“Thanks for coming today,” I say.
“Sure.”
“You still owe me, though.”
“Come on, Andy.”
“I’m not letting you off the hook.”
“Technically I am off the hook. But because I’ve inconvenienced you, I’m waiving the fee for this session.”
“I’ll pay. Now tell me.”
“Look Andy, it’s a bit premature. There’s no point discussing it until, no, unless and until, it’s necessary. I don’t want to risk upsetting you for no reason.”
I don’t like the sound of this.
“Now you really have to tell me.”
“I’m in discussions with Georgetown. They’ve made me an offer. They need an answer by next week. I’m meeting other members of the department tomorrow, then dinner with the chair and the dean and the president of the hospital. I don’t know if we’ll be able to come to an agreement.”
This is perfect. Just what I need. Probably what I deserve. The final, gratuitous kick in the stomach. You fucker. Three weeks ago I was ready to walk out the door. Adios, amigo. These boots were made for walkin’. Up and over. Out from under. I would have ended it in a heartbeat if you hadn’t duped me with your silver tongue, hadn’t pacified me with your fucking case study. I see your agenda now.
Can’t take being rejected, huh? Keep me dangling a few more weeks, just long enough for you to be the one who walks away.
Fucking priest.
“Congratulations” is all I say.
“Like I said, Andy, it’s a little premature.”
I stand up quickly and extend my hand. “Well, good luck.”
“Andy, sit down. We were going to talk.”
“Matt, I have to go. I really do. My sister’s waiting for me. I’m late.”
I find the closest toilet, bolt the door, and vomit. I try lifting my head, but I’m dizzy, too dizzy to stand. I thought I could at least count on him. I thought I could at least rely on paying someone to keep me from being completely alone. Everything’s collapsing around me. Even my money’s no good anymore.
Regina is furious. She looks at her watch and hisses. She doesn’t understand why the unit is freezing. It’s like a meat locker in here, she says. What do you expect, I want to ask, where do you think you are? Don’t you see all these limp bodies, all these lives hovering just above the baseline, a weak pulse the only line of defense against the onset of bloat and rot? Face facts, kiddo, you’re in an abattoir.
Good morning, folks.
The army is descending on the Critical Care Unit. They’ve come to hear the announcement of my final decision.
Do not resuscitate.
DNR.
They’re sensitive to the palpable tension.
Pardon me, Mr. Nocera, Mrs. Gallagher? Are you in agreement? We like to have consensus within the family. Of course, Mr. Nocera, you have the power of attorney. The law says the decision is yours. However, it’s our experience that it’s better if everyone’s in agreement.
The pulmonologist has determined my mother is to be transferred from critical care. Other patients, ones with some hope of survival, deserve this bed. All of this expertise, this attention, cannot be wasted on comfort care. The hospice unit is perfectly capable of ensuring she feels no pain. The hospital has summoned the troops. They’ve been kind enough to provide us with our very own social worker, right out of Central Casting. She’s thin, tremulous, horse-faced. Why is her lower lip quivering? It’s not her mother lying there with her face covered by a thick plastic breathing cup. She oozes empathy and compassion, compensating for the let’s-get-on-with-it demeanor of the pulmonologist.
Regina and I retire to a small waiting room. We’ve been through this twenty times in the past week. She knows I won’t change my mind. She knows my mother’s last wishes. So she fixates on the oncologist, accusing her of having an attitude. She mistakes the good doctor’s dog-tiredness for lack of concern and impatience. I tell her she’s not being fair, that the woman could have chosen the safety and distance of communication by telephone line instead of a face-to-face confrontation with the consequences of the failure of the transplant.
My bone marrow has been swept away by an avalanche of white blood cells.
All further treatment to be limited to keeping her comfortable.
Do not resuscitate.
No mechanical respiration.
No tube feeding or invasive form of nutrition or hydration.
No blood or blood products.
No form of surgery nor any invasive diagnostic procedures.
No kidney dialysis.
No antibiotics.
No codes.
No extraordinary efforts to sustain life.
