New sounds of distress sent me running in my bathrobe to Dad’s room at 2:00 a.m., where he struggled in vain to sit up on the edge of his bed (hoping to pee). I pulled on his shoulders to sit him up, and held him there for twenty minutes (unable to pee).  Mom’s 5:00 a.m. knock on my bedroom, and her cry that Dad needed my help, sent me dashing again.  Dad lay face down on the floor, wedged between the bed frame and the night stand, his face in a gallon-size garbage can.  (I am learning, too slowly, to elder-proof a home.)  He could not move, only grunt.  With difficulty, I lifted his torso enough to free his face from the can.  “Just leave me here,” he begged.  I could do nothing but leave him there, except provide a pillow to protect his face from rough carpet pile.  And I covered him with a quilt.  I stood there watching him breathe, inside me a growing fury that he was so helpless and incontinent and that I was so helpless and impotent, that I could not move his bulk, could not help him relieve himself, could do nothing but watch him struggle and fade.  (At 84, his mother Dora fell out of bed and became wedged between the bed frame and the night stand.  And that is where she died.)  In a rage disoriented by little sleep and much fear and grief and stress and acridity and a traumatized waiting for disaster, I wondered angrily why he didn’t just get it over with and die.  Take him, I demanded—put us both out of our misery.  We can’t do this anymore.  I just could not manage one more night, or one more hour, of death struggle and incontinence.  In that moment, I saw the threshold, with two helpless men on one side, and professional paramedics on the other.  My mind cleared and I saw “911” as the only answer.  But I needed some time to think through the details, and Dad was sleeping comfortably, finally, albeit on the floor, and my leaving him there snoring for thirty minutes while I prepared my mind and my plan would do him no hard.  I buzzed my stubble hair and showered and shaved and ate some Quaker granola with icy milk and packed a bag with the advance directive and the power of attorney, my books, water bottles, cash, an apple, and Dad’s glasses and wallet and insurance card.  Only then was I ready to awaken Mom and explain that I needed to call the paramedics—she did not want to have to—and to awaken Dad and explain that I needed to call the paramedics—he did not want to have to—ready to dial “911.”  Strong young men, they carted him out on a flexible stretcher and drove him away to Alta View, and I followed, convinced this was his life’s end, his final ambulance ride.  I felt grateful he would not die in my arms, that someone else was in charge now.  Eight vials of blood and three hours later, Kirk, a superb nurse, entered ER Room #5 wearing a surgeon’s mask, and announced, “Guess what, Nelson?  You have Covid.”  Covid?  Covid!  How surreal to feel a surge of giddy relief that Dad had Covid.  What Dad and I dreaded was the intractable mystery of his utter undiagnosed debilitation and his slow trajectory toward an unexplained death.  That we could not handle.  But Covid we could get our brains around.  The doctors and nurses knew exactly what to do with Covid.  And the Covid diagnosis explained his symptoms of total exhaustion and chest pain and profound weakness and a slight fever and the beginnings of a cough and cognitive disorientation.  I wanted to cheer, “Eat! Drink! Be merry! For tomorrow he will live!”  The doctor stated with nonchalance: “Yeah, this Covid variant really hammers old people, but Nelson should make a full recovery.”  After a night of anguish and impotence, a new day of hope and of better tomorrows broke open.

(Pictured above: Dad in the hospital with my sister Sarah.)