by Johnny Diaz
“Well, I’m sure the doctor will know what to do, and he may boost your father’s medicine or suggest some therapy. It’s nice that you came down for him.”
I look down and grin.
“Are you here by yourself, Gabriel?”
“Yeah, just wanted to get out of my dad’s house for a bit.”
“Well, it looks my buddy Brian is missing in action for the night. He said he’d be here tonight. You’d like him and my other friend Ray, who lives in Cambridge. He’s a former movie critic, and he’s taking some classes at Harvard. I’ll probably be up there to visit soon with my boyfriend Jurgen, who just left this morning back to Germany. He’s a flight attendant, so we see each other every few days or weeks or whenever he can get a layover.”
“How’s that going?” I ask, now playing reporter with the reporter.
“It’s going well. I love him and he adores me. The distance and time apart is hard. I have my career here, and he loves to travel. We make it work. It’s a balance. You give and take. What I wouldn’t do to have him in Miami full time, but my guy has the travel bug, so what can I do? How about you, Gabriel? Anyone special in Boston? I’m sure all those blue- and green-eyed Irish boys must love you.” Ted arches one eyebrow with a half-grin.
“Nah, single as a Pringle. There is this one guy that I met that I kind of like, but he’s a bit young. He’s twenty-two.”
“And… what’s the problem?”
“He’s also a student at the college where I teach. Well, he was my student last year. He’s not currently my student. He wants to be a broadcaster. You better not mention this in one of your newscasts!”
“I can see it now. Breaking news: Boston professor hooks up with student. More salacious details at eleven. Seriously, I like the guy already, if he’s going into TV news. Like I tell my friends, don’t knock it until you try it. If I hadn’t given this pushy German flight attendant a chance, I wouldn’t have fallen in love. You never know where one road might take you.”
“He’s very cute, the all-American boy, with his fuzzy crew cut and light-brown eyes. But we are in completely different phases in our life.”
“Well, at least you guys are in the same city. Don’t be so quick to dismiss him. You never know. Anyway, let’s get another drink. I feel my buzz fleeing,” Ted says, slurping the rest of his vodka and cranberry juice in one swoop.
Ted flags the bartender down for another drink. I finish the rest of my vodka and Red Bull.
The bartender returns with our drinks and plops them hard on the counter.
“We need to make a toast, Professor Gabriel!” Ted announces at the bar as he raises his drink toward mine.
“To what?”
“To Boston and up-and-upcoming anchormen!”
“You got it!”
“And to your father!” Ted adds.
I clink my glass to his. “Cheers!” We exchange a smile and gulp down our drinks.
Two more drinks and half an hour later, Ted Williams and I morph into two buzzing bar bees. We stand and sway at our perch at the front bar, where we soak up the latest dance music. We continue to exchange war stories about being journalists—his from Channel 7 in Miami and mine from community reporting in Broward.
“One time, I did this story about two women who were stuffed into suitcases left by the side of the road. Can you imagine that, Gabriel?”
I almost spit out my drink. “Were they chopped up and folded inside?” I say, intrigued by the gruesome story. It sounds like the stuff of nightmares or a horror movie. SAW: Fort Lauderdale.
“They were diminutive women. Actually, they were young prostitutes. It was absolutely horrible. I even saw the bodies at the morgue. Anyway, I found each of their mothers and interviewed them. I had the exclusives. We called the story “The Samsonite Killer,” for obvious reasons. I think their luggage sales dropped after our stories ran.” A hint of a mischievous grin appears on his face.
“Did they catch the guy?”
“Nope. He’s still out there. What about you? What was your worst or most bizarre story, Mr. Beantown Man?” Ted’s voice slurs as he removes his straw from his drink and sucks on it. My eyes bounce from my drink to Ted’s dark-brown eyes.
“Nothing as serious as that. I covered more community news in Pembroke Pines and Miramar. You know, school board meetings, planning and zoning issues. But every now and then when we were shorthanded, I was dispatched on a breaking news story. The most bizarre story I worked on involved this hustler named Lance who would meet older gay men online, romance them at a bar, and then rob and beat them.”
