likes having me tell him what to do in clear terms so there’s no chance he can make a mistake. It’s the boss-worker syndrome again.

      I put one set of cards on a clipboard with the jobs in order as they need to be done during a typical day. He carries that clipboard around. At night he puts it on his night table beside him.

      Next morning he dresses himself, makes his bed and comes out, heading for the bathroom, with his aircraft-carrier cap on his head. He’s reading from the clipboard as he shuffles down the hall. It’s pitiful and funny, but he’s happy; it’s like a treasure hunt. That evening, when he isn’t watching television, he goes over his board, looking at the different cards, asking me questions.

      ‘I can do this; I’m sure I can get this all worked out.’

      I also begin preparing him to care for Mom. I’m worried she’ll have another heart attack at home after I’m gone. So much can be done in those first minutes. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and external heart massage can be the difference between life and death. Dad has to learn.

      I start talking to him about it, but something in him doesn’t want to listen; he doesn’t want to be involved with such a stressful situation. But I press on. It’s somewhere in here I can’t baby him.

      ‘Look, Dad, I’ll show you how. You only need to follow instructions.’

      He won’t meet my eyes.

      ‘This is something I learned in the army, Dad; hundreds of people’s lives have been saved this way.’

      I hate lying to him, but I’m pulling out all stops. The only time I ever gave mouth-to-mouth or external massage was to an old lady in France and she was already dead. I learned what little I know from my personal bible, the Merck Manual.

      When the station break and ad come on, I talk Dad into getting down on the floor in front of the TV. He lies out and crosses his hands on his chest like a corpse. He stares at the ceiling, still not looking at me. I kneel beside him, put a hand under his neck and lift.

      ‘Now open your mouth and stick out your tongue, Dad.’

      He does it, I grab hold under his chin, lifting and pulling back at the same time; I pinch his nostrils shut with my fingers; he’s looking at me. All the time, I’m explaining in what I hope is a calm, quiet voice.

      ‘Now right here, Dad, is where I put my mouth over yours and breathe for you.’

      He begins struggling. He twists his head and turns on his side.

      ‘Oh, no; don’t do that!’

      He gets to his knees.

      ‘I wasn’t going to actually do it, Dad, I was only explaining!’

      I lie down on the rug and ask him to take hold of me the way I did him. I work his hand under my neck and stick my tongue out. I position his other hand so he can pinch my nostrils. His hands are shaking so he almost pulls my nose off. He keeps sneaking looks at the TV for the show to start again. He looks down.

      ‘Do people do this to each other in public, John?’

      ‘Sure, you might have to do this for Mother. If she has another heart attack, you’ll need to force air into her lungs so oxygen gets to her brain. It’s the only chance she’ll have.’

      He leans back. He pushes himself up onto his feet and backs his way to the platform rocker.

      ‘That might be right, John, but it looks sinful. Do men do that to each other? Maybe sometimes God just means for us to die.’

      I relax and watch TV with him. I can understand his feelings but he’s got to get over it; it’s too important.

      At the next break, I want to show him something about external heart massage. I talk him into getting down on the floor again.

      ‘Now look, Dad, while you’re doing mouth-to-mouth, you should also give external heart massage. This is to get the heart beating again. You have to push hard, once every second, right in the center of the chest.’

      I lean over and begin pressing him with the heel of my hand on his sternum about half as hard as you should for effective heart stimulation, but hard enough so he gets the idea.

      ‘Hey, that hurts! That would really hurt a woman; you’d be hitting her right on the … in the … breasts.’

      ‘She