PASSAGE
ONE
It wasn’t a garden anymore. There were no flowers to pick. There was no weathered gray fence to securely encase the garden; it really didn’t matter any more, it doesn’t exist anymore. Years ago, during happier times, laying on the basement floor were carefully cut strips of wood, the original intention of being used as pieces of a barn-like design that he had imagined, as they were to be nailed on the newly sheetrock walls. Still on the walls today, this room was originally used as the family entertainment center. The garden’s hammock and its two oaks were also gone. In its place, there is his son’s twin bed that was recently discarded into the basement. This is now his hammock, his new secluded world. The basement of the house that his family established itself and grew. This harshness of his reality is his world now. It is still his sanctuary. It was hardly a secret; a cold representation of a marriage gone wrong, an unsympathetic transition, until he found a better life. A $2.00 slide latch, installed years ago on the side of the basement’s door that faces the house’s hallway, was originally meant to keep intruders from entering into the house from the basement. Now, if it’s locked, will prevent the basement dweller from getting out; his only egress to the outside world. The basement has common home elements that shared his cellar’s privacy; for example, located within his crypt’s realm is the main sewer line as it travels from the two bathrooms upstairs emptying into the pipes leading to the outside sewer line. It runs overhead through the basement’s ceiling, between the rafters, to a wall behind the TV and finally out to the community sewer line. It just confirms that the shit from his past loves still hover over and pass by him. But it is his space; it is his personal hole, his world, where he is able to be by himself, away from cold stares and accusations. It is his bedroom, his dinette, his leisure room, his office; his.
Tuesday November 8, 1994 – 11 pm. Charles had recently installed two telephone lines in his basement room, one was the house line, the other a private line. When that call came in that night, on the house line, he let it get answered by his wife, upstairs. It would have most likely been for her anyway, he thought. Calls for him had that private line number to use. But who calls this late during the week, on either line?
School night, with work only hours away, class projects and programs on my mind, he was deep in thought about other things; things that didn’t include his state of affairs or where he was sleeping at the moment.
Footsteps, then the basement door opened. The latch, although unlocked, rattled as it normally would if the door was opened too quickly. His wife called his name. He didn’t recognize her voice; it’s been so long since they spoke to each other. She called his name again through the opened doorway. “Charles!” This time a little more like the voice he remembered; impatient and focused.
“Charles, it’s for you!” But now her voice changed once more. Now she was speaking to him as if they were again good friends. That confused him, his mind still filled with thoughts from earlier REM activities and dense with a mental fog. “Charles, it’s a telephone operator trying to reach you. Charles, your father called 911 to have an ambulance come to his house. Charles, please pick up the phone. Charles, your mother fell and can’t get up.” Begging, imploring. “There is a telephone operator calling you.” She updated.
He never said a word as his wife retold this horrible story told to her by the Operator. Listening to that voice he dreaded so much, that put him into a tailspin, was enough of a tight grip around him by itself. But now he had to also accept that a telephone operator wanted to talk to him. Something about his father and mother, his mother falling, an ambulance. His wife, Arlene, persistently continued even with silence coming from the basement. Doing what she does best, monopolize the story and make it her own. “The Operator told me that she already requested an ambulance be sent to your parent’s home, but she wants to now talk to you. She will ask you to go to your parent’s home to help your father and mother.” So, the Operator wants to talk to me and tell me everything you just told me?
He picked up the phone next to his bed. “Hello?” Charles started the conversation. “Mr. Charles?” the Operator asked. “Yes, it is.” And with that acknowledgement, it just seemed to open up a dam full of horrible information, and instantly transported him through a time warp of incidents, lumping them all with the other life altering events he had experienced over the years. “Your mother fell. She can’t get up. Your father called 911 for an ambulance. I ordered one to his address. I asked him if there was any family member that I could call to be with him and his wife, any one I can contact to help him. He gave me your name and number.” She wasn’t even out of breath and she just kept on talking. “Can you go to him? Can I tell him you’ll come? He is still on the other line waiting for me to tell him, can I tell him you will go to his house and help?” The voice speaking next was Arlene’s, it was coming from the top of the basement steps. Her voice could be heard from both the phone’s speaker and now also through the ambient air starting at the top of the steps. Where’d she come from? Oh yeah, she answered the phone first. But she’s still on the phone? Listening? This is personal shit, get off the phone, bitch. Charles thought. “You have to go to their house to help them” were his wife’s instructions. Instructions? Still handing those out? Charles’s response to the operator only “…of course I’m going to the house to help them, Operator.” “Operator, tell my father I will be right there.” He hung up the phone. He left shortly afterwards.