Do whatever you like, my sister shrieks, running out of the room, battered and defeated, only to reappear seconds later. She insists on a feeding tube. Memories of National Geographic and the bloated babies of sub-Saharan Africa haunt her. She can’t bear the thought of our mother starving to death. I agree and put my arms around her, letting her sob into my chest. I can always change my mind later, if this misguided act of mercy prolongs the agony.
The oncologist hugs me when I tell her our decision. She doesn’t offer any bromides, no it’s-for-the-best, it’s-what-she-would-have-wanted. She leaves that for the social worker. I thank her for being here, tell her it means a lot to us. She wishes she could have done more. She lets me comfort her, knowing the soothing effect my own kind words have on me.
The social worker says my mother should be settled in her new room in an hour. She suggests we get something to eat, we need to keep up our strength. My sister and I trudge down to the cafeteria and forage the steam tables. We carry our plastic trays, scratched and pocked from a thousand forks and knives, and find a table where we sit, silently. I squeeze a dry scoop of mashed potatoes through the prongs of my fork. My sister watches, disgusted. She drinks bottomless cups of black coffee and plays with the salt shaker. Then she starts tapping the table-top with her lacquered fingernails. She knows the rat-a-tat-tat is driving me crazy. I push my plate away from me and set down the fork. She stops drumming the table.
Truce.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Same here,” she says.
I need to piss and she needs to call her husband. Duties finished, we meet at the elevator and ride to the fifth floor. Gina pauses before she enters the room and our eyes lock. We share the same thought: our mother will never leave this room alive. She lies perfectly still on the bed, asleep, no, something deeper, more profound than sleep.
“Mom? Mama?” my sister says.
She pulls a chair close to the bed and holds one of my mother’s hands, talking to her in a low voice, sharing the latest news of the grandkids back in Florida. I don’t recognize the three model citizens in this family update. Neither would my mother if she could hear. My sister will not concede our mother is far beyond the sound of her voice. She’s read a half dozen paperbacks on death and dying and every pamphlet and brochure in the social worker’s arsenal. Mama? Mom? Can you hear me? She swears by the reflexive twitch in my mother’s fingers. See, Andy, she knows we’re here.
My feet are sweating despite this freezing room. I slip out of my sneakers and press my toes against the cool tile. The funky scent corrupts the antiseptic sterility of disinfectant. I look down and see my father’s feet. Middle age, decades of pavement pounding, years of being bound in tight leather wingtips, have taken their toll. When did the tiny nails on my little piggies splinter and crack? I tuck them under the chair, out of sight. My mother, lying prone an arm’s length away, is confirmation enough of my mortality. The blinds are drawn so the sun can’t penetrate the room. The only light is electric and is kept as dim as possible, the darkness perpetuating the illusion she’s just asleep. We keep our voices low and step softly so we don’t disturb her. She needs her rest. We don’t acknowledge an explosion wouldn’t rouse her now.
My mother, by Caravaggio, dark tones suffused with mortua
ry light, anguish revealed, humanity triumphant.
My legs are stiff and I need to stretch. The staff doesn’t mind my pacing so long as I stay out of their way. It’s three o’clock. The shifts are changing. Bloods are being drawn. Doctors are rounding. One last flurry of activity before evening. Barring a code, the only crisis will be the late arrival of a cold dinner tray. I hear conversations, actual and televised, in the other patient rooms. I reminisce, thinking back to the many Oprah hours my mother and I have shared during this ordeal, comforted and reassured by the tragedies of others. Please, the nurse says, pointing at my bare feet. I apologize, embarrassed. She smiles and says she understands my mind’s elsewhere.
Yes, it is. Where, though, I don’t know. Anywhere but here. I want to leave. I want to stay. Time seems to drag, yet races away. I look at my watch. Almost seven o’clock now. It might be seven in the evening or seven in the morning. It’s all the same, night and day, nothing to do but wait. Thank God for the cold. I feel it, so I must still be alive.
Snap out of it. It’s mashed potato time again. My sister asks me to bring her something from the cafeteria, tuna on white toast, maybe some skim milk.
