can’t even take a proper shit. Everyone talking to me like I’m a child. How do you think I am, sonny boy?
“I see you didn’t eat your dessert. You want some pudding? How would that be?”
Fucking pudding! That’s all they give me around this place. Pudding for breakfast, pudding for lunch, pudding for dinner. The stuff’s like snot
.
Guilder tucked a spoonful between his father’s teeth. Through some autonomic reflex, the old man smacked his lips and swallowed.
Look at me. You think this is a picnic? Drooling on myself, sitting in my own piss?
“Don’t know if you’ve been following the news lately,” Guilder said, delivering a second spoonful into his father’s mouth. “There’s something I thought you should know about.”
So? Say your piece and leave me alone
.
But what did Guilder want to say? I’m dying? That everyone was dying, even if they didn’t know it yet? What purpose could this information possibly serve? A chilling thought occurred to him. What would become of his father when everyone was gone, the doctors and nurses and orderlies? With everything that had happened in the last few weeks, Guilder had been too preoccupied to consider this eventuality. Because the city was emptying out; soon, in weeks or even days, everyone would be running for their lives. Guilder remembered what had happened in New Orleans in the aftermath of the hurricanes, first Katrina and then Vanessa, the stories of elderly patients left to wallow in their own waste, to perish slowly of hunger and dehydration.
Are you listening to me, sonny boy? Sitting there with that big dumb look on your face. What’s so all-fired important that you came here to tell me?
Guilder shook his head. “It’s nothing, Pop. Nothing important.” He spooned the last of the pudding into his father’s mouth and wiped his lips with the rag. “You get some rest, okay?” he said. “I’ll see you in a few days.”
Your mother was a whore, you know. A whore a whore a whore …
Guilder stepped from the room. In the vacant hallway, he paused to breathe. The voice wasn’t real; he understood that. But still there were times when it felt as if his father’s mind, departed from his bodily person, had taken up residence inside his own.
He returned to the front desk. The nurse, a young Hispanic woman, was penciling in a crossword puzzle.
“My father needs his diaper changed.”
She didn’t look up. “They all need their diaper changed.” When Guilder didn’t move, her eyes darted upward from the page. They were very dark, and heavily lined. “I’ll tell someone.”
“Please do.”
At the door he stopped. The nurse had already resumed working on her puzzle.
“So
tell
someone, goddamnit.”
“I said I’d get to it.”
A fierce protective urge came over him. Guilder wanted to shove herpencil down her throat. “Pick up the fucking phone if you’re not going to do it yourself.”
With a huff she lifted the phone and dialed. “It’s Mona at the front. Guilder in 126 needs changing. Yes, his son is here. Okay, I’ll tell him.” She hung up. “Happy?”
The question was so absurd he didn’t know where to begin.
Guilder wouldn’t die like his father—just the opposite. ALS: amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, more commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. Major motor function would be the first to go, the muscles spasming and dimming into uselessness, followed by speech and the ability to swallow. The spontaneous laughing and crying were a mystery—nobody knew quite why this happened. Ultimately he would die on a respirator, his body utterly stilled, unable to move or speak. But worst of all was the fact that he would experience no diminishment of his ability to think or reason. Unlike his father, whose mind had failed first, Guilder would live every moment of his decline with full awareness. A living death, no one but some sulky nurse for company.
It was clear to him that in the aftermath of his diagnosis, he had gone
“I see you didn’t eat your dessert. You want some pudding? How would that be?”
Fucking pudding! That’s all they give me around this place. Pudding for breakfast, pudding for lunch, pudding for dinner. The stuff’s like snot
.
Guilder tucked a spoonful between his father’s teeth. Through some autonomic reflex, the old man smacked his lips and swallowed.
Look at me. You think this is a picnic? Drooling on myself, sitting in my own piss?
“Don’t know if you’ve been following the news lately,” Guilder said, delivering a second spoonful into his father’s mouth. “There’s something I thought you should know about.”
So? Say your piece and leave me alone
.
But what did Guilder want to say? I’m dying? That everyone was dying, even if they didn’t know it yet? What purpose could this information possibly serve? A chilling thought occurred to him. What would become of his father when everyone was gone, the doctors and nurses and orderlies? With everything that had happened in the last few weeks, Guilder had been too preoccupied to consider this eventuality. Because the city was emptying out; soon, in weeks or even days, everyone would be running for their lives. Guilder remembered what had happened in New Orleans in the aftermath of the hurricanes, first Katrina and then Vanessa, the stories of elderly patients left to wallow in their own waste, to perish slowly of hunger and dehydration.
Are you listening to me, sonny boy? Sitting there with that big dumb look on your face. What’s so all-fired important that you came here to tell me?
Guilder shook his head. “It’s nothing, Pop. Nothing important.” He spooned the last of the pudding into his father’s mouth and wiped his lips with the rag. “You get some rest, okay?” he said. “I’ll see you in a few days.”
Your mother was a whore, you know. A whore a whore a whore …
Guilder stepped from the room. In the vacant hallway, he paused to breathe. The voice wasn’t real; he understood that. But still there were times when it felt as if his father’s mind, departed from his bodily person, had taken up residence inside his own.
He returned to the front desk. The nurse, a young Hispanic woman, was penciling in a crossword puzzle.
“My father needs his diaper changed.”
She didn’t look up. “They all need their diaper changed.” When Guilder didn’t move, her eyes darted upward from the page. They were very dark, and heavily lined. “I’ll tell someone.”
“Please do.”
At the door he stopped. The nurse had already resumed working on her puzzle.
“So
tell
someone, goddamnit.”
“I said I’d get to it.”
A fierce protective urge came over him. Guilder wanted to shove herpencil down her throat. “Pick up the fucking phone if you’re not going to do it yourself.”
With a huff she lifted the phone and dialed. “It’s Mona at the front. Guilder in 126 needs changing. Yes, his son is here. Okay, I’ll tell him.” She hung up. “Happy?”
The question was so absurd he didn’t know where to begin.
Guilder wouldn’t die like his father—just the opposite. ALS: amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, more commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. Major motor function would be the first to go, the muscles spasming and dimming into uselessness, followed by speech and the ability to swallow. The spontaneous laughing and crying were a mystery—nobody knew quite why this happened. Ultimately he would die on a respirator, his body utterly stilled, unable to move or speak. But worst of all was the fact that he would experience no diminishment of his ability to think or reason. Unlike his father, whose mind had failed first, Guilder would live every moment of his decline with full awareness. A living death, no one but some sulky nurse for company.
It was clear to him that in the aftermath of his diagnosis, he had gone
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