What About a Funeral?
They held each other for a moment. Dually, they arrived at the same conclusion: Pop probably was going to die, not only sooner than he had planned but before his much-awaited birthday. I have five sisters, and one who still is speaking to me telephoned that evening. Sit down and don’t say anything, she suggested gravely. Well, not really suggested. Speaking in hushed tones, I presumed, so the kidnapper wouldn’t know who she was calling, she began, but only after a pause. It’s dad, she said, cryptically. That was the most pregnant sentence I ever had heard. Let us see what the possibilities were. The choices were two. Either he already was dead or he was quickly dying.
An Eerie Morning
I flashed back twenty-five years to the moment I received a telephone call about Mom’s death after a long struggle with cancer. It was 6:15 in the morning, and I had just arrived at my desk at the now defunct Evening Outlook in Santa Monica. The caller was my wife. She only said one word, my name, and I crashed.
My sister who telephoned me about Pop’s condition majored in speaking at every level of her schooling. When you telephone her, no matter the reason, you can’t talk for the first seven or eight minutes because she has obligatory news for you. Dad, she said, went to the doctor this morning. So that was it. He dropped dead in the doctor’s office. Or perhaps he had an accident on the way home. No, my sister said, x-rays showed a mysterious spot on one lung. No one knows what it means butitprobablyiscancerandIamgoing totakeawalkandprayforhimsodon’ttelephonemeforawhileafterwehangup, she said, all of her words running together. Come to think of it, that was not so unusual. I was concerned until I went home that evening. My wife, a nurse practitioner, offered a reassuring analysis.
A Shiny Recovery
Four weeks and batteries of tests later, Pop sounds more robust than he did ten years ago. “I don’t have a care in the world,” he declared with vigor yesterday. With only a few hours to go, it looks as if Pop is going to leap into his ninety-first birthday on Saturday. About time, I would say, because he has been ninety for the last two years. Secretly, I suspect, after his eighty-ninth birthday, he was worried that he might not survive until the towering milestone of ninety. Both of his parents died in their eighties. So he would tell all who did — and did not — inquire that “I am in my ninetieth year.” When he reached just the month of May last year, he started calling himself ninety, without waiting the requisite twenty-seven days for his official birthday. While Pop is a stickler for honesty even in arcane situations, he took a little liberty in this case. Who knows what will happen when you go to sleep?
The Way It Was
We speak for ten to thirty minutes every weekday morning, and each time I hang up, I think it may be for the final time. His mind remains enviably clear even if his legs no longer allow him to play the outfield, or stand anywhere for very long. We have three favorite topics, nostalgia, food and doctors. Doctor visits are enigmatic affairs, surrounded by foggier mysteries than Sherlock ever was confronted with. Pop is not quite certain what the doctor diagnosed or what the prognosis was. But he feels good, sleeps well and a lot, and seems to make regular driving expeditions to his favorite pharmacist. Who needs more information?
Pop has a seven-block route that he walks most days, and he was thrilled earlier this week when he saw his friend Raymond Smith, who turned 101 two weeks ago. Mr. Smith, a widower who lives alone, was not on foot. He was climbing out of the van that he drives every day. Pop hopes to catch up with Mr. Smith, and he hopes he doesn’t have to cram it all into the next twelve months.
Forget the Ammo — Pass the Potatoes
Mostly, we seem to talk about food. The last meal, the next meal, the evening meal, and the noshing that he would like to do immediately to carry him closer to the lunch hour. If he were ordered to spend the rest of his days in one location, there is no doubt what he would choose: the permanent dinner table. His eyesight has dimmed considerably, making his driving outings even more adventurous than when all of us were young. Fortunately, we did not realize at the time how Pop managed to drink in more scenery, more passersby than the rest of the people in the car combined. That we didn’t strike anyone or get hit is one more proof of a God who is merciful and has a sense of humor.
Postscript
Those of my sisters who are speaking to each other will join Pop and my stepmother in a large celebratory dinner on Saturday night, toasting America’s newest and happiest ninety-one-year-old. The “large” actually applies to the quantity of food that Pop will consume. In the last several years of daily conversations, we have talked more than we ever had before. Funny how some important perspectives change as you age. My father always was a broad-strokes kind of guy. As with my wife, no strangers live in his universe. He speaks to everyone, at length and in depth. But the most pleasant late-life change for Pop is his ability to express his innermost feelings. It was only several years ago that he said “I love you” for maybe the second or third time ever. Oh, the love always was there, but the word was not. Now, we say it to each other every morning. Mostly, he says “we” love you, rather than I, but I think I know what he means.