“Oh wait, I totally remember that story. What did they call him again?” Ted says, bursting with excitement.
“Romance Lance! You can’t make this stuff up. Now you know where all those CBS crime procedural dramas get their ideas from—here! Our stories. We’re great fodder for the entertainment world,” I say.
“Well, this is South Florida, the land of tourists and fugitives looking to make value meals out of us. Without them, we’d be covering alligators named Ginger breaking into people’s pools to cool off during mating season.”
“We don’t have these kinds of stories in Boston. Most of the news coverage is political or about Harvard. I always believed that the South Florida heat factored into the crime wave here,” I say, dancing in place at the bar, my eyes trained on Ted. It’s not that I am interested in Ted. I just find him entertaining in a cartoonish kind of way. He’s good company.
“Yeah, there’s something in the air here alright, and her name is Lady GaGa! We have to dance, just dance,” Ted says, waving his hands and singing the hook to one of the eccentric pop singer’s older songs as it plays in the background. Ted awkwardly grooves to the infectious, bouncy dance beat as if following his own unique rhythm. We’re both riding high on our liquid buzz. I’m having fun, and Ted has been a great distraction. Getting out for the night was a good idea. I miss these warm South Beach nights during the frequent blizzards when I’m holed up at home with a stack of movie rentals.
Just as I plunk my drink down on the counter, Ted removes his jacket and leaves it with the hunky bartender. Ted then suddenly grabs my right hand and drags me to the grand dance floor in the middle of the club. Along with the droves of guys, we dance, moving to the left, shaking to the right. Our hands fly in the air. We bump our bums side to side. We punctuate the dance music with our laughter while leaning forward and back to the beat.
As I glance at the other dancers through my semi-drunken haze, everyone appears euphoric, carefree. The music pulsates from within, and I capture each beat with every step. It’s as if another creative influence has taken over me and I’m along for the ride. I temporarily forget about my classes. My concerns for my aging parents dissipate with the soft puffs of club smoke that float through the dance floor, which now looks like a giant cloud packed with happy people. Boston, Craig, my mortgage, my lack of a love life, my loneliness—I push these thoughts away and let the music guide me. I feel free, thanks to the music and a new friend, the one and only Ted Williams.
“Welcome back to Miami, Gabriel! Woo-hoo!” Ted shouts, putting his hands on my shoulders as he jumps in his drunken state. I grin, and we dance the night away among a sea of dancing cuties. It’s good to be back in Miami.
Chapter 10
“WE HAVEN’T seen you in a while, Mr. Galan,” Dr. Steinberg greets me as he walks into the small examining room where Papi and I have been waiting. I drove Papi this morning for his long-overdue appointment. I’m surprised the doctor even remembers me from my previous visits. I’ve been a stranger to my father’s illness and care, but I am slowly changing that for the better.
Dr. Steinberg’s office is in Aventura, the waterfront city better known for the giant sprawling mall that keeps expanding with new department stores and tourists every year. The doctor’s office is in a five-story gleaming white medical building along the Intracoastal Waterway, which is dotted by rows of high-rises and condos in north Mia
mi-Dade County. The city is also a few miles from Florida International University’s north campus, so I know the area well.
“Hi, Dr. Steinberg. I know, I know, it’s been a few years,” I say with embarrassment. The doc shakes my hand and Papi’s, which is trembling slightly again today. I remember this examining room and its familiar inescapable hospital-type sterile smell well. Dr. Steinberg has been Papi’s neurologist since he was first diagnosed with Parkinson’s. In the beginning, I accompanied Papi for his first few appointments, and the condition was kept at bay. But then I moved to Boston, and in my absence, Aunt Cary began going with Papi, and I figured things were fine.
A pang of guilt overwhelms me after I realize how much time has passed since I’ve been here with Papi.
As we sit back in the plastic chairs that flank the examination table, the doctor calls up Papi’s file on the corner desk computer. Dr. Steinberg performs the routine check of Papi’s eyes and ears and asks him to take deep, slow breaths. He then asks about Papi’s symptoms.