TWO
Tuesday November 8, 1994 – 11:30 pm. Late fall. He wore a light jacket and drove to his parent’s home in Levittown. He took Southern State Parkway. A work night, almost mid-night, the parkway was empty. He wondered how far can he drive above the speed limit. He’ll have to call in sick tomorrow for sure, he’ll do that first thing in the morning. “This day isn’t going to end well,” he thought.
His ride, usually 35 minutes, only took 20 minutes. His father was in his early 90’s, and his mother was in her mid 80’s. They were both in that period in their lives, that if a person died at their age, most mournful people would commiserate the occasion as a joyous celebration of a long life.
He welcomed the quiet ride, at the time, unknowingly enjoying the lack of cell phones and their annoying texts. Without the 21st Century by his side, his ride remained uninterrupted; his clarity of mind sustained. His memories of his parents confirmed that they never really got sick. He remembered the stories about his father, Lester, who had come to America at the age of 4 years old. Immigrating from Lithuania, his father’s entire family and with some extended family, fled the Cossacks and their intolerance to Jews. Lester was a brilliant child, accepted as a teenager into a New York City chartered school, Townsend Harris. But he later resigned from Townsend, during the depression era, so he could help his brothers earn a living to support his recently widowed mother. Charles’s mother, Edythe, arrived with her father, an older sister and younger brother, from England; she was sixteen. After her mother had died in England, and with encouragement and arm twisting from her older siblings now living in America, that the American streets were lined with gold, they moved to America; Brooklyn, New York. Shortly after earning her Green Card, they buried her father; she was seventeen, at the time. With her orphaned siblings they continued to establish their lives in New York City.
Even when his mom sustained two-degree burns on both hands, and his father had an operation to remove a tumor from his wrist, Charles still felt he could ask some simple childhood questions, like “when’s supper?”, “will we have a good Chanukah this year?”. Only his parents could [would] have resolved major issues like those, even if they were hurting personally. But now his “decision makers” will be either helplessly riding in an ambulance, or asking a telephone operator for suggestions on how to move forward. What he did know for certain was his mother didn’t want to live like this, and his father was really scared to live without her.
Charles thought through all the possibilities that have yet to happen. “What’s my title, now? What is it that they will call me? Oh yeah, I’m going to become a caregiver.” He answered his own question. “Shit, this isn’t what I signed up for; or was this job always there lurking in the shadow throughout my life?” “They were always good at taking care of themselves.” Charles continued to himself. “They made the list and I just shopped from that list. They made the appointment, I made sure they were on time.” “What a good son Charles is”, a compliment he made sure was confirmed whenever he had an audience. But that was easy as long as they were still able to give him directions where they needed to go and where they needed to be. All of that is about to change; and change really very quickly. “I just left them a couple of days ago. They were fine What sign did I miss, that everything was about to do a 180? Or did I just ignore it? Did I know that I would soon be buying clean underwear for her soon? Do they call them panties at her age?” Charles’s confirming it’s his turn.
THREE
Tuesday November 8, 1994 – 11:50 pm. Twenty minutes must have felt like an eternity to his father. Charles finally arrived, pulled up to the curb in front of their next-door neighbor. There was no room in front of his parent’s house. The ambulance was parked there, as was a police car, and also an EMS truck from the fire department; double parked, triple parked. If the front of the house were any representation of what was going on inside the tiny 900 square foot Levitt ranch, it must have been incredibly claustrophobic.
