Bear
When I get to Nora’s, Dad says, “I don’t think I want to go to a nursing home after all.” He says he thinks he’ll go back to work in Melville. Thinks he’ll move in with Olga, his new caretaker, who lost her apartment in a flood. He floats the idea: “I could ask your cousin in Dallas for money.”
I take a breath. He looks at me. His face says calm inspiration. His eyes say pure defiance.
I take another breath. I nod. “Dad, I’m going to say some things you won’t like and I am asking you ahead of time — please don’t get so defensive that we can’t talk at all.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” I say.
We look at each other. The bear and his daughter. The daughter and her bear.
Then, his daughter jumps in. What I mean is, I start to tell the truth.
“I understand how frightened you are. I know you don’t want this. I know you want to make these choices for yourself. And I understand. But it feels like your body is making this choice for you now.”
He nods. Blinks. Listening. The bear’s daughter keeps speaking.
“So the real question is how it happens — do you choose a place based on what it has to offer, or do you end up wherever there’s a bed available when the EMTs break down Nora’s door?”
Now he takes a breath. My body stiffens — waiting. But instead of swatting at me, he’s thoughtful. Reflective. “I hadn’t thought about it that way,” he says. “All of my life my body has forced me into making decisions that I don’t want to make. I need to believe that I can overcome this situation. But I understand what a burden it is to the people around me. I just want to... need to believe that I am making the choice.”
“I get that. And Dad, if this was me, I’d have given up a long time ago. The way you’re handling things. To me, you’re a hero. But maybe the heroic thing now is to surrender.”
He nods. “Maybe,” he says.
—
Downstairs, Nora tells me about Olga, the new aide. When Olga lost her apartment, Nora invited her to move into the extra bedroom and take care of Dad. “I can’t believe how things work out for your father,” Nora says, amazed.
I can’t believe it either.
I email my sisters, my mom. I tell them the whole story — the bear, the traffic ticket, the conversation. They write back. Beth talks about FREEDOM. Jen writes wow. Mom calls. She tells me she’s proud.
Even though I’ve been handling myself this way for years, she has never said this to me — maybe never seen me this way before. “Thanks, Mom,” I say. “I’m proud of me too.”
—
This is a scene from The End of Men, a memoir I started years ago. The previous chapter, A Little Slack, is here. If you’re new to the project, read the first chapter here: Keys. The full list of scenes, in order, is here.
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