I look at my father, who is wearing a light-blue guayabera shirt with a few buttons left open so that his hairy chest and gold cross are on public display. I never understood why Latin men dress like this, as if they are going to play dominoes in old Havana.
“How is your hand? How have you been feeling, Guillermo, since our last appointment?” Dr. Steinberg asks, his fingers typing notes on the computer as Papi describes his symptoms.
“My hand is shaking more,” Papi says, holding up his right hand. “But I feel fine.” Papi makes a fist to show his strength, as if in defiance of the disease.
“Um, Papi, don’t hold back! Tell the doctor what’s really going on. I noticed you were weaker the moment I got back in town Saturday.” Papi throws me a sidelong, annoyed look. He is not one to volunteer information unless you press him.
“Gabrielito, why don’t you do the talking, since you have so much to say?” Papi says, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. Across the room hangs a painting of a captain and his sailboat bobbing in an ocean of blue hues. I notice Papi looking at the picture, which seems to soothe and calm him as it does me. The doctor’s eyes volley back and forth between me and my father as he obviously wonders who will answer next.
“Okay, so Dr. Steinberg, my aunt told me that my dad fell the other day while picking some mangoes in the backyard. He swears he just lost his balance, but I think it has something to do with his right leg. He seems to drag it a little. He seems weaker from earlier this year. Maybe you should take a look.”
The doctor rubs his graying goatee with his right index finger. He adjusts his black-framed glasses and returns his gaze to Papi. “Were you dizzy right before you fell, Guillermo? Dizziness is a common symptom of Parkinson’s. Sudden head movements can cause some Parkinsonians to lose their balance, as well.”
“Sí, a little dizzy,” Papi says meekly.
“Has this been happening often?” Dr. Steinberg asks, surveying my dad while typing at the same time.
“Sometimes.”
“Any other symptoms or instances since our last visit? By the way, you were overdue by two appointments. I am supposed to see you every four months.”
“I know, yo sé. I have a lot of buildings to exterminate. Mucho trabajo,” Papi says, holding his hands. “This is Florida, the land of cockroaches. We never go out of business. We’ve been seeing an increase in palmettos,” Papi says with a proud grin.
“Palmetto roaches, Guillermo?”
“Sí, the roaches that fly,” Papi says, comically flapping his hands like wings.
“Yeah, they’re airborne. Anyway, can we focus on the Parkinson’s and not Florida’s peskiest insect?” I pipe in.
At this point, the doctor tells us that he is going to run some tests. My eyes shift to Papi and then to the painting of the sailor, who now seems lost and adrift on his boat in the middle of the ocean. Maybe that is how Papi feels about this disease. It ebbs and flows with no immediate trajectory. Some days are choppy. Others are smooth sailing, and it’s a journey that he can’t chart, because the Parkinson’s is making all the decisions. When Papi wants to go left, another force can lead him elsewhere.
The doctor’s words snap me out of my stream of thoughts. “This isn’t anything new. We’ve done these exercises before, so you should remember them,” the doctor says, getting up and offering Papi help, which he politely refuses.
Dr. Steinberg instructs Papi to walk up and down the long vacant hallway that leads to the door to the waiting room.
“Walk like your normally walk. I want you to do this twice.”
As the doctor and I stand in the doorway of the examining room, Papi saunters back and forth down the hallway. He walks with his head held up high and his chest forward. He’s showing off. As he walks, his right hand continues to shake.
The doctor observes, nods, and takes more notes. “Very good, Guillermo.”
We all return to the examining room.
Then the doctor asks Papi to write his name and his address on a sheet of paper. Using his right hand, Papi does as the doctor asks. I notice the penmanship is squiggly. I can make out the letters and numbers, but I can also tell that Papi has to really concentrate to make his hand do what he wants it to do. It’s as if he is fighting with his own body, willing it do what was once so effortless.
The doctor observes and logs more notes on the computer.