Lester was standing outside on the sidewalk in his pajamas; tops and bottoms matching. It was probably his wife’s last directive; the last edict Edy gave her husband. “Make sure the match this time!” She most likely said earlier that night. His father just stood there on the sidewalk quite dazed, most definitely not cognizant. The flashing lights from each emergency vehicle completely out of sync with each other only helped make the night all the more confusing, chaotic, and somewhat hypnotic. He stood there bedazzled; the proverbial deer had a better chance of survival. “Dad, what’s going on inside?” Charles hoped he had good news to share. “Dad, dad?” “Mom is on the floor in the TV room. She fell coming back to bed after going to the bathroom. That’s all I know. The men are inside with her. They asked me to wait outside the TV room. I don’t know…” He didn’t finish the sentence; he didn’t know.
The 8 foot by 8 foot room TV room was now occupied by an ambulance medic representing the hospital, an EMS personnel from the local fire department and a Nassau County cop; each working within their guidelines of their practiced routines, to be performed if and when they were to encounter an old lady lying on the floor moaning in pain; each occupying the space of two normal humans. And, now, I’m in that room, too. The crowded room must have exceeded legal county ordinance regarding maximum occupancy by human volume. “Should I even be in this room while they work on my mother?” Charles asked himself. “Shit, you were always afraid to ripe that label off the bottom of the chair, weren’t you? She’s your mother, damn it! Stay.” How did she end up here, laying on the floor, her leg slightly contorted behind her? Obviously injured and causing her tremendous pain. His mom was moaning; a high-pitched groan. “Please don’t move me. It hurts so much,” his mom cried. Charles’s father, still in his pajamas, stood in the kitchen now, so he could be closer to his wife of 57 years; all he accomplished was to make the pain become more real for him as well. His dazed eyes filled with tears. Confusion mounted if that’s at all possible. The EMT confirmed the worst nightmare; they believe she broke her hip. Of course, it hurts. Charles tried to offer her some reassurance, but his voice was being drowned by the confusion of all the other voices, and cries for help. Now they are trying to fit a gurney into this house, into that room, into a cute little home that raised two boys and a house full of grief. If only this was a skit performed on TV, it would have been believable, acceptable, explainable. Charles complained in silence, “Damn, what a fucking mess!”
FOUR
Tuesday November 8, 1994 – 12:45 AM. Charles and his father arrived at the ER of Nassau County Hospital after her. Edythe had already been reviewed by the ER staff, X-rays taken, conference completed, and decisions already made by the time the pair had found her lying on a gurney in a corner section of the crowded ER; only a curtain functioned as her visual privacy. Lester went to her side, he tried to comfort his wife. It was obvious he really didn’t know what to say, and in his defense, at that moment, with his wife crying from pain and fear of what was yet to happen to her, he stayed mostly silent while holding her hand. By far his best decision. His attire confirmed his lack of coherence, which was obvious when you throw on pants and a buttoned shirt over your pajamas. He was in a rush; he did the best that he could. His glasses slightly a skewed on his nose, and hanging from his ears unevenly; all this defined his demeanor, seriously disorganized and disoriented.
Charles stood at the foot of his mother’s gurney surveying his parent’s status. “Holy crap!!! I’m in charge of a mess!!!” Charles shouted silently. “I don’t want to live anymore, I’m tired. They are going to operate on me, and I’ll be in pain forever.” Edythe sobbed, pleaded. His father showed a blend of fear and sadness; a tear drop, again, forming in the corner of his eye. For the first time in his life, Charles faced unmitigated fear from his dad, and total desperation from his mom; what was left of the security that his personal life was going to be okay was rapidly dissolving. Living in a basement, realizing a divorce after 27 years of marriage was imminent, excepting the separation from a woman he no longer loves nor cares for, with whom he couldn’t visualize any features, reality finally hit him really hard. He had no plans what was to become of himself; he thought he had plenty of time to figure that all out. And now he is standing in a County hospital ER with a confused old man with his pajamas sticking out of the pant legs, and a mother wanting to die. “Life is good,” he mumbled to himself. He knew that was sarcasm.
