Herb Benham: No one wants to be the sibling who did Dad in
| Saturday, Sep 05 2009 12:00 PM
Last Updated Saturday, Sep 05 2009 12:00 PM
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My dad came to visit. He's good company. It's a treat to have him.
We played tennis, walked and ate some dinner. He does all three well.
We gave him his own bedroom. I mean, the man is 84. He can't be sleeping on the couch.
Like most men of his generation and work ethic, he used to get up at the crack of dawn. I don't think there was much choice. You either started in on the day or the day started in on you.
That's changed. Early has gotten later. It was my understanding, and prior visits have indicated as much, that he now arises between 7 and 8, although I couldn't put my finger on what his average is.
This became pertinent because on Day 2, 7:30 a.m. came and went and so did 8. Then, it was closing in on 8:30.
I'd never had these thoughts before but I've never had an 84-year-old father either. What if, I thought? What if last night's dinner -- barbecued chicken, sourdough bread and salad -- was Dad's last supper?
Mortality is one thing, but this was tricky. I have three brothers, two sisters and a mother and if Dad was in there not moving as much as he used to, what would I tell them? "He was fine when he went to bed, he even had a piece of dark chocolate after wiping out a bowl of Cherry Garcia. His appetite was excellent."
However, no matter what you say to your siblings, you're playing defense. They are thinking, "We never had a problem when he stayed with us."
Instantly, you're the son who rowed their father to the other side of the lake. Hallmark doesn't make a card for that. It's a hard one to live down when Dad doesn't show up at their house for Thanksgiving dinner.
Ten minutes later, I put my ear to the door. It was now 8:40. He hadn't slept that late since returning from World War II.
I couldn't hear anything but the fan. At least that was still working. He always liked his circulation.
I wanted to open the door, but I didn't want to wake him up, just in case he was wake-upable. If he wasn't, I wasn't in a big hurry to go in. I needed time, and some good excuses to compose "My Speech to the Family."
No matter what you say, they're thinking it's the chicken. You didn't cook it, he ate a bad piece, contracted chickenitis and then went to bed with his beloved fan and that was all she wrote.
It was now 8:45. Please Dad, wake up. Even if you don't feel like it. Even if you can't.
People have done that before. Gone into the white tunnel, seen grandma, then woken up and enjoyed a steaming bowl of Cream of Wheat.
I had to open his door. It was almost 9. At 9, I might as well just call Ray Mish.
I opened the door. He was lying under the covers. That was good, but not definitive. Lots of people lie under the covers. Some of them even get up.
Was he breathing? I looked for the telltale signs of the chest heaving and the shoulders rising up and down. If there was air being exchanged, I didn't want to walk in the room, and go to his bedside, because he might knock me out. He was a Marine, and I never even played one in dressup.
I think I saw something move, but my eyes weren't that good. I could have been willing those shoulders up and down. Please Dad, give me a sign. A cough. Kick your leg out. I know you still remember your lines from "Damn Yankees."
I closed the door. Fifteen minutes later, I heard some stirring. I saved him a blueberry bagel. That and the rest of the chocolate bar.
