The Den

The hospital bed was delivered to Mom's den.
The den had been the setting for so many parties over the years. Central to it was the bar, designed by my father. It was a classic 1950's cocktail vintage, complete with a purple fluorescent light and a crawl door for the bartender. Throughout the weekends of my childhood, the den echoed with laughter, smelled of cigarette smoke and whisky and resonated with passionate political and religious arguments waged by family members perched on the carefully designed, comfortable barstools, having had, perhaps, one too many Smirnoff vodka martini's on the rocks.

Now, the hosptial bed was central.
We circled the bed.
Bob stared. Mostly speechless.
We circled the bed to spoon the sulfa into his mouth, to hold a straw while he drank from a can of Ensure, to adjust the heel protectors, to search his skin for redness caused by the skin "breaking down", to apply sween cream, to look for any new purples spots caused by the Kaposi Sarcoma, to smooth his hair.

He hadn't walked since the day Matt and I had taken him to the hospital.
His legs atrophied.
His chest remained full and broad, covered with furry grey hair. His face had always been broad and round, like mine, a swoop of hair falling across his forehead. He'd always pushed it off his face with his right hand, fingers spread. Now, it was our job to to comb his hair straight back off his face. His fingers couldn't do the work now. It was easier for us to do it.
His face thinned and his cheekbones and bone structure were apparent.
He looked handsome, with his closely trimmed beard and grey hair and huge brown eyes. Now he rarely wore the thick glasses he'd worn for years.
Even in a hospital gown, in diapers, he had elegance and grace.
One nurse remarked, "What a gentleman."

I guarded him fiercely. He was never to look goofy. Not easy when one can't comb one's own hair or wipe one's own face.
Whenever his hair stood up against his pillow, I combed it down. The pillow was often damp. A head against a pillow sweats. He sweated. We turned the pillow. Perspiration poured out of him. His body wailed through the night. We changed his gown.

The caregivers became family. They came in and out of Mother's house. Rosie and Igor were my favorites. They trimmed his nails. Changed his diaper. Bathed him. Trimmed his beard.

The front door to Mother's house was never locked.

Mother fretted and did laundry. Gowns. Sheets. Towels. The sharp smell of Clorox and Dial anti-bacterial hand wash permeated the house. We followed all directions. Hot water and Clorox. Bleach, food, visitors, and opera on the stereo twenty-four hours a day.

Every Sunday was like an Irish wake. Friends, family gathered. Food. Drink. The den had the hum of a party while Bob slept. We sat with him. Talked to him. Waited for those slivers of time when his eyes would open. We played a video from Mom's 75th birthday. We showed him Carmen. He and Mom watched a video they'd shot in Prague when they'd visited Matt. I tried to read to him but I abandoned that. It felt stilted for some reason. So mostly, we sat. We looked at each other and we listened to opera on Mom's stereo in the den.

I remember one day when I sat on the edge of his bed and stroked his face where it itched. His spastic finger flailed in the air and I knew his faced needed scratching.
I scratched it.
Without gloves.

One day his hand reached gently along the edge of my scarf and I said, "You like that?"
And his forehead rose slightly and his eyelids lifted and a glimmer of yes flashed in his eyes.
"You gave that to me on Christmas," I said.
It was a Burberry scarf. Bob always gave expensive presents.

On another day, he said,
"You smell good."

One Sunday afternoon, Bob's friend, Alice came to visit with Lenny. Alice brought a dozen sunflowers and stayed all afternoon. We played musicals on Mom's stereo - Fiorello, High Button Shoes, Mary Poppins. Lenny and Alice jitterbugged around the bed. It felt like a party. It was a wonderful afternoon. The den vibrated with a desperate happiness.

The weeks were long for Mom and me. Mom paced the house and did laundry. Her impatience would flair every now and then, but it was usually reserved for the hospice nurses. It was usually about the washing machine.

I was in charge. I gave the orders. I insisted on the medicine chart. I enforced the turning schedule. I inspected the diapers, oversaw the changing of linens, the placement of the pull sheet. I examined every detail. Sergeant of the bed.
"No wrinkles in the bed," I would order.
"Be sure the tie on the gown doesn't bunch under his neck."
"Smooth the chux, and above all keep the egg crate dry."

One day, Matt said, "Dad, you want some water?"
Bob's eyes shifted to me blankly.
"Do I want water?" he asked.

( Aria - A Sisters Journey With AIDS to be continued in next post - My Big Brother )