In the Wake of Wrath, by Bill Fellenberg

The phone screeches at two a.m., jolting me awake. It’s Doctor X from Keystone Hospital, whom I've never met. He’s furious. “Your father is making trouble. You must come now,” he demands, “and if you cannot make him behave, you must take him home.”

“But wait, is he okay?”

“No, he is not ‘okay.’ He is disturbed. Shouting, calling us names. As I said,  come at once. If you cannot calm him, he must go.”    

            "But wait," I anxiously over explain, "the administrator of Antioch Village, the assisted living facility where Dad lives, recommended hospitalization because his delusions were intensifying. I agreed, and that's why he was admitted this afternoon. So, his dementia ..."

He interrupts me, says, “Come at once,” and hangs up.

***

I drive through winding country roads, my consciousness of what I'm doing blurred by mist and repressed rage. At the hospital, I'll find Dad in a hallway corner, slumped in a chair like a blanket mound. He's disheveled, wrapped carelessly in a hospital gown, eyes closed, glasses perched crookedly on his nose. A bad boy consigned to a corner. Three men in scrubs chatter nearby, their backs to him.

Doctor X strides toward me. Again, an ultimatum. “Calm him down … or take him home.”

“Well, he’s not disturbing anyone now, is he?” My words surface as a croak, because my voice would rather be a fist.

“Of no consequence," says Doctor X, waving his hand dismissively. "I promise he will resume his loud nonsense.”

Dad shifts in his chair. Squinting, he straightens his glasses, recognizes me, and barks,   “Some son you are, sending me to a nuthouse! What the hell are these people doing? Frankly, I  don’t think they know, either.”  

It hurts, but it’s the disease barking, not him. And frankly, I agree this is a nuthouse. But wait, is Doctor X smirking? Or is it my imagination? Am I losing it, too?

***

Dad had retired years earlier but still had his marbles when Donna and I moved him to an apartment in Callicoon--replete with a balcony view of the Catskills; just steps to the market, post office, bank, and world-class fly fishing nearby in the Beaverkill and Willoweemac. Bucolic, perfect, and … too good to last. Too soon, his mind started to go adrift. Driving on familiar roads, the old man would wonder aloud where we were. His decline began gradually, and then suddenly dragged under a tidal wave of forgetfulness. The cozy home spiraled out of control. Bottles, plastic bags, candy wrappers, squatted under his bed, gathering patinas of varying stickiness. Unopened bills accumulated in his desk drawer. In the refrigerator, food turned blue and fuzzy. That’s when we moved him to Antioch Village.

***

Right now, Doctor X continues be an imperious prick. I’d like to kick his scrotum so hard his balls would resettle above his eyebrows. But I won’t. Instead, as usual, I'll try to curry the favor of doctors and any minions who might be able to help Dad. If they like us, they’ll treat him better—maybe. I humbly remind the venerable Doctor X that my father has been admitted to Keystone to be evaluated and treated, not neglected and berated. This is when Dad shouts,  “And who the hell are these assholes?”

Now, Doctor X is definitely smirking.

I’m about to lose it, when a nurse emerges from an elevator. As she approaches, I swear … the atmosphere relaxes. She takes me aside, identifies herself as an obstetrics nurse, says she’s aware of the situation with my father, and that she’ll take care of him through her double shift.  She’s accustomed to working with patients under severe stress—women in labor, who, in excruciating pain—often lash out at their husbands, doctors, and anyone else in the vicinity.

“I’ve been called every name in the book,” she says, “No worries. I’ve got your dad.” She nods toward the men in scrubs and says, “And I’ll handle whatever with them.”

I feel the entire hospital wing take a deep breath.

***

Earth wobbles as it rotates on its axis. I walk like a cautious drunk to the parking lot. Thin gray clouds whip past the moon. I steady myself at the car door. More than death, I fear becoming like my father, a castaway with no past or future, adrift in a fog beyond remembering or intention. I don't remember what else the nurse said—or even her name. She had arrived—like a beautiful idea—as if, during this troubling night on Earth, she was called to help the planet spin toward dawn.

I like to think her name was Grace. I whisper, “Amen.” So be it, and drive home.