A few more tests, one of which includes having my father grip a ball and squeezing it, and the doctor is done.
He scoots back in his chair and leans forward toward us as we take our seats again.
“Guillermo, this is what we’re going to do. I am going to boost your dosage of Requip to three milligrams, three times a day. That should help with the loss of coordination in your right hand.” He pulls out Papi’s previous writing samples and compares them to today’s.
“As you know, Parkinson’s is a degenerative disease, and with each year that goes by, you may notice some weakening. But since we started you on a low dose of medicines years ago, we have a lot of room to work with, so I am going to increase your dosage, and that should help with the mobility. I also noticed that your right leg is stiffer, and you are slower to get up and sit down. We need to loosen your muscles and strengthen them. Are you exercising, Guillermo? Nice long walks at night and riding a bicycle, even a stationary one, will loosen some of your stiffness.”
“I walk in my neighborhood in Miami Lakes. When I work, I am exercising,” Papi says. His voice has become raspy suddenly.
“I strongly suggest you do some more exercise. It’s not just good for your muscles. It will lift your spirits. Exercise releases endorphins, which elevate your mood. There are several physical therapy programs and classes available to seniors. I believe it might do you some good to take part in a class or have one-on-one personal training. Gabriel, can you or your aunt help your father with that? My assistant can give you a list of websites and contact information for some local programs.”
“Thanks, Dr. Steinberg. I leave tonight for Boston, but I can make some calls this afternoon.”
“And about the dizzy spells. I would be careful with turning your head too fast, especially when you are picking mangoes,” the doctor says.
“They make for great mango shakes,” Papi jokes.
“I want you to do some stretching exercises where you turn your head slowly side to side in the mornings before you go to work. That will loosen up your neck muscles,” Dr. Steinberg says, showing Papi how to do the exercise.
“Do this a few times in the morning. In the meantime, I’ll have my assistant call in a new prescription, and if you feel any side effects or anything, please call me right away. You’ll notice a difference with the upped dosage. Other than that, you’re strong as a horse. You’re doing better than average, Guillermo. You’ve managed the Parkinson’s much better than most folks.”
I grin and pat Papi on the back.
The doctor then shakes Papi’s hand an
d mine before saying good-bye. “Good seeing you, Gabriel, and don’t be a stranger. Say hi to your aunt for me and tell her that I miss her Cuban sandwiches. She always brings me one when she comes with your father for his appointments.”
“Yeah, that’s my aunt. Always feeding people, whether they want it or not.”
“And you can always call my office for anything,” Dr. Steinberg tells Papi.
With that, the doctor leaves the examining room and dashes off to visit another patient. Papi and I get up and walk down the same carpeted hallway that we came through earlier. We stop at the nurse’s desk, and she gives us the prescription the doctor signed off on and schedules Papi’s appointment for four months from now.
With that done, we slowly walk out of the office and step into the waiting room packed with other Parkinson’s patients. Two elderly women sit in wheelchairs. One of them has drool spilling from her mouth, and another woman next to her, her daughter or caretaker, I suspect, quickly dabs it with a pink handkerchief. An older gentleman wearing a gray suit sits in a chair as his left leg pumps and down like a nervous needle in a sewing machine. They all have that familiar masklike look, with their mouths half or fully open. Their jaws droop, and their eyes seem vacant. I look at them and imagine how that might be Papi one day. As blessed as he is that he can still walk, how long will it be before this cruel disease completely takes over and renders my strong-willed father a shell of his former self? I keep my hand on Papi’s upper back as we wait for the elevator. The prescription slip pokes out of his front pocket.
“See, wasn’t it a good idea to come here, Papi? You needed a stronger dose. You’ll feel better in no time,” I say reassuringly, but I don’t know if I am reassuring him or myself.
“Yes, Gabrielito. More medicine. I am tired of taking these pills,” he says, pulling out his small pill box from his pocket. He rattles the box to emphasize his point. “Pills in the morning, pills during lunch, pills at night. I spend my day swallowing pills,” he sighs.