Happy Birthday, Ma

The world is full of events and stories. Some should remain secret, and there are things some of us will take to our graves. Others should remain secret, but are too good not to tell. This is the latter. When it was all over and we were heading home, I joked with my mom about putting the story on my blog, which elicited a stern “Don't you dare!” But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Twelve hours earlier, I was on my way to work. I'd given my mom her birthday presents, and she was on her way to her knitting group before going to see my dad at the nursing home. The sun was shining, and life was better than it had been in weeks. At the office, I confidently took on a new assignment before going to lunch, and then had another meeting to present a design which I knew, based on precedent, a certain marketing person would change. I might as well have gone in with a blank piece of paper, but that happens in this business and at some point it stopped fazing me. The trick is to always have a plan B, and be ready to come up with a C, D, or E on the spot if that fails. Starting sentences with “OK, well what if we--” is essential.

After work, I went to the gym, my third visit since returning last week. I pushed even further, and my legs didn't feel as rubbery afterwards, although the occasional glimpse of myself in a mirror was still depressing. I'm not worried about getting back in the shape I was in; I just hate the fact that several months of hard work can melt in a few weeks. It takes longer to get up there than it does to fall back down. Still, I am glad that I've reached a place where I can get through a work day, get a good workout, and still work my way over to the nursing home an hour or so before visiting hours end.

My dad sat on the edge of the bed, taking in his second daily dose of antibiotic. My mom sat in the chair nearby, multitasking as she watched sitcoms, read a magazine, and napped. I took the wheelchair as has become my ritual, and I'm getting really good at controlling it. Some nights I go the entire visit without using my legs, rolling out of the way when nurses come in, rolling to the garbage when I throw something away for my folks, etc. Maybe I can get my arms to bulk up and match my legs, although it's the gut and spare chin that are my real problems. In any case, rolling around passes the time.

As the 8 PM deadline approached, my mom got up to refill my dad's water bottle, vacating her chair over which was draped her long winter coat. A few minutes later, footsteps heralded not the return of my mother, but the arrival of my godfather. I offered him my mom's seat, wheeling back to give the tall old man with the cane plenty of room to maneuver. When my mom got back, she sat next to my dad on the bed.

The old men talked for nearly an hour about everything from automobile repair to the good old days to the time honored subject of “Hey, you know who died?” As our visit crossed into overtime, I slipped my coat back on from the back of the wheelchair, and replaced my hat. When he had a moment between thoughts, my godfather asked if I was cold before tumbling back into his train of thought and resuming his original topic. My dad, who had been dozing himself earlier, was actually alert and awake, his old friend an energizing presence.

My mom finally stood and stretched, which served as more of a hint than my hat and coat. My godfather boisterously leapt to his feet, bid us goodnight, and left the room. As my mom took a step forward to take her coat from the chair where he’d sat, she froze, noticing the same thing that had me frozen at that exact second as well. In the front and center of the seat on the jacket, was an oval wet stain about two inches wide and four inches long.

“That's not...” she began.

“Is it?” I leaned forward, miming sniffing, which I had no intention in hell of actually doing. I jumped back in my best spastic Kramer impression. “It is! Uncle Dean peed on the coat!” The Seinfeld reference made the situation slightly easier to process.

My dad gave his buddy the benefit of the doubt, certain he was holding a cup of water and had probably just spilled it. I didn't recall him having a drink, and I really wasn't going to ascertain the true nature of the wet spot. The “good” news was that it was small, and on the outside of the coat toward the bottom. My mom blotted it with some paper towels before putting it on, and when we got home that thing went straight downstairs to our washing machine without passing “go” or collecting $200. If it was mine, I probably would have wanted it burned. But, maybe my dad was right. Or maybe Uncle Dean had some snow or ice on the bottom of his coat or back of his pants that simply melted. We may never know.

“Well,” I quipped, “At least he got you something for your birthday.”