The Moon in the Water: Reflections on an Aging Parent

Weak as Water

114 Weak as Water Here’s another Water-Moon Kuan Yin almost completely enclosed by a halo, with only one foot hanging outside the circle. These artists’ schools really did believe in copying their predecessors, with minimal innovation. This sample differs from the preceding one only in that the right leg crosses over the left knee instead of under it, and the rocky bank fronts a stream instead of a pond. Don’t they get tired of the picture repeating? When I glance in Dad’s room, I see a long, lanky leg hanging way out of the bed. “Better glue me in,” Dad says. Next thing I know, the foot has fallen out of its prescribed scope again and—clunk—the rest of the body has tumbled after it, onto the carpet. We check his bones and nothing seems to be broken. Although it’s Sunday afternoon, I hear hammering in the next apartment and discover two strapping young workers, willing to take time out to lift an old man back into bed. After this adventure, I rent a hospital bed. Dad has a hard time getting used to its sides. Psychologically, they spell “cage.” If he’s in a car-key mood, he will try to wriggle Reflections on an aging PaRent 115 over the foot of the bed. Confinement spurs this weak-aswater elder to new feats. Clunk. We check his bones and nothing seems to be broken. I put a pillow under his head to go hunt the neighbors. Fortunately, Jed, from the top floor, and his wife, whose name I missed, agree to help: elevator acquaintances pressed into service. They kneel down, calculate leverage, and heave him back into bed. Next, Dad and I negotiate the policy on bars. I ask, “Do you think it would be safer today to put the sides up?” Sometimes he says, “I think it’d be safer to put them up.” If he sees he has say in the decision, he stays put. Sometimes he even delegates, “I think today you had better make the decisions.” When I promise to lower the side “if you change your mind,” he assesses ruefully, “What mind?” I try to be aware when he’s not car-key-antsy and put the sides back down. Eventually, we haven’t had the sides up for one whole year; he’s calmer awake and less mobile in his sleep. But one night I hear a clunk at 3 a.m. He’s fallen onto the carpet. We put a pillow under his head and check his bones, which seem to be unhurt. Who to call? Nora, the nurse, has explicitly offered, “Call me anytime, day or night.” I call her and Ed, the manager. This by-now-familiar rough sketch of elder-lifting yields a new glow. First Nora, and then Ed, promptly respond, “Oh, I’ll be right there.” Not even a hint of annoyance, not 116 The Moon in the Water a moment’s hesitation to remind me how unwelcome it is to be called at 3 a.m.! “Oh, I’ll be right there.” Once back in bed, Dad gives them an amazing, bright smile. He knows his life is dashing on, like a stream, out of my picture, but weak water can dissolve mountains and find sea—no problem, says Kuan. ...