They say nobody walks in LA, unless it's on the treadmill.
I do.
But then, I'm a New Yorker. New Yorkers would walk to Mars if we could.
Walking from Century City to Crescent Heights, past Shanghai, Meshugah Sushi, dozens of kosher eateries and purveyors lined up along West Pico Boulevard, until finally about three miles later, just past La Cienega Boulevard, where the Judaic gift shops and Glatt Kosher groceries have given way to fast food joints like Subway and McDonald's, I arrive at the drab, concrete three-floor building that houses my dad's assisted living/nursing home.
"Assisted living/nursing home," meaning they have the place split in half. The full nursing part is what you first walk through.
Once past the welcome desk, from which no one welcomes you, and the woman with the long white hair in a ponytail, with drooping, St. Bernard eyes who does not answer when you say hello and does not move when you try to get past her, just through the patio doors, is an inner sanctum, a courtyard with cushioned patio furniture and a gurgling fountain. There are sparrows and pigeons to feed despite the fact that the sign says do not feed the birds. The furniture is anointed with white and gray bird droppings. This sunny courtyard is where I always take him.
A right turn, and you walk up a carpeted hallway incline (the hill) past a glass-enclosed office where two office workers are always eating candy. From there, you leave the oxygen tanks and gurneys behind and enter a living room with book shelves, coffee tables with plastic flowers on them, and a large TV surrounded by couches and plush chairs. You are now in assisted living, meant for those who can live somewhat independently.
Adjoining the living room is a room filled with plastic dinette tables and chairs, another large TV and the shop. The shop is run by feisty 93-year-old Evelyn. She dolls up as if she were going out to a fancy restaurant every day, hair done up in a wash and set, face made up and powdered, jewelry. She is sharp and energetic and quickly looks up in her ledger what everyone owes or does not owe when they ask for a Coke, chips or a candy bar. All the money raised is used to fund day trips that the assisted living's continuously lowering budget will not allow.
Three years ago I moved Dad into a quiet apartment with a sliding glass door that opened up to a patio in the back. Not the fountain and sparrows patio, a darker less inviting patio, but it offered fresh air and open sky all the same. A single stream of sunshine broke over the concrete structure and pierced the dark courtyard in the late afternoon.
I take it upon myself to provide love and have even enlisted the aid of my girlfriend to act as surrogate daughter when work keeps me away.
I fly out every chance I get from New York. I pamper him with his favorite treats; kosher hot dogs with sauerkraut and mustard cut into 4 portions, lest he inhale them without chewing, Chinese vegetable rolls with the red sauce he loves, dairy free apple pie for his lactose intolerance issues, bananas. The man loves bananas.
Dad was in a wheelchair but could take short supervised walks with his walker when I moved him in. He met the criteria for assisted living with full nursing care, sort of like their halfway point between assisted and full nursing. But since then his needs have grown.
Visiting Dad is like tracing a tree's age by counting the rings. At every visit is a steady, slow decline. The attempts at walking disappeared; the conversation dwindled to a sentence or two.
After his last hospital visit for a urinary tract infection, he stopped being able to sit up in his wheelchair and would just slump forward. I ordered him a reclining wheelchair, which solved the problem.
"Tell him you're sorry for whatever!" a pal advised when I confided that time may be growing short.
"I'm sorry?! He was never there for me!"
"Then tell him you forgive him!"
So on a sunny Los Angeles autumn day this year, I gave a speech at his bedside.
"Dad, we fought a lot when I was a kid. I was so wild. You were so strict, but I forgive you."
He looked at me with murky eyes and smiled, "I forgive you, too."
I wanted to scream, "You forgive me?!?? You abandoned me when I was 16 and didn't give a hoot about me till I was 46!" But I have discovered that helping my dad now feels like going back in time and helping my young self.
So instead I said, "Dad... I'm sorry I was such a rotten kid and gave you such a hard time ..."
"Yes..." He said smiling and nodded in approval.
Growing up, scoring my dad's approval was not something I strived for, at least consciously. I was content to take the easier path, rebellion.
Or the even easier path, my mother. She was the soft touch when it came to gushing over her children. It didn't take much: "You ate an egg! Mazel tov!"
My tough, GI Joe dad with his tools and workbench, perpetually digging under the hood of his Ford pickup, playing racquetball with "the buddies," carting a rifle along when we drove cross-country, was harder to crack.
His smiles and quiet nods of approval came as rare as double rainbows. But these days, I get that nod ever time I walk in the door.
"There's my beautiful daughter who never forgets me!" Followed immediately by, "Wha'd you bring me?!"
I helped the nurse position him in bed so she could change him into his pajamas. When she removed his shirt, I looked at his torso. Despite the age and illness he didn't look bad for 89. Dad had always stayed in shape. He had a little pooch of a belly with soft white hair. He looked like a teddy bear.
I thought of growing up on the Jersey Shore, Dad on the beach. He'd seemed like a giant to me when I was six years old. He would hold me up over the crashing waves so they wouldn't suck me away.
My tough GI Joe dad. He's just a child now.
He felt ashamed when the nurse took his teeth out. But I rubbed his cheek and said, "I love you."
"I love you, too," he said, almost singing as the words leaked into each other.
Then I slipped his nurse 20 bucks.
"Take extra good care of my dad, please."
Would this day be the last day I saw him alive? I did not know. Hospice said he should make it till the end of the year at least. He was still eating.
"Dad... just wanted to wish you an early happy Chanukah!"
"Happyyyy... nukah," he said as he started to blink the sleep away.
"Tell Mom I said hello.. if you see her in your dreams."
"Okay," he said closing his eyes.
I left two bananas by his bed.
