41 - way station of misery?

… it was this, this was the chief thing that united them and made them akin. Never, never, even in moments of the most gratuitous, self-forgetful happiness, did that most lofty and thrilling thing abandon them: delight in the general mold of the world, the feeling of their relation to the whole picture, the sense of belonging to the beauty of the whole spectacle, to the whole universe.

      —Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago

~~~

Spent some quality time with my Pops, George Kinney. Tough he is, hanging on, in a rehabilitation facility after an unanticipated reaction to anesthesia, to a supposed quick and easy outpatient procedure, a "feathering" of the prostate. He lost speech and the ability to walk. He has endured so much in his eight decades, so so much, and we’ve a new bond, connection, prostate stories to share, his cancer slow growing and not a threat. Brilliant.

Hesitated in asking Camille if she wanted to go along, make the trip north to the Capitol City. Not the best time for a first introduction, a meeting up with family. So pleased I was when she said yes. And my sister Sonja, so forceful and strong, so much here unexpected, managing the fiery spirit of our father, she herself fiery and spirited, the two of them in a push-pull; she trying to get him to cooperate and see the long-term, be patient, commit to the speech and physical therapies….

Camille and I arrived on a Friday in the late afternoon, and we settled into our room on the 24th floor of the Sheraton Grand, a stirring view of downtown.

~~~

After Camille's MCAT exam and before the trip to see Pops, my oncologist in our quarterly consultation says, “I’ve got a provocative proposal for you.” Unexpected and inspiring hope, he used the phrase "remission disease" and asked if I wanted to stop Lupron. "We can start right now." I reminded him that I always do my blood work and receive the 90-day injections on the day before we meet. "Well then, next time. Your response to the therapies, as you know, has been more than remarkable. You've got a decision to make."

Indeed I do, and I was stunned; he had said early on that it was likely I'd need androgen-suppression for the rest of my life. In the early going his data had suggested my life span had been dramatically shortened, so when he said "the rest of your life" he wasn't imagining beyond five, ten years max. And now, this freaky freakish freak, an anomaly of anomalies, has options and is faced once again with the unknown, new conditions, possibilities, and I walked out of the multi-specialty clinic shaking my head.

In the parking lot, like a ten-year old, I’m skipping along, my car parked in the far corner, as I always do, like climbing stairs and avoiding elevators, trying to extend the exercise. Yes, skipping along, testosterone coming back to me, muscle repair?, strength and balance?, hair restoration?, rejuvenated skin tone?, and maybe, just maybe a comeback for the suppressed libido?, a libido kept alive by an active imagination and remembrance, conscious mind,… swear to Christ, in the skip along it flashes in, chasing Camille around the tri-level, never getting enough, she shouting, “Where’s the Lupron?,” and then this, the thought of fatherhood (something I’ve never imagined, never desired), cracking myself up. Got into the car and shouted, "What the hell?"

Before starting the car I texted Camille, "You're not going to believe this, or maybe you will, but dang, heard this today from Morgan, ‘remission’ and ‘stop Lupron.’ Jesus H! Going to drive over to St. Germain and buy their most expensive bottle of Cabernet, going to pick up deli meats, cheeses, fruit, grape leaves and I will await your arrival….”

~~~

It has been oh so long since I strolled in Capitol Park hand-in-hand with the woman I love. But there we were, on our way to dinner, a new restaurant downtown, The Press (Bistro) recommended by Sonja's oldest son's fiancée. No meet up on this night, we'd have to wait until Sunday morning for that. A perverse nostalgia, strolling with Camille in the neighborhood Maya and I lived in for years, run down Victorians remodeled and refurbished, Greta's Café sadly now a Chipotle, but blessed be, the corner at 17th and Capitol, still vibrant and alive, local and homegrown cafés and restaurants: Java City, Paesano’s Midtown, Zocalo and The Press.

We sat outside and I ordered a Bloody Mary, Camille a glass of Pinot, and as we sipped and savored I became mesmerized by the parade of souls strolling and cycling by, thinking about the diversity, struck by how different we all are, seeing this pageant of idiosyncrasy without comparing or contrasting, trying to imagine a world where folks don’t compete with and try to keep up, no one adjusting their pace or rhythm to some perceived cultural norm, folks simply at ease about their own lives, about themselves; each of us offering up her or his brand of “je ne sais quois.”

On the stroll back to the hotel, we took the long route around the park, the state capitol at night, so majestic and iconic, idealism encompassed in the architecture, a soothing image that runs counter to the partisan bickering and in-fighting we know takes place.

Downtown Sacramento, felt good to be home.

~~~

Saturday at the aftercare facility, no one at the front counter. We walked in, signed the book, grabbed two visitors’ stickers and began to wander. We stepped into an office and found this guy about to dig into a Stouffer's frozen dinner, want to call it beef stroganoff, but it smelled more like warmed-over dog food. That set the tone.

