<\/p>\n

On this Sunday in February we stare at the paper sign taped to the ugly concrete wall above my father\u2019s bed in this huge hospital and can\u2019t for the life of us figure it out. H O H it says in large primitive letters. He\u2019s over here<\/em>? Hates our hospital<\/em>?\u00a0 We ask nurses, doctors, orderlies for the meaning, but no one knows either. We settle on He\u2019s Our Hero,<\/em> which makes my father smile. We are the entertainment committee and we will do anything to make him smile. A smart laconic man with a dry wit, he often answers with a nod, a shrug of a shoulder, or the lifting of an eyebrow. On the talking continuum my mother and I lean toward the blabbermouth end and my aunts, my father\u2019s two younger sisters both widowed, are close to it but land at just chatty. We are his harem.<\/p>\n

My father\u2019s bunioned feet, encased in purple slipper socks with rubber skid strips on the bottom, stick out from his blankets.\u00a0 He received them for Chanukah, or no doubt Christmas, when \u201cSanta Claus\u201d went around the rooms handing over presents to the patients. My father is a gray, brown, navy sort of man, so he looks ridiculous with his big purple feet, attached to his white scrawny legs. More like the legs and feet of Daffy Duck.<\/p>\n

\u201cWish I thought up this slipper sock idea,\u201d he says, wiggling his toes. \u201c Must have made some guy a bundle.\u201d The soles of the socks are spotless. I try not to think about it.<\/p>\n

Betty, the aunt who was once so pretty and is now considering electroshock treatments to help with her depression, sits next to my father on his hospital bed, her arm draped around his shoulder. Helen, the short, sometimes blunt one, who got along great with my mom, the other Helen, sits on the other side, knitting an elegant blue blanket for me, and occasionally puts down her needles to pat his hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou had to pick the expensive yarn, didn\u2019t you? The others are half the price,\u201d she scolds me.<\/p>\n

My mother sits on the large, brown chair with the footrest, the one she sometimes sleeps in overnight or falls into when she gets tired from being with him on her 12-hour shift. My mother is still so beautiful but her eyes are flat, her spirit deflated. She wears the same dark sweaters each day, which lie shapeless on her thin frame.\u00a0 \u201cDon\u2019t you think I\u2019d get all dolled up everyday if it would make him better?\u201d she once told me, the words piercing through my heart.\u00a0<\/p>\n

I stand next to his bed and pick up the phone when it rings. His hands were big and strong, they built boats for the Navy during World War II, cut through hundreds of layers of cloth with an electric cutter contraption when he owned a manufacturing business, and could hold a piece of chalk and unlock the world of quantum physics or advanced calculus when he was a teacher. But now, unless I hold the phone next to his ear, it slides down and winds up settling on his stomach, or what was his stomach when he had one. Actually he is missing two stomachs. The organ he put an inordinate amount of salami and Zenobia pistachio nuts in, riddled with cancer, was removed, and the nice convex poof that he used to rest the Wall Street Journal<\/em> on, while sitting in his favorite club chair smoking a pipe filled with cherry tobacco, is now gone too.<\/p>\n

A different nurse comes in. \u201cHard of hearing,\u201d she declares, staring at the sign. We all laugh. We should have guessed it. My father lost most of his hearing in one ear from a childhood infection and some of his hearing in his good ear when he got older. Not that anyone ever knew \u2013he was so adept at looking at you when you spoke that he got every word. But on the phone, missing visual cues, you would have to yell or he would just make an excuse and get off.\u00a0 For many years I thought he didn\u2019t want to talk to me, but I was wrong. Sometimes, I thought my mother, who at 22 married my father after a three-month whirlwind courtship, got stuck with him. But then I grew up and witnessed life. I saw her dance with him cheek to cheek in the hospital while he was in a wheelchair. I saw them kiss and heard her whisper, \u201cPlease don\u2019t leave me now. We still have to have some more fun. I need more time with you.\u201d I was wrong about a lot of things.<\/p>\n

On March 15th a blizzard blankets NYC and the Denton Avenue Elementary School where I teach is closed for a snow day. No one can get out and come visit my dad except for me since I live only two miles from the hospital. I arrive stomping the snow off my feet and peel off\u00a0layers and layers of clothing like I\u2019m peeling an onion.<\/p>\n

\u201cRicki,\u201d he says, with enthusiasm. \u201cIsn\u2019t it too early for you to be here? Why aren\u2019t you teaching? I may have to report you for playing hooky.\u201d He wags a finger at me, one of the few body parts he can move. I explain about the storm, and my mother not being able to drive and me having a snow day.<\/p>\n

\u201cI feel so much better when I see you,\u201d he says. I bend down and he kisses my forehead.<\/p>\n

I remember when he came to my apartment alone last year after going to the brokerage house near where I live.<\/p>\n

\u201cDad, what a good surprise! You never visit without mom. Come inside,\u201d I say as I hug him. \u201cWant anything to eat?\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cA soda might be nice. With a little ice.\u201d<\/p>\n

I sit across from him at my round butcher-block table, so pleased he came to visit me alone. \u201cHow is the market doing?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt goes up. It comes down.\u201d He laughs. \u201cYou know me. I\u2019m into holding.\u201d He has a wealthy widow friend Sidelle. They are stock market friends. Each day they speak on the phone to talk and discuss the market. My mom is not too crazy about Sidelle, who calls my father every single day for the six months he is in the hospital. When he is no longer here she calls my mom every day. My mom changes her mind about Sidelle. Now my dad finishes his glass of soda and stands up to leave.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, no. Stay longer, dad,\u201d I plead.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust seeing you makes me feel better,\u201d he says. \u201cIf I\u2019m nervous, somehow you make me feel calm,\u201d he adds, kissing me on the forehead, and then walks out the door.\u00a0 A moment later the doorbell rings and it\u2019s him. He kisses me on the forehead again. \u201cI forgot to do this,\u201d he explains.<\/p>\n

\u201cDad you kissed me goodbye already.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut not twice! I forgot to kiss you the second time.\u201d Then he leaves for real.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

* \u00a0 \u00a0* \u00a0 \u00a0*\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

He\u2019s leaving me now too, but this time for good. I pull over a chair to his bed, and hold his bony, knobby hand. It is nice and warm. I do not know that the wheezing sound he is making is called a death rattle. I do not know that this will be the last day I will ever hold his hand still warm, here on earth.<\/p>\n

I had trouble talking to my father. I wanted words from him, but like telepathy, he always thought I just knew how he felt and what he was thinking. But I wanted more. Holding his hand while sitting next to him in silence in this hospital, which I have grown to hate intensely, is the most content feeling I have ever had. I don\u2019t want it to end. But I\u2019m not dumb.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know dad, I was thinking that maybe we might want to say some things to each other. Now when we\u2019re alone might be a good time. Just in case something should happen.\u201d My eyes brim up, but we do not look at each other. There is no point in it. I have learned and seen and felt everything from him already while looking in his kind brown eyes.\u00a0 Let me do this thing right.<\/p>\n

He nods. \u201cA perfect time.\u201d He adds, \u201c You start.\u201d I start. Much later I finish. My voice sounds like I am talking about the weather. I do not let it waver. I am grateful that the universe has conspired and I have this day with him, this last day with him. My eyes look at the sign above his bed. I understand that it means He\u2019s Our Hero, the hard of hearing part being so incidental.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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