BC answers the phone. It is 9 a.m. in Great Neck. I know he is just beginning to stir at this hour, awake but in bed, eyes open but not on, periodically bothering Lezley to see if the paper came, if he pissed the bed, or for no good reason. I see his bedroom in my head, the very empty bed next him, the remodeled bathroom to help him bathe, the Venetian blinds drawn, a shoe horn about, powder on his dresser, an oft used comb. Through the crackle of the connection, a wire carries my voice across the world. The distance remains. Immediately I miss him. Hearing his voice lets me see his face; his patent hello, an upturn in the O after the few seconds it takes for him to place the receiver to his ear. Whhhats happening, he asks not just with his voice but with his personality. I hear his wise cracks, feel the sweet gestures, the semi circle of the receiver somehow now resembling his mischievous smirk as it communicates his thoughts and I feel his warm smile amongst these cold lonely mountain clouds. Soft hands, blue eyes, thin hair. I think back to shooting baskets in the park, teaching me to drive, when he let me use the remote ignition on the Maxima, days at the pool, lunches at Scobee, his Pittsburgh hat, that bad moustache, bar mitzvahs, baseball games, days in the hospital for him, days in the hospital for Doc, Tobey Gale, playing drums in the basement, the first Thanksgiving after Doc died, the look of 50 years of love he gave Doc and Doc gave him when she was inundated with tubes and machines - my Simoney he said as she turned, somehow, even though the doctor said she was going to die -- Montauk, swims in the ocean, walks to the park, everyday is fathers day to me, how lucky can a guy get, take it take it take it, Chanukah, sleep overs, tokens for the bridge, birthday parties, stories of UVa, Fuzzala, driving backwards in a rental car, meeting Doc at Grossinger’s, the bungalows, eating at that Italian restaurant outside of Liberty, bagels and lox, foster kids, basketball games, support and advice. A perennial presence.
It takes him a while to place my voice. Today he answers the phone without his dentures. "As far as I can tell I am all right." His words slither off his gums, aspirating his syllables. I’ve called too early. He is out of it, unsure at first who I am, where I am, or what hour it is. But, when I close my eyes and see him, my blue eyes just like his, I see the glitter in his eye looking for trouble the way he always does, his mind witty and ever ready with a sarcastic retort. Those quips don't come as fast now and their delivery is unreliable. This month he turns 89 and with each day his momentum increases, no longer aging with the invincibility of youth but aging in a real, mortal time, in units of faded memories, panicky midnights and medications required.
His routine is paramount, without it he is easily disoriented, rattled, confused, stressed and worried, inconsolable by anyone other than my mother, Lezley, or Big G. No more snooze buttons, he gets up when he is ready and eventually makes his way to the shower, already thinking about what to have breakfast. He eats the same thing every morning. Once dressed, he thinks more about what to have for breakfast, filling at least a half an hour and the empty room. Wheat Bran, half a banana, skim milk and his medication. That takes him to about 10:30 or 11, the perfect time to read the paper and start thinking about what to have for lunch. But, such a monumental contemplation definitely requires a change of scenery. From the kitchen, he goes to the living room to sit on the old couch in the white slip cover closest to the front door. Near the phone and with a clear view of the street, he is ready for action. He asks Lezley: “whatta we got?” He will eat lunch, take a nap, think about dinner, maybe watch jeopardy, worry about things, talk to my mom and my uncle, and get ready for bed. Small things like a note in the mail, a call from his grandkids, trip to the barber shop or supermarket, the occasional visitor or a walk to the park when it is warm, make his day, an event to rattle the monotony.
Such is aging I suppose – I don’t know - and the glass is overfull, an unbelievable life ripe with good fortune, love, health, and family. I think, but don’t really know, BC is living the last years of a wonderful life. His health is good and his medical coverage comprehensive – there is no immediate reason to think this - but at 89 the thought is there.
I don’t want him to die. This is my biggest fear and the single hardest relationship to be away from.
It pains me to be so far away. During university I saw him during the breaks and between summer forays, called often and felt nearby. Now, I call but it is not the same. Before I left my mom asked me what I would do if BC got sick. It was on my mind and yet her asking made gravity seem real, the thought holding more weight if she too was thinking about it.
I am here, I chose to be here and I try to stay in touch. It is not the same and in these important years it is not sufficient. I miss BC; thinking about it melts me into a 11-year-old child at sleepover camp for the first time, whimpering, helpless, a pain the rests just behind your stomach when you curl in your sleeping bag and try to fall asleep. What I fear most is the onset of some sort of Alzheimer’s (his memory is still sharp – there is no reason to think that he will develop it now) or another stroke, the fear that he is alive when I return but does not remember me. Or, of course, that he might die, that I might have said goodbye to him forever. I don’t pray often, but I pray to see him soon.
It takes him a while to place my voice. Today he answers the phone without his dentures. "As far as I can tell I am all right." His words slither off his gums, aspirating his syllables. I’ve called too early. He is out of it, unsure at first who I am, where I am, or what hour it is. But, when I close my eyes and see him, my blue eyes just like his, I see the glitter in his eye looking for trouble the way he always does, his mind witty and ever ready with a sarcastic retort. Those quips don't come as fast now and their delivery is unreliable. This month he turns 89 and with each day his momentum increases, no longer aging with the invincibility of youth but aging in a real, mortal time, in units of faded memories, panicky midnights and medications required.
His routine is paramount, without it he is easily disoriented, rattled, confused, stressed and worried, inconsolable by anyone other than my mother, Lezley, or Big G. No more snooze buttons, he gets up when he is ready and eventually makes his way to the shower, already thinking about what to have breakfast. He eats the same thing every morning. Once dressed, he thinks more about what to have for breakfast, filling at least a half an hour and the empty room. Wheat Bran, half a banana, skim milk and his medication. That takes him to about 10:30 or 11, the perfect time to read the paper and start thinking about what to have for lunch. But, such a monumental contemplation definitely requires a change of scenery. From the kitchen, he goes to the living room to sit on the old couch in the white slip cover closest to the front door. Near the phone and with a clear view of the street, he is ready for action. He asks Lezley: “whatta we got?” He will eat lunch, take a nap, think about dinner, maybe watch jeopardy, worry about things, talk to my mom and my uncle, and get ready for bed. Small things like a note in the mail, a call from his grandkids, trip to the barber shop or supermarket, the occasional visitor or a walk to the park when it is warm, make his day, an event to rattle the monotony.
Such is aging I suppose – I don’t know - and the glass is overfull, an unbelievable life ripe with good fortune, love, health, and family. I think, but don’t really know, BC is living the last years of a wonderful life. His health is good and his medical coverage comprehensive – there is no immediate reason to think this - but at 89 the thought is there.
I don’t want him to die. This is my biggest fear and the single hardest relationship to be away from.
It pains me to be so far away. During university I saw him during the breaks and between summer forays, called often and felt nearby. Now, I call but it is not the same. Before I left my mom asked me what I would do if BC got sick. It was on my mind and yet her asking made gravity seem real, the thought holding more weight if she too was thinking about it.
I am here, I chose to be here and I try to stay in touch. It is not the same and in these important years it is not sufficient. I miss BC; thinking about it melts me into a 11-year-old child at sleepover camp for the first time, whimpering, helpless, a pain the rests just behind your stomach when you curl in your sleeping bag and try to fall asleep. What I fear most is the onset of some sort of Alzheimer’s (his memory is still sharp – there is no reason to think that he will develop it now) or another stroke, the fear that he is alive when I return but does not remember me. Or, of course, that he might die, that I might have said goodbye to him forever. I don’t pray often, but I pray to see him soon.
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