The cashier is bored and passes the time watching the clock, counting down the ninety minutes until the cafeteria closes. She knows me well by now and smiles. We’ve never spoken, not even hello, not once in the past many weeks. She’s never asked why I’m here or how the patient’s doing. She knows one day I’ll disappear and never return, replaced by another just like me. She and I are familiar, intimate even, and totally anonymous. Like all my relationships. Perfect. Right? That’s what I want. Isn’t it?
I sit in the cafeteria, alone, staring at a roomful of tabletops, counting the napkin dispensers, the salt and pepper shakers. I should have brought a newspaper so I could disappear into the world outside the hospital, where skirmishes break out in unfamiliar parts of the globe, Republicans and Democrats argue, scandals erupt, celebrities mate and separate, box scores are tabulated, highs and lows are recorded, barometers fall. What if someone walks in here? What would they think if they saw me in this far corner, alone, mashed potatoes untouched, gazing into space? They’d grab their coffees and doughnuts and hustle out the door. There’s something terrifying about a man sitting alone. People avoid him, run and hide, spooked, afraid, not because he’s a psychopath or pervert, but because he’s ordinary, just like them, an unwelcome reminder of how alone we all are.
I jump up, nearly knocking over the chair, and walk away quickly, with purpose. I leave the tray and the tuna-to-go on the table. I don’t hesitate as I pass the elevator and pick up the pace as I enter the main lobby. The automatic doors open and I run smack into a brick wall of heat. It kisses my bare skin, taunts me, starts an erection stirring in my pants. The temperature’s a cock tease. I stink. My clothes are dirty. My hair is sticky and matted. I don’t care. I need people. I run a red light. Thank God the cross street is empty and no patrol cars are lurking nearby.
Buck Moon
I turn left at the interstate bypass. Gastonia and home are to the right. The sun is dying; the last blue streaks of light are fading to black. The radio announcer predicts a break in the heat, expect more typical seasonal temperatures tomorrow. Ahead, nearly at eye level, a full moon is emerging. In a few minutes, its bright light will dominate the heavens.
Buck Moon. I remember its name from Boy Scout Indian lore. It’s the first full moon of summer, the full moon after young bucks sprout their antlers. A lunar celebration of raging hormones, impulsive behavior, and the excesses of youth. The moon’s power controls the sweep of the tides. How can a puny thing like me resist it? It’s the only possible explanation for my abandoning my mother and sister tonight.
I’m entitled to one night’s dispensation. After all, I’m the one who’s been here throughout the whole ordeal, phoning in reports to my sister poolside in Boca Raton. I’m the one who’s had to make all the decisions, be second-guessed, have my judgment challenged, be resented. I deserve one night out. But why didn’t I tell Gina I was leaving? She wouldn’t have begrudged me one night. Of course she would have. She doesn’t realize this has been really hard on me. No one realizes how hard this has been on me. I’ll call her as soon as I get home. First thing. I’ll tell her I felt sick. It’s true. I think I’ve swallowed a tarantula. My throat is scratchy and the glands behind my ears are hard as rocks. I’m infectious. I’m sure of it. The flu maybe. Can’t risk contaminating my mother’s room.
Thank God it’s dark and no one can see me babbling to myself. An hour or two reprieve is all I need. A Thursday night at the Carousel in the dog days of summer. I don’t expect more than a couple of lonely drunks nursing drinks, waiting to get flagged, maybe a hairdresser or two who couldn’t swing a cheap beach share. What a shock to walk through the door and find the place is packed to the rafters! Maybe the buck moon’s raised the testosterone levels of Mecklenburg County. Maybe it’s the heat, all that prickly rash needing to be scratched. Or maybe all of Charlotte has turned out in full force for Elvis Karaoke (full costume encouraged, but not mandatory).
