Forever Close in Spirit - Part I

FEBRUARY 1996

I angle the wheelchair out of the narrow apartment door and work my way slowly down the hall. It feels off balance, like trying to drive a car that is poorly aligned. Dad reprimands me as I pull up short toward the elevator. "You don't know how to drive one of these things," he barks. I laugh nervously. He's right.

I edge the wheelchair to the picture window that looks out on a panoramic view of Lake Flower, surrounded by the village of Saranac Lake, the Adirondack Mountains rising in the distance. New fallen snow from the night before has turned the scene into a wonderland. Snow clings to the trees. Ice fishermen and ice skaters dot the lake.

Dad stares out the window without a word. I wonder how many memories flood his brain as he gazes out over the town where he grew up. He has shared most of them with me a thousand times. Tales of walking to school in snow three feet deep, using a soap-stone and blankets to keep warm on long trips to Plattsburgh in a cold car, stories of old girlfriends, teen pranks, and growing up with a houseful of siblings.

My own memories blend in with his. Memories of the old rope swing that hurled us into the water at the camp on Follensby Pond, rowing the old rowboat along the shore at daybreak, trips over Whiteface Mountain at sunset, walking through snow that creaked with every step, admiring the stars on a clear night.

"Let's go down to the sixth floor," he says. "I'd like to check in on Nancy Beamer. She's been so sick lately, and she never comes downstairs anymore."

I turn the wheelchair around and maneuver into the elevator. We laugh and joke about the way it groans. Two ladies enter the elevator on the eighth floor carrying packages, and we exchange comments about the bitter cold that has gripped the region for several days now.

When I rap on Nancy's door, a feeble voice inquires who is there. I give my dad's name, "and I'm his daughter," I add.

She bids us to come in. I thread the wheelchair gingerly through the door and between the furniture to where Nancy is sitting. She smiles at my dad and he asks her how she's feeling. They exchange brief stories about their doctors, their medical tests, and each other. He tells her good-bye and promises he'll be back to visit soon.

We travel down the hall to the elevator and make the trip to the first floor without any company. I wheel the chair out to the front door and we watch the snow that has again started falling at a rapid rate. A blast of cold air wraps itself around us as one of the other tenants enters. "How are you feeling?" he asks dad.

"Fine. Real good," is the reply. They smile and laugh together as I wander back towards the large room that serves as a meeting and recreation area for the tenants in the building. I sense a tug at my heartstrings as my gaze falls on the walnut baby-grand piano sitting in a corner of the room.

It is New Year's Eve, 1960, and the house is full of people, laughing, talking, joking, drinking. Dad is at the piano, his fingers caressing the keys easily, no apparent effort on his part to create the tunes that flow from the instrument. He has been playing for several minutes, working his way from one song to the next, old songs like "Misty" and "Button up Your Overcoat" and "Bye Bye Blackbird". He curses to himself as he strikes a wrong chord, but no one notices. I am sitting in a chair next to him, watching him and admiring him with my eyes. Maybe someday, I'll be able to play like him, but never like him really. He plays without music, tunes that are embedded in his brain and magically transformed to the keys. I wonder in my childish way if this is the year he will make a record of his music and become famous and then he won't have to work anymore.

"You know," dad says when I resume my position behind his wheelchair, "I came downstairs a few weeks ago and no one was around, so I thought I'd play the piano for a while. It was the funniest thing. It seemed like something was wrong with the keys. I couldn't get much sound out of it. Then it dawned on me that I was too weak to put enough pressure on the keys to play them."

A lump catches in my throat. "Did you ever make the tape you were going to make?" I ask after a moment.

"I made a list of all the songs I could think of that I knew. I think I came up with over a hundred of them. I got twenty or so on tape."

We have moved on down the hall and into the laundry room. The soft whir of the dryer is the only interruption. This is my big chance to say everything I want to say. These few moments alone with dad may be the only ones I get before the inevitable end. I check the dryer, find the clothes still quite wet, and push a couple more dimes into the slot. We sit in silence for a moment.

Dad looks up at me, a question in his eyes. "Well, what are we doing here? Are those clothes done or what?"

"No, I just put some more money in. I'll come back and check them again in a while." I shift position in the chair where I've chosen to take a seat. "I just wanted to say a few things to you, Dad," I begin, searching for the right words. "This room isn't exactly inspiring, but at least we're alone for a minute."

He nods and waits.

"I guess I just want to tell you how proud I am of you for facing all of this the way you have. You never complain, you continue to do everything you possibly can, you haven't just given up."

"It really hasn't been so bad," he answers. "I'm not in pain. The medication must be holding me pretty good. I get so weak and tired, though. I just can't understand it."

You are weak and tired because this evil thing is attacking your body and eating up every good cell in it. The horrible cancer is destroying your muscles and your bones and your body is fighting so hard to win the battle, but it won't win, and the more if fights, the more tired and weak and helpless you become.

"Well," I reassure him, "I think you are fantastic and so do the people in the building. You've been an inspiration to all of them. Every time I come downstairs I see someone who tells me how they admire your strength."

Dad looks around with a restlessness that signals he's ready to leave.

I'm not. Not yet.

"So," I say with a the hint of a chuckle in my voice, "I'm 45 and you're 76. Any advice?"

I wait for his reply, some utterance of great wisdom that will ease the pain in my heart, but dad remains silent. We never did carry on any deep philosophical conversations all the years he was healthy. Do I really expect anything different now?

A long moment passes. "Yeah." He sighs. "Don't get to be 76. It stinks."

I take his hand in mine. "I love you, dad, and I'll miss you a lot."

To be continued....

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