Page 117 of Good as Gold
I brace myself for his reaction, and he doesn’t disappoint. “I’m not going to a goddamned nursing home!”
“Rehabilitation facility,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Rehabilitation facility,” the social worker echoes.
But the damage is done. My father is shooting laser eyes at the nice young woman whose job it is to guide his recovery.
Tomorrow, when my father is transferred to the new facility, I’m betting that the hospital staff will throw a party to celebrate. Dad spent his first forty-eight hours here unconscious and barely alive. It hadn’t taken even two hours after he regained consciousness before a nurse said, “Your father is a horrible patient.”
“This is my surprised face,” had been my response.
Since then, he’s mistreated everyone from the cardiologist to the young man who brings in his meal tray.
There are moments, though, when I see the fear and remorse in his eyes. A triple bypass gives a man a good look at his own vulnerability, and I don’t think my father likes what he sees.
The social worker is probably used to surly, scared people. She’s brisk as she wraps up her business with my dad. “You have my number,” she says, rising from the chair.
“Thank you for your help,” I say, because he won’t.
She gives me a fleeting smile before escaping.
I sink down on the glorious plastic chair and hold in my groan.
“Can’t wait to get out of this goddamn place,” my father says for the millionth time. “Nobody listens to me.”
Who could help but listen to you when you are shouting all the time?Out loud, I say, “I still need that list of things you want from home.”
“Save yourself the trouble. I just want togohome.”
We’ve had this conversation many times already. “Dad, you need round-the-clock care. Do you really want me helping you into the shower?” It’s a ridiculous question, because I can barely reach past my belly these days. And we both know my father would rather chew off an arm than get any help from me.
But that doesn’t stop him from saying ridiculous things and demanding to be sent home. At one point he even said, “This whole thing is your mother’s fault.” As if their divorce had led directly to the ninety-six percent blockage in his artery.
He stares at the ceiling and sighs.
“Either you give me a list now, or you’re going to arrive at the new facility with nothing. I have ten more minutes here before I have to go talk to your graphics guy about your new Facebook campaigns.”
He lifts his head off the pillow. “Somebody has tomonitorthose campaigns. Every click costs me money.”
His rant continues as my phone rings. It could be anyone. I owe so many people calls.
The caller is Matteo, and even though it hurts me, I decline the call. “All right. What’s on your list? Do you want your bathrobe?”
“No. Bring me some real clothes.”
“Fine. Toiletries?”
“Whatever you find in the bathroom,” he says grudgingly.
We go on like this for five more minutes. I make a cursory list, and then I tell him I’ll see him tomorrow.
At no point does he thank me.
When I finally step out of his hospital room, the social worker is lurking nearby, ready to buttonhole me.
“Sorry about his attitude,” I say. I’ve said that a lot this week.
She just shakes her head. “Listen, he has a long recovery coming and he doesn’t seem to acknowledge that.”