He leads us into the bowels of the pain and suffering. And literally, as we get to Pops' room, there's a woman screaming/yawping, a guttural howl, staccato, little cries of pain, and I couldn't tell if it was real physical pain, or simply the psychic pain of having found herself wheeled into this hellhole, “Can anyone hear me, please help me?” and before we turn to go in, the gentleman turns to leave and I wanted to yell after him, "Can anyone tend to her? What the hell's going on? Isn't that your job?” I can tell Camille’s restraining herself.

We enter the room, and he’s dressed in his khaki's, and he's got his jacket up over his arms and shoulders, using it like a blanket, and he goes from frowning to smiling. “Hey you!” and I lean down and give him a kiss.

“Is this the mystery woman?”

“Yes it is.” I introduced them and he’s immediately taken in.

Camille asked, “You following orders? Word is you’re close to getting out of here.” And he puts on the charm and they start talking, about hospitals of all things, and I kind of tuned them out, their voices distant, and it just seems so sad to me, in comparison to having been with him at Christmas in the hotel near Sonja’s home. We were like bunk buddies, sharing stories, remembering, laughing about the family treks up to the cabin on Echo Summit, the gambling, dining and drinking at Harvey’s Wagon Wheel. He was at ease and adapted to a slower rhythm; he had learned how to manage his circulation problems and the unruly fluttering leg. The DMV had just re-issued his driver’s license for chrissakes….

I came out of the reverie when Camille said, “Excuse me for a second.” The woman's rhythmic and pleading howls had continued, and though Pops seemed unfazed, his hearing problem now a godsend, Camille couldn’t take it. She walked into the hallway, looked both ways, saw no one but patients in wheelchairs, and went across the hall. The woman stopped yawping. Then Camille went down the way to the nurse’s station, and I expect a little Durand forcefulness and magic came into play, and alas this hellhole was rendered a little less hellish.

As we're conversing with him, in moments here and there, I think to myself, how can one avoid this? Is it possible? When you begin to age, when your body begins to fail, and I get to thinking about the mind, the challenge to stay alert, and actively thinking, imagining, never “retiring,” always creating, and then the crazy ideas of keeping folks alive at all costs, folks laying in hellholes like this, tubes, catheters, kidney plugs, wheelchairs and diapers, Pops sharing with us that just before we arrived the guy in the bed next to him had “just shit himself,” and he was now going up and down the hall in his wheelchair, exercising, waiting for them to remake the bed, what the fuck?, and I don't think this is being alive so much as, well, it's something else, a kind of purgatory, a gateway to and a glimpse of hell, and when in our youth, like Alice, falling down the rabbit hole, and using our imagination to find our way back, and this, when we're aged and we fall down a hellhole, the imagination doesn't have a chance, the fires all consuming,... and it's like all that Sonja has seen, his anger and ugliness, well, he's still fighting in some sense, yet there's a futility, you can see it in his face, and his slow speech and descriptions of what he's challenged by, his unwillingness to get comfortable with and be cooperative while convalescing.

For the first time he really looks old to me. Again, thinking of the holidays where we were gambling at the casino on Christmas Day, the two of us playing blackjack, side by side, he’s on third base and we’re winning, a night and day moment. And then it hit me, my hair's whiter than his, and I begin to feel old, and this place, I'd be a stark raving idiot if I had to spend more than the four hours we were there, and I think about Sonja, what she's been through, the strength to endure it all, and having to navigate his ugly side, and I think about him, and why he was freaking when he was in the downtown facility in the days immediately after the “procedure,” when he was wheeling himself to the curb, and telling everyone to fuck off. And it occurred to me then that he was scared, that this once fierce and proud man was being shown how it was going to end for him, and there's no making it a smooth and pain- or anger-free transition, the horror of it, going from independence and feeling like you're doing okay, to this, surrounded by all manner of torment, woe and wretchedness. And it just doesn't feel like a "rehabilitation center," I don't know, a way station of misery? And I get to thinking about surrealist painters, what they would imagine after seeing, hearing and feeling what I saw, heard and felt. Fuck.

In the four hours we spent with him he spoke clearly and slowly. He measured his words and at times there were the flourishes of old, the storytelling George Kinney I know and love. No hint of meanness, no cruelty, no anger. It was a free-flowing conversation and we went with it, stream of consciousness.

It was close to five, and dinnertime and it seemed like a perfect moment to leave. Camille gave him a hug, I kissed him and said we’d see him in the morning after breakfast before our afternoon flight out. He smiled and then I could see the sadness in his eyes, he didn’t want us to go. I followed Camille out. At the doorway I paused, turned and pointed to him, “Love you Pops. See you tomorrow.”

Down the hallway, to the exit, she grabs my hand. Silence, and a wave of sorrow welling up, not wanting to lose it, to burst into tears,…