Going Down Slow
Going to Die
“Hey, Tess!” My brother Rob blows into the room with his long, hurried stride, throwing his legs out ahead of him, shoulders a little hunched, as if a wind is gusting at his back. He lobs me a dimpled smile.
Rob is tall, over six foot, and always in restless motion. He paces, cracks his knuckles, drums his fingers, shifts and fidgits–but it’s not from impatience. It’s more habitual, a kinetic spilling over—“nervous energy” Mom calls it. His mind is the same way, humming along with a surfeit of ideas. All that intelligent energy led to a Ph.D. in Physics, and now, he owns a software consulting business.
He breezes across the space from the door to the draped picture window on the far side of Dad’s bed, hitches half his butt onto the broad window sill and places his laptop close by his side. “Hi.” He grins toward Mom and Dad, his glance darting around the room, and cracks his knuckles.
Dad is awake again. “Mmmh,” is the greeting he manages.
My sister Anna is right behind Rob—same long stride, but refined, more suited to the fashion runway. She has a dancer’s straight-spined posture, her neck arching up from squared shoulders. She’s smiling, too, showing her straight, white teeth—an asset to her profession as a dentist. Her smile is eclipsed only by compelling sable eyes—a gift from Dad. She strolls by me and Mom to perch on one of the molded plastic chairs at the foot of the bed, and lowers her purse to the floor by her side.
In the eddies of their entrance, there’s a rich, nose-tingling aroma of Tex-Mex food. My stomach reacts in a little dance.
Mom must have sniffed it out, too, and exclaims to Anna, “Well, hi. Did you bring any food for me?”
“No, sorry, Mom,” Rob puts in. “You and Tess will go out for lunch later. We decided on shifts, remember?”
“Let’s go now,” Mom insists, turning to me.
“Fine with me”
I’ve just got to my feet when a young doctor shoves through the swinging door to the room with a clipboard snugged up to his chest like a shield. An even younger white-coated woman lurks behind him. I peg him for a medical resident, and her, for a medical student. I suspect they have been assigned to “follow up with” the family about leaving the hospital ASAP. Rob had told me that before Anna and I had arrived, an internist and a social worker had come by. The doctor had ordered an immediate discharge from the hospital and admittance to hospice care. But Dad wanted to wait for me and Anna, so Rob stalled on the paperwork. Now, we were taking up a needed hospital bed and they wanted us out.
The resident sits on the side of the bed next to Dad. He speaks to the clipboard as he flips through a sheaf of papers. “Mister Friedrich, we have the x-ray results of the aneurism above the stomach. It’s large, and presents a serious threat. But surgery, with your heart, is not advisable.” Annie and I nod. I can’t imagine anyone recommending surgery at this point. Mom, frowning, scans our faces, ignoring the resident. Rob bounces off the window ledge and begins to pace.
“We have the ultrasound results from just after your coronary, which showed the heart at 60% capacity. But the most recent test shows that it has fallen to 30% capacity. Unfortunately, you are not a candidate for a heart transplant.”
Damn, I wish he hadn’t said “you’re not a candidate,” as if Dad isn’t valuable enough to get a new heart. I seethe for a few seconds until rationality reminds me that any anesthetic would kill him.
Rob continues to pace along the side of the room, cracking his knuckles, watching Dad from the edges of his eyes. Dad’s arms are motionless by his sides, but he pins the resident with a scowl.
“Sir, the medications are no longer effective.” The resident swallows. He has a tic pulling on the corner of his eye, but bravely turns his face toward his patient. He says, “We recommend hospice at this time,” and falls silent.
Into the hush, Dad mutters, “All right.”
“You’ve been given a list of the hospices?”
Rob and Anna nod. Mom looks confused.
The resident leaves quickly, and the medical student follows, scurrying in the spinning wake of his coat.
Dad glowers, eyes fixed on his feet, and says with more force than he has mustered in days, “Well, I’m going to die.” I see his chin pucker and his eyes narrow. These are the only signs that he is not accepting his fate with complete stoic calm.
We three children look at him with solemn faces, all very still. I don’t feel a rush of grief, I don’t burst into tears. Instead, I am surprised. Did Dad believe, up to now, that he’d recover? I think, “Well . . .yeah. You’re dying Dad,” and cut glances toward Rob and Annie, mentally urging them to say something.
But then Mom—probably the true reason for Dad’s proclamation of his death—leans over from the recliner and serenely pats Dad’s arm. “We’ll get you out of here, don’t you worry, honey, and go to the hospice.”
I don’t believe for one second that Mom understands hospice, understands that it’s Dad’s last place, that he will die there. I imagine she sees it as a sort of rehab center, maybe a place of healing, not a place of death. But right now, it doesn’t matter what Mom thinks hospice is. What matters now is that we finally all agree. Dad will go to hospice. We’re a family, and together we have come to that decision.
Rob, who’d set up his laptop on the window ledge, pulls the list of hospices from his shirt pocket, keys up a map, a website, and contact information, filling us in as we look on. “Okay, I think Mom should stay with me while Dad’s in hospice.” There are nods all around. Mom doesn’t drive anymore and no one wants her to be on her own. “And this is the hospice closest to my house. It’s in a good residential neighborhood. I’d say it’s our best bet.”
“I want to go look at it,” Mom demands. “And have some lunch.” She pushes her feet into her shoes, hugs her straw purse with one arm and starts to lever herself up with the other. I put an arm around her to help. “Rob, Anna, are you coming, too?”
Anna raises her eyebrows. “But what about Dad?” We all turn toward Dad. “Will you be all right if we all go?” Anna asks. “Do you want me to stay?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I’m fine.” He takes a short breath and swivels his eyes toward Anna. “You all go.”
“Okay, Dad,” Rob says. “We’ll be back in a couple hours.” He includes the rest of us, “I’ve got the address. I’ll call on my cell on the way to let them know we’re coming. We’ll go in my car.” This is my brother, decisive and taking charge.
Dad regards him with a tight, approving smile. “Hurry back.”
“We will, honey.” Mom leans over and pats his hand.
