and on.
I dash inside and pull out the phone extension so I can sit on the steps and keep an eye on him while I’m talking. I call Joan. She’s psychic or something; before I open my mouth, before she even knows it’s me, she says, ‘What’s the matter; Jack? What’s happening?’
‘Joan, I don’t know what’s the matter; Dad keeps crying. He woke up crying and he’s been crying ever since.’
‘Mother of God! Is there anything I can do?’
‘Could you come over, Joan? I’m at the end of my rope.’
‘OK, I’ll be right there. John and Maryellen should be home soon, they can watch Mom. Have you called Dr Ethridge?’
I’m listening to Joan and watching Dad. He isn’t paying any attention to me or what I’m doing.
‘Good idea, Joan; I’ll call Ethridge. I hate to bother you with all this but I’m definitely not cut out for nursing. Thank God, I never got involved with clinical work; I think if I worked with abnormals for a month, I’d be the most abnormal character on the ward.’
‘This is your father, Jack. Even doctors don’t treat their own families.’
It’s so good to hear her sane, calm voice. I hate to hang up.
‘OK, Joan. I’ll call Ethridge and wait for you. While you’re here, maybe I can shop, and do some washing. I’m out of underwear and socks.’
‘I’ll bring the wash I’ve already done; some of your things are in it. I’ll be there at about four; that way I can beat the traffic.’
‘OK, but be careful. We don’t want any more casualties; the emergency ward’s full.’
‘All right, “Mother Hen Jack.” I’ll be careful.’
She laughs lightly, privately, over the phone. There’s something so soothing, healing about a mild, content laugh, even when everything’s upside down. If I could bottle that laugh, or record it, and play it up and down the corridors of mental institutions, we could empty half of them in three months. I hang up.
I pull out the Perpetual card and dial Ethridge. Dad’s still crying in front of me.
After the usual runaround, I’m put through; I tell Ethridge Dad’s home with me on Dr Santana’s suggestion. I get a very cold response; he’s still on his high horse, playing ‘boss man’.
‘Dr Ethridge, I don’t know why it is but my father keeps crying. He’s been crying the whole day; he won’t eat and is not responding.’
There’s a slight delay.
‘Does he seem depressed?’
I guess that’s a logical question but it sounds stupid. No, Doctor, he’s not depressed, he’s only crying.
‘I would say he is, Doctor. He seems terribly depressed.’
‘Well, it sounds as if we should try some Elavil; that will bring him around. These kinds of severe depressions are not unusual with older people after surgery.’
He’s talking as if we’re discussing a puppy with a case of worms.
‘Mr Tremont, if you can come into the hospital I’ll have a prescription left at the pharmacy.’
He has ‘hang up’ in his voice, so I let him. I sit there with the phone in my hands for several minutes, not able to move. I feel cut off. I need more of Joan’s magical laughing.
I sit with Dad out there on the patio holding his hand. I have Hawaiian music playing and I take off my shirt to get some more sun. I’m going to get something out of all this, if it’s only a tan. I hold Dad’s hand and pretend I’m on the deck of a ship sailing to Hawaii on my honeymoon. I’m distinctly going kooky!
When Joan arrives, she has the clean clothes and a roast she’s prepared. I tell her what Ethridge said. She latches on to that and wants me to go for the medicine right away.
She sits beside Dad, watches him cry and starts crying herself. She holds on to his hands and tries to get his attention but he won’t look at her. The exception is when she kisses him. Then he puckers up his lips for the kiss as usual. It’s almost instinctive, the way an infant will start sucking when you touch its lips. He stays puckered after the kiss for almost five seconds. There’s no change in his facial expression, just the puckering up.
Joan says the situation at her house with Mother is getting impossible. Mom has cast Mario in the combined role of Mafia chieftain and Nero. She calls him the ‘big shot’ and keeps talking him down to the kids. Joan doesn’t know how long she can keep Mario from blowing up. She’s convinced Mother can’t live in any environment without dominating it.
‘You know, Jack, if Mom had only been born thirty years later, she’d’ve made a great feminist.’
I go over some of the things that have happened with Dad. She’s deeply sympathetic, laughing when it’s funny, reaching out to touch my arm, crying at the sad parts. Dad sits next to us, weeping away almost silently. You can’t believe a person could keep crying continuously for so long. He’s been crying over three hours I know of.
I dash to the hospital, get the Elavil. When I come back, Joan’s sitting close beside Dad. She shakes her head.
‘This is terrible, Johnny. He won’t look at me. He’s like a little boy who’s been bad and feels guilty. What can be the matter?’
I smash two tablets of Elavil in a glass of water. He’d for sure choke on pills. I don’t know what to tell Joan. She sees me as the one in the family who’s supposed to know something about psychology. I don’t know, can’t figure, what’s the matter. Joan tips Dad’s head back, I hold his nose and we pour the Elavil slowly between his teeth; thank God, he swallows this time.
I sit and wait. I have no idea how long this stuff takes. Joan’s inside getting dinner ready. After about fifteen minutes, Dad stops crying. The tears seem to dry on his eyes. He stops sobbing and begins with the chattering lip-bouncing again. He has brief spasms as if he’s reacting to small sudden pains.
I call out.
‘Wow, Joan; look at this. These modern drugs are incredible. Less than half an hour and he’s stopped crying completely. He doesn’t seem sad anymore.’
She comes out and leans over Dad.
‘He doesn’t look happy either. He looks as if a whole war’s going on inside his head.’
About ten minutes later he gets to be— Well, it’s hard to describe. He becomes supersensitive to every sound, every change in light, every movement, everything. Even his own breathing sends him off. He’s in a continual state of agitation; every part of him is moving, vibrating, twitching, twisting.
It’s like the time in California our washing machine broke loose from its mooring and I tried holding it down. The machine was jumping around while I was grappling with it and hollering for Vron to pull the plug.
I lean across to hold him. I’m afraid he’s going to wear himself out. He hasn’t had anything to eat all day and here he is giving off calories like crazy.
‘My God, Joan! He’s elevated all right. Maybe this is what Elavil is supposed to do but it can’t be good for him.’
Joan wraps her arms around his legs. We’re both talking, trying to soothe him, holding on.
I need to give him a tranquilizer before he totally shatters; he can’t keep on like this. I run in to get Valium from Mother’s room. We smash it and force some through his teeth. I take his blood pressure. It’s two twenty over one ten. His pulse is so fast I can’t count it, a fluttering.
Joan holds on while I call the hospital and fight my way through to Ethridge. I tell him what’s happening and what I’ve done so far.
‘Mr Tremont. Who