With the scenery presently surrounding them, filled with a mixture of malaise, sadness, and hustle of the busy ER room, Charles’s father signed the papers that authorized the operation to replace the hip for his wife. It’s happening now. She was wheeled out of ER to be prepped for the operation. Just a brief squeeze of her hand, a smile of assurance, a tear of love share by everyone, and a look of support that they hope will be there when she awakens. Charles and Lester moved aside and allowed the gurney carrying their matriarchal strength and epicenter of their world to move past them. Charles was so very tired, but he knew his morning was far from over.
FIVE
Decades have passed; his 4th Quarter of life. Charles found the stool at the end of long table in Starbuck’s, his corner of the present world. Hoping that the others occupying the same rectangular table were also sincerely concerned about their own anonymity as he was of his; he would hope that his privacy here in a public gathering would be honored. He finds the urge to write down his memories of that pivotal moment in his life.
“I can still feel the exhaustion and panic seeping through my body that very long night and morning. The pain today are as powerful as they were that day they were experienced. I can still feel an impending doom mounting each minute that passed in that TV room where she fell, the front sidewalk where my father waited for me, the ER; still feeling the tightness of an uncertainty present and the fear of an unknown future. I remember the tear drop in my father’s eye. He does love her. I saw anguish in his soul that night. He stood motionless in the ER as everyone was walking around us, politely trying not to bump into us as they pass; trying to let us know that they are sharing their own sad stories.
I became his guardian when I asked him to let me bring him home so he can wash up, change his clothes and maybe rest a bit. He gave me a look of gratitude that I have never seen before from him. I promised I would come straight back to get him in a few hours, and bring him back to the hospital, so he could be with her. Everything will be okay, even though I knew that was a lie. He gave me a hug; I don’t ever remember my father ever giving me a hug before. I don’t ever remember my father thanking me with the passion he did at that moment. I gave up wishing that he needs to step up and tell me he will take care of everything, and care for his wife. I knew that wasn’t going to happen. He didn’t know how. I remember that moment. I accepted my passage into my new role as caregiver. I remember my father’s dependency and trust. I remember believing that I was not going to disappoint my parents; with my decisions, making decisions for them. That night was the night that I became my parent’s parent.”
Charles has been transformed. Is there a Dummies book on this stuff? The official ceremony was performed. His father abdicating his role has husband, and guardian to his wife. Charles was now in charge. No fanfare required, thank you. “I’ll take it from here. G-d help me not to make mistakes, to have no regrets, and trust my balance.”
“I cried when my father hugged me, it was my time he would see.
I cried when I approved the operation, for their separation to succeed.
I cried when it was my last emotion left in me. My time to let be.
So, I cried when they cried to be free.
Not now.
I cried for him when he crept into her nursing home bed; quiet moment instead.
I cried for their independence ripped from them. It was past due.
I cried when they shared a pastrami sandwich at the foot of her nursing home bed.
I cried as they got too old to care for themselves; and too tired to renew.
Not now.
I never cried at their funerals, nor at their gravesites, never with their memory.
I never cried at their pictures, nor for their trinkets, never with their story.
I hold dear those trials of the end days, I held their crooked fingers, tired soiled body.
I hold tight those memories of the end days, to my heart, soul I keep safe and tidy.
He adjusted his computer and notes to make room for a new arrival to the shared table. Tweaking his thoughts, he continued.
“I was given an opportunity to finally know who they were. What I found were two young people, raised from incredibly restrictive, religious upbringings. Children being raised from a life that represented their birth home, where they played as children and fostered a personality of that homeland. Now as child-immigrants, they were both forced to live in a foreign house, a place thousands of miles away from their childhood sandhills and make-believes, a new home they really never understood. Cultural clashes, and dreams formed and dismantled by a society itself in constant flux. Two people who never lost their sense of love and loyalty but failed in parenting. They tried, if that’s any consolation. They just never knew what to use as a standard guideline; yielding when challenged, believing that voids are filled only with love, accepting when they had no valid argument, and giving up when they didn’t feel comfortable. These two people filled three quarters of my life, and left me with my last quarter to figure out what I did wrong because I was them.”
