Friendship 2

My father is not poor.  Nor is he a ideological minimalist.  Yet, he and his wife have little furniture.  They simply cannot make decisions.

They have some hand-me-down IKEA chairs from a friend who moved across the country - you know the ones with the flat wood arms and the matching footstool… they rock a little… yeah, those.  And, that’s pretty much all they have in their living room, besides my father’s assorted musical instruments and an overflowing bookcase.  Their apartment looks more like a college dorm room than the living space of 50-something year old adults.  Even their TV stand is nothing more than a glorified stack of milk crates.

They moved in about three years ago and are still trying to find just the right couch.  In the meantime, if they have company, we all pretty much stand around or take turns sitting on the handful of uncomfortable chairs.

When my brother and I found out that Dad would be having chemo, we found a couch to buy him.  It wasn’t cheap and neither my brother nor I had oodles of extra cash lying around, but we figured the chemo would make him feel crappy and it would be nice to have a cozy couch to rest upon. 

Prior to giving the couch company my credit card number, I had to designate a delivery time.  Since Dad and I live 40 miles apart, I had to call him to make sure he’d be home when the delivery truck arrived.  He actually got angry at me for taking it upon myself to buy him a couch.  He insisted I cancel the order.  No matter how much I pleaded, begging him to just accept it so I would know he’d be comfortable, he insisted I not insult him by buying him a couch.  “What if I don’t like it?” he said.  “I don’t care if you like it,” I replied. ”Anything is better than those uncomfortable chairs.  If you hate it, you can throw it away when you find one you prefer.  Just keep it until you find something better.”

But no.  He wouldn’t have it.

So, here we are, 2 years later, and the man is incapacitated with insufferable bone pain and he’s got nowhere to sit besides those horrible chairs.  You’d think his wife would spring for a couch – any damn couch -  but that would necessitate her reaching into her pocket, and that simply never happens.  The woman still accepts cab money from my 90-year old destitute grandmother, even though they are still getting my father’s full salary every week.  That situation could be a whole other post.

But, while I was there on Saturday, his friend John showed up.  John is a NYC cop and he’s got the accent, physique, and attitude to prove it.  To put it bluntly, John gets shit done.  Period.  Apparently, John had been to visit my dad on Friday as well and saw him suffering in that stupid IKEA chair.  Without a word, John went over to my father’s computer, click-click-click, and next thing you know, a La-Z-Boy recliner is on the way to be delivered in 24 hours.  Done. 

While I was there on Saturday, the huge, cushy recliner was delivered.  John made sure they set it up properly, tipped the driver, hugged my unconscious father and left.

Now we all know that cops are underpaid, especially considering the riskiness of their profession.  I also know that I have lots of friends who have lots of money and have known me for as long as memory serves, and yet they only bought me a $30 baby shower gift.  These are supposed to be my best friends. 

John, on the other hand, was more like a good acquaintance of my dad’s.  I never even met him prior to this Saturday, and I’ve met mostly all of my dad’s friends and co-workers over the years.  But, in my father’s time of need, John has been an angel.  He calls to check on him everyday.  He shuttles him back and forth to the doctor or hospital whenever they need him.  And, he still manages to work and give time to his wife and kids. 

It brought tears to my eyes to see the satisfaction in John’s face when my dad woke from his stupor for a split second and said, “Wow.  That’s a chair!”  I am so impressed by the way John just took the bull by the horns without permission or consensus.  He thought it was the right thing to do, so he did it… that’s a tough guy with a kind heart.

We should all be lucky enough to have a selfless friend like John.

Friendship 1

I spent Saturday with my dad.  Or, at least I spent the day looking at him while he was in a methadone-induced stupor.  He’s lost some more weight, and he was having a particularly rough day because he was up all night with constipation so bad that an emergency hospice nurse rushed over after midnight to help “break up the mass” he was trying to pass and then administer an enema to prevent a repeat scenario.  Poor thing.

To make matters worse, my dad’s best friend Tommy was visiting from out of town.  Tommy’s retired and drove cross-country from Washington state to visit with my dad In NY.  All this constipation stuff happened while Tommy was there, which is lucky for my step-mother because she had help, but humiliating for my father who had to go through people poking and prodding his anus in front of his best friend.  Once the nurse left, the situation got even worse because of leakage and all sorts of other fecal horrors involving Tommy and my step-mother carrying my dad back and forth between the bedroom and bathroom.  By the time I arrived the next morning, there were two Hefty bags full of “soiled” clothes, sheets, towels, and bathroom rugs needing to get to a laundromat (or an incinerator, if I was in charge).

Tommy, a 3-time Vietnam vet, was unphased by it;  matter-of-fact in his retelling of the night’s events, steady in the way he helped my dad without thinking much of it.  I was thankful for him, impressed by him, and wondering if I had a single friend I could lean on like that.

Telling and Retelling the Story

At this sad time, I am thoroughly thankful for the outpouring of love and support I’ve received from friends, family, friends of family, colleagues, and neighbors.  It’s touching to know that so many people are thinking of us and keeping us in their prayers.

But, I have to admit, it is exhausting to tell the same story over and over and over again each time someone asks, “How’s your dad?”  It’s like reopening a wound each time it starts to scab.

I have begun being vague and simply answering, “Bad.  Really bad,” rather than launching into all the gory details (that I instead share here). 

The truth is, I know they don’t really want to hear the horrific things that are happening to him.  It makes people uncomfortable.  We’ve all been there.  You care.  You want to help.  You want to express concern.  But, nothing you say or do will change anything, and so you suffer through the awkward moment when you’re receiving the answer to the question you’re obligated to ask. 

I’ve decided to spare them all the drama.  “Bad.  Really bad,” seems to suffice.  They still sigh, grimace, or hug me.  They still say they’re sorry to hear about it.  They are truly concerned, and I love them for it.  I love them enough to keep it quick and succinct. 

Because after all, when your father has terminal cancer and is more unconscious than he is coherent, is there any other way to really describe it other than, “Bad.  Really Bad”?