looks over at me.
‘Isn’t she pretty, Johnny? I always wanted a redheaded daughter; left-handed like your mother and redheaded.’
Now the nurse stares at me, bewildered. There couldn’t be a more drastic swing from death to life.
‘Nurse, I think you should page Dr Chad.’
Dad closes his eyes. I’m afraid it might only have been a moment’s clarity before some horrible final descent into death but I don’t want to disturb him. I pull my chair close.
When Chad comes in, we’re still like that. Dad must not have been asleep, because he opens his eyes as the doctor and nurse bustle into the room. Dad looks at Chad and smiles.
‘My goodness, it’s like the House of David baseball team.’
Chad looks at me, eyes wide.
‘He woke this way, Doctor. What do you think?’
Chad’s taking Dad’s pulse; he puts a thermometer in his mouth. Dad keeps an eye on him; a quivering smile flashes around his eyes, his lips. Chad takes his blood pressure and looks at me.
‘One twenty over seventy-five.’
He checks the thermometer.
‘Normal.’
‘Hello, Mr Tremont, how are you feeling?’
‘I don’t know. How am I supposed to feel? I’ll say I feel mighty tired.’
Chad’s leaning forward, peering into Dad’s eyes, feeling his skin. He looks under the bed at the urine bottle.
‘Well, Mr Tremont; you’ve been sick but you seem fine now. What can we do to make you comfortable?’
Dad looks down at himself in the bed.
‘Well, to start with, could you take off a few of these tubes and wires; then can I have something to eat? I’m hungry.’
He holds up his withered arms.
‘It looks to me as if you’ve been starving me in this hospital. I’d say I haven’t had a good meal in a month or so.’
I take his hand. It’s something I never would’ve done when he was well. We take liberties with the very ill.
‘It’s been more than that, Dad.’
He loosens his hand, interlocks his fingers, looks at them, turns them over.
‘Say, I must’ve really been sick.’
Dr Chad stands and backs to the door. He signals me with his eyes to follow. The nurse tucks Dad in; she has a basin of water to wash his face and hands. Chad’s face is a cross between perplexed and elated.
‘Don’t ask me to explain it, Mr Tremont. I’ve never seen anything like it. It could have been the metabolism all along.’
‘Dr Chad, it’s more than that. He’s different. He’s so clear, so calm, somehow younger than he was even before his operation. What can it be? Is it permanent?’
Chad shakes his head and we go over to the counter. He writes a long time in Dad’s medical record. Finally he looks up.
‘Mr Tremont, I really don’t know. He could go back into a coma anytime. We’ll stay with the metabolic approach and be careful of his diet. I don’t want to take the vena cava off too soon. We’ll let him eat but keep the IV so long as he remains rational.’
After I get dressed, I start feeding him soup. He takes the spoon away and feeds himself. He has all the control of a young man; he’s weak but he has control. He drinks some orange juice and is still hungry. He complains about the catheter and IV again. I explain what Dr Chad said. He wants to know what’s been happening to him.
The last he remembers is coming to the hospital for his operation. He can’t believe that was six weeks ago. He remembers Mother’s heart attacks and wants to know how she is. I tell him she’s fine. I tell about the strike here and how I’ve been sleeping in the room with him.
He accepts all this. He wants to know when Mother and Joan can come visit; when he can go home. I tell him they’ll come soon as possible but he should stay in the hospital until he’s really on his feet again.
The nurses are all in and out of the room. They’re almost as pleased as Dad and I are. A pretty Japanese nurse takes Dad’s hand and he puts his other hand on top of hers.
‘Gee, you look so well, Mr Tremont.’
There are tears in the corners of her eyes. Dad looks up at me.
‘Maybe I will just stay on here in this hospital, Johnny; it’s not so bad.’
At nine o’clock, I call Joan. I try preparing her for what’s happening and insist she come immediately. She’s there within the hour.
She holds on to Dad and sobs. He looks past her at me; he can’t really understand why she’s crying.
It’s the same thing when we bring Mom; she cries so hard we need to take her straight home. Joan stays with her that night.
Three days later, Chad takes off the IV. Five days later, off goes the catheter. Dad hates to use the bedpan and urine bottle, so I carry him into the toilet and back. There’s a little handrail beside the toilet; he hangs on to it and insists I leave the room while he ‘does his business’. We’ve started him on light solid food with a backup of pills and medication Chad has worked out. Chad keeps an eye on the blood pressure but it stays stable. He says he doesn’t want to start medication for the blood pressure unless it’s absolutely necessary. He’s willing to let it go high as one sixty or one seventy over a hundred; he wants to guarantee blood circulation in the brain. He also continues all his measures on intake and output. Chad admits he’s still only flailing around, guessing; he has no real explanation as to what happened or what’s happening now. The strike is still on and I stay at the hospital.
Dad’s taking on some weight but still doesn’t weigh a hundred pounds. It was bad enough when he was lying still in bed; now he’s so active, he resembles a living skeleton and it’s frightening. But his color is improving and he’s hungry all the time.
On about the tenth day, when the food comes into the room, he sniffs like a dog catching a scent.
‘You know, Johnny, I can smell that food. I haven’t been able to smell anything for over twenty years.’
I take his tray from the nurse and put it in front of him. He puts his head down close and sniffs each dish.
‘I can even smell spinach; it smells something like the Atlantic Ocean. I’d forgotten how good things smell.’
He starts with the veal cutlet, chewing carefully and long before he swallows. He’s like a TV ad for food.
‘It’s exactly the way it was after I quit smoking, John; food tastes so good, so strong. Each thing is different.’
The next day he asks about Dr Ethridge. I tell him I changed doctors because I’d lost confidence in Ethridge. He looks at me.
‘You mean you fired him?’
‘Well, no, Dad. I only had him removed from your case. He still works for Perpetual.’
‘But I’ve had him as a doctor for fifteen years, Johnny. He’s from Wisconsin, you know.’
‘I know, Dad, but I became convinced he wasn’t giving you the kind of medical care you needed. I truly believe you’d be dead today if we hadn’t changed doctors. Dr Chad seems to have figured out your problem; at least you’re here.’
He stops eating; he looks me in the eyes, smiles, shakes his head and starts eating again.
‘You’re a boss, all right, Johnny. I don’t know if I like having a boss for a son.’
‘Well, you’re stuck with it, Dad. You were too far gone