“Would you call Dr. Kevorkian for me,” said Dad. He couldn't take assisted living anymore and he was only two weeks in residence. His biggest problem was lack of sleep and the fatigue and confusion that comes with the condition.
It was 7:30 in the morning and I had bicycled over to the facility to have breakfast with Dad and try and raise his spirits. Six hours earlier, an attendant had called to say Dad had fallen. He was okay but shaken. I rushed over and stayed with him until 2:30 and then drove home in a daze.
I knew sleeplessness well. I hadn't slept much myself the past two weeks. I was exhausted, frustrated, alone and losing hope in Dad and my ability to help him. Somehow, we had to rally.
“Dr. Kevorkian! Dr. Death!” I said. “No, he's not coming and you're not dying in a van down by the river.”
What then ensued was a ten-minute conversation about the ethics of euthanasia and how other cultures face end of life much differently than American. The conversation ended and Dad seemed whipped and more haggard by the minute. We went to breakfast, talked quietly about politics, and then I said goodbye and bicycled away from the facility.
It is a mighty strange phenomenon to ride a bicycle on a a fine Autumn morning and feel disillusioned, almost crushed.
But that's the way it was as I rounded a corner, heard geese hoking overhead, passed three derelict RVs and saw a bedraggled man talking to a tree with his arms positioned as if was being crucified. I cruised a few more yards and then saw Sean. He was standing outside his truck/canopy domicile where we had conversed a dozen times the past two years sorting through is possessions. Sean had always proved an interesting conversationalist and storyteller He also exhibited truly remarkable poise and stoicism as a contemporary American, let alone a homeless American. He was not drinking Old Crow.
Sean noticed me and waved. I pedaled over and stopped.
“How's it going Matt?” said Sean.
For a second, I considered lying. Why lie to such a crucial question?
“Not well. It's not going well for my Dad in assisted living. He wants to die.”
I summarized briefly the problem He already knew that Dad had gone into care.
What ensued was one of the unique and restorative conversations in my life and it lasted around ten minutes. To the best of my ability to recall, it went something like this:
Sean, his wife, and children had lived with and cared for his elderly and ailing father until he passed away. Sean had occupied that home for 11 years and it stood a few blocks away from where we now conversed. There had been many bumps in the road caring for his father and a series of unforeseen ups and downs. Sometimes they had to lay down the law with the old man because he was stubborn, but they got through it together. You have to make adjustments.
Sean asked me questions about Dad's situation and I answered them. He listened and offered precise insights based on his experience. I expressed grave doubts about how I was handing Dad's transition into assisted living.
“Matt,” said Sean. I've read your books and got to know you. You're heart is golden. We all know that.”
That WE is the members of the Old Crow Book Club.
I almost started crying and said, “Thank you.”
“Wow,” said Sean. I haven't had any Old Crow or beers today. I'm not being a good alcoholic.”
I laughed and felt myself relaxing. Sean started telling me his latest romantic travail. They were legion around the neighborhood. Apparently his current girlfriend lived around the block in an apartment and had drank too much the previous night, things got weird and he left. Now he wasn't sure if she was going to give him a ride crosstown so Sean could repair a friend's car. He had his tools bundled and ready to go.
Something I wanted to know about Sean since first meeting him popped into my mind. Did he want out of living in the truck?
Sean said he did and thought he could fix the truck and sell it. It was a 1968 Dodge model and he knew a guy who loved 68, 78, 88 and 98 Dodge trucks. Sean also was considered adding or rigging up a better camper for the back of this Dodge or another truck.
It sounded like a righteous plan. He could become mobile again and open a word of mouth business repairing engines on derelict RVs and other vehicular domiciles. There was a lot more of that work in the coming years.
A green Subaru rolled to a stop near us. Sean said that was his girlfriend and it appeared as if his ride was still on. He began walking toward her.
I wished him good luck and we said our goodbyes. I bicycled away feeling a whole lot better
Sean is correct, Matt. Your readers all know your heart is golden.