The crowd is middle aged, overweight, attached. Everyone’s out to have fun, more interested in singing than cruising, no reason to feel self-conscious about big bellies, no need to monitor a partner’s wandering eye. The costumes keep it camp; no one’s taking it seriously. I don’t see any Hillbilly Cats, but there are at least three Vegas Legends in white sequins and tinted aviator glasses. The final contestant in the Dueling “Don’t Be Cruel” Competition is wailing away. Our hostess, Miss Priscilla, vintage 1966, dressed for her wedding day with mascara-drawn Cleopatra eyes, asks the finalists to join her on stage. Contestant Number Two must have come with a group, his softball team or bowling league. They scream and whistle and stomp their feet until Miss Priscilla declares him the winner. The Grand Prize is a toilet brush and a bottle of bathroom bowl cleanser, presented on a velvet pillow by Little Miss Lisa Marie.
I drain my beer and order another. I’ll nurse it, then leave. This is fun enough for tables of friends who cheer the talented and make snide remarks about the shrill and off-key. But alone, I feel as sad and pathetic and obvious as in the cafeteria. And then, an aging choir boy steps up to the mike and sings “Love Me Tender” in an achingly beautiful tenor. It’s one of my mother’s favorites and she’ll never hear it again. Maybe I made a mistake, pulling the plug. I must be a heathen, not believing in miracles. The bartender is staring, wondering if I’m drunker than I appear. I should down a large black coffee, suck a pack of Pep-O-Mint Life Savers, head back to the hospital, and fall asleep in a chair in my mother’s room.
Which is what I decide to do. But first, I need to hit the head before I hit the road, Jack. Standing at the urinal, shaking the last dribble of piss, I feel a surge of energy next to me. He’s shuck-and-jiving, trying to find his pecker in his baggy nylon warm-up pants. Hey, he says, looking up at me. He’s got a broad, friendly face and just enough baby fat to make him cuddly. He grins like a naughty schoolboy and leans over the modesty panel to check me out. I’m a grower, not a show-er, I say, embarrassed by the sorry state of my flaccid penis. We’ll see about that, he says. He steps back, proud to be a show-er. He shoves himself back into his noisy pants and says, excited, that he’s up next.
“Promise you’ll clap for me,” he pleads. “Promise!”
“What’re you singing?” I ask.
“It’s a surprise. Promise you’ll clap!”
“Okay, I promise.”
He’s on stage when I get back to the bar. I order another beer, all best intentions postponed for the time being.
“By special request, the King’s gonna leave the building for our next performer,” Miss Priscilla announces. “But don’t any of you tired old queens get any ideas and ask to sing ‘Over the Rainbow.’ Y’all ain’t as cute as Douglas, and he’s promised to massage my feet when I ditch these fucking heels.” She shoots the boy a lascivious grin and growls into the microphone. “Grrrrrrr
r…” The kid blushes, dissolving into giggles.
“Okay, let’s have a big hand for Douglas!” she shouts.
A drumroll rumbles, followed by a three-chord progression. Douglas grabs the mike and dances along.
“I saw him standing there by the record machine,
Knew he must have been around seventeen.”
He’s got rhythm and enthusiasm to burn. His joy is contagious.
“The beat was going strong, playing my favorite song
And I could tell it wouldn’t be long,
till he was with me, yeah, me.
Singing…”
Everyone knows the words to the chorus. Everyone sings along, even the shy and self-conscious. Even me.
“I love rock’n roll.
So put another dime in the jukebox, baby.”
Douglas jumps off the stage and dances around the tables, doing a funky little backstep and waving his free hand above his head. It doesn’t hurt he’s a little drunk, maybe a little stoned. He goes from table to table, pointing, challenging everyone to sing louder, louder! The queens are out of their seats, pumping their fists in the air.
“I love rock’n roll,
So come on and take your time and dance with me!”
People are pounding the tabletops. The bartender has stopped serving and is singing along. Douglas rips open his shirt, freeing his little belly and budding love handles to bounce along to the beat. The boys are going wild, shoving dollar bills in the elastic waistband of his pants as he builds to his climax.
“I love rock’n roll,
So put another dime in the jukebox, baby.
I love rock’n roll,
So come on and take your time and dance with me!”
The Carousel goes crazy. Wolf calls and whistles and cries of Encore! Encore! Douglas’s an astute showman. He smiles shyly and shakes his head no. He leaves them begging for more.
“Did you clap? You promised!” he gushes, flushed and happy to find me still at the bar.
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