In this morning's writing class I had them write about a location and a sound that they remembered sharply. This is what came out of me.
On helplessness:
At sixteen he had a stroke. By nineteen he'd had six. He was in a nursing home by then. His father built a ramp at the farmhouse, bought an old van and rigged it with a lift, and each weekend drove the twelve miles to the nursing home, put him in the wheelchair, boosted him into the van, wheeled him up the ramp, and loved him.
In the first ten years he could move the chair. Then one hand was gone. Then there was only thumb and forefinger of the other hand. His father lifted him onto the toilet, held the urinal, fed him. At forty he could no longer hold his head up.
He got sicker. He couldn't leave the nursing home. His father had a heart attack. My wife, Caroline, and I were at his father's side as their father died.
At the nursing home we first spoke of his illness. He had made a slight recovery. Then he slurred out "Enough about me. How's Dad?" The new chair of many motors had him tipped back far enough that his cradled face was open to us. She said, "Oh, Kevin, he's gone."
His face contracted. As I turned to leave them he uttered a sharp, strangled, high pitched tea kettle scream that rose and whistled. It penetrated the institutional door I closed behind me. It carried through the wall I leaned against, drilled through my sternum, freeze-dried my torso, stole my breath. The steady piercing made nurses aides, visitors, residents in their wheelchairs pass that door very quietly, respectfully, as though they feared they might draw that sound into themselves.
When Caroline emerged she fell face first into my frozen chest. I felt her shudders in my spine.
On helplessness:
At sixteen he had a stroke. By nineteen he'd had six. He was in a nursing home by then. His father built a ramp at the farmhouse, bought an old van and rigged it with a lift, and each weekend drove the twelve miles to the nursing home, put him in the wheelchair, boosted him into the van, wheeled him up the ramp, and loved him.
In the first ten years he could move the chair. Then one hand was gone. Then there was only thumb and forefinger of the other hand. His father lifted him onto the toilet, held the urinal, fed him. At forty he could no longer hold his head up.
He got sicker. He couldn't leave the nursing home. His father had a heart attack. My wife, Caroline, and I were at his father's side as their father died.
At the nursing home we first spoke of his illness. He had made a slight recovery. Then he slurred out "Enough about me. How's Dad?" The new chair of many motors had him tipped back far enough that his cradled face was open to us. She said, "Oh, Kevin, he's gone."
His face contracted. As I turned to leave them he uttered a sharp, strangled, high pitched tea kettle scream that rose and whistled. It penetrated the institutional door I closed behind me. It carried through the wall I leaned against, drilled through my sternum, freeze-dried my torso, stole my breath. The steady piercing made nurses aides, visitors, residents in their wheelchairs pass that door very quietly, respectfully, as though they feared they might draw that sound into themselves.
When Caroline emerged she fell face first into my frozen chest. I felt her shudders in my spine.
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