Come Home

Bad John In The Nursing Home (ch 1)

“Come Home”


Chapter One


Bad John in the Nursing Home


         Looking into the hollow empty eyes of a once stubborn man, I wondered who  was really looking back at me from behind those dim gray lenses? I knew that if the old adage “the eyes are the windows to the soul” was true, that my dad was no longer behind those windows. He stares at me, “Who are you?”


         Fighting back the urge to cry as I did growing up, “It's me dad. I am Matilda your oldest daughter. Why did it surprise me? Did my father ever really know who I was? I mean we were so different. He was strong and dominate while I was passive always looking for better way of solving conflict than violence. Dad and I never understood each other. It hurts no less now then it did in the past.


         He pulls at the oxygen that is placed into his nose. He did not have the strength to pull it out. This was the same man who towered over me as a little girl. He was a giant. He was loud, and I knew to obey him. However, I knew that no one would hurt me. Dad was like a guard dog. He was big and strong. He would not allow any but himself to hurt what belonged to him. Now he can not even pull a thin hose from his nostrils. Giving up the fight, he allows his weak hand with its nearly monstrous nails to fall by his side.


         “Can you take me home?” He pleads. This man has never begged for anything not even his life. Years ago I remember hearing my uncles tell a story of my father fighting more than five men armed with blades without having a weapon of his own. He walked out of the battle licking the blood from his upper lip, but the others were unconscious on the ground. No this was not my dad at all lying here defenseless.


    I looked around at this cold white room. Air smelt like disinfectant and forgotten body odor. The dim curtains dividing the two old men. The televisions played on different stations, but the occupants of the room paid no attention. I wondered if the sets were on for entertaining the men or for the nurses to keep up with their sitcoms. Dad would never have watched game shows. I guess that was all right too. He showed no interest to anything except going back to a home that no longer existed.


    Reluctantly I swallowed back the pain, looking at the nurse (who is busy attaching a bag of mush to a tube in his stomach) and reply, “You live here now, Dad.” He turns away, and the nurse has to catch the attachment before the slop spilled.


         He is even more angry. His eyes seem to almost glow with the pear sing look of anger that reminded me of the eyes of the evil characters on old horror movies. I began to feel the fear that I had as a little girl. Dad was not a man to tackle with, I think that even in his weaken state, he would find a way to put me in my place beneath himself.


         “I do not live here. Get me out of here.” He is failing, and trying to lift his frail body off the hospital bed. “Where is your mom?” He looks toward the door, and begins to yell out my mom's nick name.


    “Mother,” (he calls her that, out of respect of teaching us to do the same) he yells over and over again. “Mother!” He shouts. “Wait till I get out of here. You all will pay. How dare you make her put me here! Mother!” Now he looks away from the door. He seems to have forgotten who he was calling for already.


      “Ms. Wright, I think that you should go home.” the nurse explains as she gives my frustrated father a sedation. “He will be sleeping in about five minutes.”


         She pulls the gown from my father's unsubstantial hip. I was surprised that he did not resist. He looked so defeated as she stuck the needle into his skin, and turned him back over on his other side where he is now facing me all together. I think that I see a tear, but I know that my dad is incapable of creating tears.


          I kiss dad on the forehead. He turns from me as if I were a leopard. “I love you Dad.” I said, as I left the room. I nearly expected to hear the answer that he would give my mother when she told him that she loved him, “If I didn't love you I would not be with you.” I guess that even in this state, he knew that he could never back with us.


         Down the hall I am hearing the many forgotten parents and grandparents. Some in wheel chairs, some with walkers, and others just staggering around speaking with some past memory. How could these wondering souls suffer as they wait for their aging bodies to die? This just don't seem fair from any means of universal justice.


      “Do you have a cigarette?” A weak voice asks from behind me.


    The shaky words came from a woman of about four feet six inches tall. Her hair looked as though no one had ran a brush through it for weeks. She was one of the many people here wore their night clothes though half the day had spent already. Two different colored non-skid socks (a aging pink on the left and a bright green one on the right). She looked as though it was many years ago that she was baking pies and telling stories to her grandchildren.


          “No,” I replied. “I don't smoke.”


         “Bitch!” The kindly looking  woman screams out as she attempts to spit on me. She keeps mumbling as she stumbles down the shinny hall way. She seems to cheer up immediately when the next person passes by her until they did not oblige her with a cigarette. Then there was another incoherent angry rant.


         Out in the parking lot, I am beginning to cry. How could I leave my dad at this place? What kind of daughter had I become?


         There are many cars on the lot. Many of them were cars that I would never be financially be able to afford in my life time. Though there are so many cars, I did  not see many visitors within the doors visiting the forgotten family members.


    The grounds are beautifully kept. Bright green lawns with scattered flower gardens. Rose bushes throughout the many paved walking paths. Gazebos and swings popped up by a small pond. I found my self wondering if they ever pushed dad out there in a wheel chair. He loved to fish, and I know that he would enjoy feeding the ducks that is if he is able to enjoy anything these days. Surrounding all this beauty, is a large stone fence. Though it has lively paintings of yesteryear, I still know that the wall was there taking away the freedom of those that live there while protecting them at the same time.


    I have to wait at the gate after pushing the buzzer to announce my departure. I know that it is for the safety of those we love, but I can not help feeling as though I am now leaving a prison or an asylum. A muffled voice startles me. “May I help you?”


Help me? I thought isn't it obvious why I had pressed the button in the first place.


    Fighting the urge to crack smart (as my dad used to say “Don't you be cracken smart if you want to keep your teeth.”), I simply look into the camera, smile, and reply. “I am leaving from visiting my Bad John , I need to leave now.”


    “You mean Bad John? Sure I have heard of you, Matilda. He talks about you all the time.”


    “You know Dad?” I ask puzzled looking into the lens.


    “Not before he got here. When he got here, he was fighting mad and not enough strength to do anything about it. After I brought him a puddling cup, we became fast friends.” The voice takes a breath. “Most days we have to begin our friendship all over again, but I don't mind. I love listening to him tell his stories of his moon-shinning father, and the tall ones about his mother being a bitch. I did my midterm on John, and I visit him before I leave to go home.”


    Another buzzer sounds and the gate begins to open. I didn't even thank the voice for the kindness that he had shown my dad due to the shame I felt for not visiting him as I should. I guess that God takes care of us all when we are left alone in this angry world. I pass through the gate engulfed with memories of the many years that I lived at home with my dad, mom, and two sisters.


My words are ways to leave peices of myself behind for my children.

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