across his chest, looking nervous and expectant.
Henry had sensed that something was bothering Marty at lunch the day before, but had allowed himself to be distracted by the thought of finding something--anything--of Keiko's in the basement of the Panama Hotel. Now he was here. He's here to have it out with me. To tell me I was wrong in how I cared for his mother, Henry thought.
Ethel's last year had been a rough time. When she'd been lucid enough to engage the both of them, he and Marty had seemed to get along famously. But once her health declined, and the word hospice came up, the real disagreements had begun.
"Pops, you can't keep Mom here--this place smells like old people," Marty argued.
Henry rubbed his eyes, weary of the discussion. "We are old people."
"Have you even been to the new Peace Hospice? It's like a resort! Don't you want Mom to spend her last days in a nice place?" As Marty said it, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, which was a dingy yellow color from Ethel's years of smoking cigarettes. "This place is a dump! I don't want my mom to be stuck here when she could be at a state-of-the-art facility."
"This
is her home," Henry shot back, standing up from his easy chair. "She wants to be here. She doesn't want to die in someplace unfamiliar--no matter how nice it is."
"You want her to be here. You can't live without her--without controlling everything!" Marty was practically in tears. "They'll take care of her medicine, Pops, they have nurses ..."
Henry was angry, but he didn't want to make the situation worse by getting into another pointless shouting match, especially with Ethel sleeping in the next room.
The home hospice service had brought in everything to make her last few months more comfortable--a hospital bed and enough morphine, atropine, and Ativan to keep her relaxed and free from pain. They called each day, and a home health worker popped by as needed, but never as often as Henry had hoped.
"Henry ..." Both he and Marty froze at the sound of Ethel's weak voice. Neither had heard her speak in at least a week.
Henry went to their bedroom. Their bedroom. He still called it that, even though he'd been sleeping on the couch for the last six months, or occasionally in a recliner next to Ethel's bed. But only on the nights when she grew restless or scared.
"I'm here. Shussh-shhhhh. I'm here ...," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his wife's frail hand, leaning in close to try to hold her attention.
"Henry
..."
He looked at Ethel, who was staring wide-eyed out their bedroom window. "It's okay--I'm here." As he said it, he straightened out her nightgown and pulled her covers back up around her arms.
"Take me home, Henry," Ethel pleaded, gripping his hand. "I'm so sick of this place, take me home ..."
Henry looked up at his son, who was standing in the doorway, speechless.
After that day, the arguing had ceased. But so had their conversations.
"Pops, I think we need to talk."
Marty's voice woke Henry from his melancholy. He walked up the steps, partway, until he stood looking at his son, eye to eye. "Shouldn't we go inside and sit down and talk about what's on your mind?" he asked.
"I'd rather talk out here."
Henry noticed his son staring at his clothes, covered with dust from watching the renovation at the hotel. "Are you okay? What'd you hit, a line drive and slide into third base?"
"You have your long story, I have mine." Henry sat down next to his son, watching the long, dark shadow of Beacon Hill fall behind the trees, stretching the width of the avenue. The streetlamps above them flickered and hummed to life.
"Pops, we haven't talked about much of anything since Mom died, you know?"
Henry nodded stoically, bracing himself for an onslaught of criticism.
"I've busted my tail on my grades, I've tried to be the son you want me to be."
Henry listened, feeling remorseful. Maybe I spent too much time taking care of Ethel-- maybe I left him out ,
Henry had sensed that something was bothering Marty at lunch the day before, but had allowed himself to be distracted by the thought of finding something--anything--of Keiko's in the basement of the Panama Hotel. Now he was here. He's here to have it out with me. To tell me I was wrong in how I cared for his mother, Henry thought.
Ethel's last year had been a rough time. When she'd been lucid enough to engage the both of them, he and Marty had seemed to get along famously. But once her health declined, and the word hospice came up, the real disagreements had begun.
"Pops, you can't keep Mom here--this place smells like old people," Marty argued.
Henry rubbed his eyes, weary of the discussion. "We are old people."
"Have you even been to the new Peace Hospice? It's like a resort! Don't you want Mom to spend her last days in a nice place?" As Marty said it, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, which was a dingy yellow color from Ethel's years of smoking cigarettes. "This place is a dump! I don't want my mom to be stuck here when she could be at a state-of-the-art facility."
"This
is her home," Henry shot back, standing up from his easy chair. "She wants to be here. She doesn't want to die in someplace unfamiliar--no matter how nice it is."
"You want her to be here. You can't live without her--without controlling everything!" Marty was practically in tears. "They'll take care of her medicine, Pops, they have nurses ..."
Henry was angry, but he didn't want to make the situation worse by getting into another pointless shouting match, especially with Ethel sleeping in the next room.
The home hospice service had brought in everything to make her last few months more comfortable--a hospital bed and enough morphine, atropine, and Ativan to keep her relaxed and free from pain. They called each day, and a home health worker popped by as needed, but never as often as Henry had hoped.
"Henry ..." Both he and Marty froze at the sound of Ethel's weak voice. Neither had heard her speak in at least a week.
Henry went to their bedroom. Their bedroom. He still called it that, even though he'd been sleeping on the couch for the last six months, or occasionally in a recliner next to Ethel's bed. But only on the nights when she grew restless or scared.
"I'm here. Shussh-shhhhh. I'm here ...," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his wife's frail hand, leaning in close to try to hold her attention.
"Henry
..."
He looked at Ethel, who was staring wide-eyed out their bedroom window. "It's okay--I'm here." As he said it, he straightened out her nightgown and pulled her covers back up around her arms.
"Take me home, Henry," Ethel pleaded, gripping his hand. "I'm so sick of this place, take me home ..."
Henry looked up at his son, who was standing in the doorway, speechless.
After that day, the arguing had ceased. But so had their conversations.
"Pops, I think we need to talk."
Marty's voice woke Henry from his melancholy. He walked up the steps, partway, until he stood looking at his son, eye to eye. "Shouldn't we go inside and sit down and talk about what's on your mind?" he asked.
"I'd rather talk out here."
Henry noticed his son staring at his clothes, covered with dust from watching the renovation at the hotel. "Are you okay? What'd you hit, a line drive and slide into third base?"
"You have your long story, I have mine." Henry sat down next to his son, watching the long, dark shadow of Beacon Hill fall behind the trees, stretching the width of the avenue. The streetlamps above them flickered and hummed to life.
"Pops, we haven't talked about much of anything since Mom died, you know?"
Henry nodded stoically, bracing himself for an onslaught of criticism.
"I've busted my tail on my grades, I've tried to be the son you want me to be."
Henry listened, feeling remorseful. Maybe I spent too much time taking care of Ethel-- maybe I left him out ,
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