A Pleasant Place

I get out of the elevator on my way to pick up Dad at CNS this afternoon, after a day of transcribing hideously boring interviews at the office, and right when i reach for the door handle - the horn blows. They blow an air horn every time someone tries to escape from CNS. And usually - it's my Dad that's the culprit. I open the door - and low and behold - there's Hilda, our case manager, guarding the door, my Dad trying to push his way to it, and 4 other CNS therapists and staff ready to pounce. I walk into the mania - "oh good - you're here, did you come to take me away from these people?!" my Dad says in surprise at my impeccable timing. "no David, you have twenty more minutes of therepy, we have to finish." says Hilda. "fine - i'll wait here." and Dad sits down on one of the seats in the lobby area. "well no, Dad" I say "you go finish and I'll be here and then we'll go at ten to 4." Hilda turns to me and says, "do you mind waiting outside? we have to intervene." "Umm sure..." okay. whatever that means. and I know what it means - it means they're going to use physical restraint to get my dad to calm down and finish his exercises and they don't want me to see it. my question is why do they have to do it if i'm already there to take him home in the first place and end all the drama? But whatever. So I wait in the hall, by the elevator. I lean against the wall, and then sink down to the floor - and sit on the cold tile indefinitely. -- let me interrupt myself to say real quick that as I'm attempting to complete this blog I have to stop every 2 minutes to keep Jenny from eating Pickles, the poor traumatized bird who sits in it's cage right outside the door from the study. sorry Jenny. -- anyway, I'm slumped by the elevator, imagining what they're doing to Daddy in there. and it doesn't sound good. ten minutes later, Shimone, one of the other clients there, about the age of my Dad and with much more cognition but less speech competency than he, comes out of the clinic with his son. Let me preface this by telling you that Shimone is one of those classic kissing Europeans. Everytime he sees me, "HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY!!!! *muah* *mauh*!" kisses on my cheeks. And he is also sort of buddies with my Dad, when Dad's being compliant. But with this latest behavior Shimone feels the need to tell me about it, as if I didn't know. He sees me slumped there - "heeeeeeeeey!!! ohhhhhhh - you're Dad..." and then he grumbles something and throws punches in the air to illustrate whatever just happened behind closed doors. His son intervenes, "Dad, eet's okay -- eet's okay! don worry about it!" and he smiles at me. "you okay?" he says. "yeah" I nod. then Shimone leans down, and squeezes my face and lands two kisses on my cheeks. "ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh mi....." whatever he grumbles. And they get in the elevator to leave and I wait.

Finally Hilda comes out of the doors and makes a beeline to the bathroom - as if purposefully trying to avoid me. I wait til she comes back to say, "can I come in now?" "ummm... let me just check." She goes in. finally she comes out, "yeah you can come wait in the lobby, he's destressing now." um okay. So I sit there in an actual chair, and I know that whatever aggression just happened Dad is coming down from it now. Robin, Dad's counselor, (whom I hate for having that name), comes out and lets me know that Dad acted out again. Supposedly, after I appeared he calmed down and started to do his exercise again, and then he decided he had had enough and started lashing out - at which point 6 people jumped on him to restrain him and finally he became calm and was now relaxing on the physical therepy bed - they wanted him to wait for the adrenaline to wear off before attempting to head home with me. Finally they escort him to the door and he goes, "let's get out of here. let's get away from these assholes." "okay okay" I say and I wave to them and we walk out the door. door closes, and Dad instantly starts sobbing into my arms. "they're just so awful!!!! get me out of here! they want to kill me!!" "shhh shh it's okay daddy i know, I know" I say. calming him. Hilda just on the other side of the door listening to this opens the door and peeks her head around and says, "everything okay?" and Dad, embarrassed to be caught crying says, "get away!" and slams the door at her. I jump in the middle to break up the scene and tell them it's fine it's fine - i've got it from here. The blessed elevator arrives and we get in and away.

down the elevator, Dad keeps crying. I give him my sunglasses so he can hide his tears. He's clearly drained and sore from the drama. I would be too. I ache for him. As we're walking to the car he goes, "those goddamn assholes. THOSE GODDAMN ASSHOLES." loud enough so every random at the Baja Fresh around the corner probably dropped their burrito to look and see where the crazy person voice was coming from. "Dad!!! it's okay it's okay - let's get in the car, we're going home now."

We get in. I put him in the back - hoping that my childproof locks were engaged - and terrified that he may make an anxious attempt to get out on the freeway as he has tried in moments of panic before. Luckily, only one weak attempt. He was too busy sobbing and marinating in the drama of the day. I distract him with a bag of pistachio nuts I keep in the car for snacks. They helped a little. Finally, we get home.

He's totally drained, and totally hungry. After about 9 minutes on the couch, just enough time to allow me to retell the story to Mom in privacy, Dad walks in, "I want a steak! let's put some on the grill." Mom and I look at each other -- "ummm okay" and after devising excuses of lack of coals for a BBQ and the fact that the steaks were still frozen we make the executive decision to head to Columbo's for dinner, our classic, favorite, family Italian steakhouse restaurant, where there's always a little live jazz. We throw some food in the bowls for the dogs, and head out the door. The event of going out to dinner, so innately normal and easy.

At Columbo's, we cozy up in a booth directly across from the best piano player ever. Dad's face is awash in smiles and joy watching this sweet, big, Black man musician with the softest touch on the keys and a sweet attempt at a Nat King Cole voice, serranading the restaurant. We order fried calamari - they get devoured in a flash. We talk about my day at work, my upcoming auditions, Mom working at USC, tomorrow's inauguration, we toast to Bush's last night as president, and we sing and sway along to the classic jazz melodies -- all of which the lyrics are somehow ingrained in my Dad's brain - and he's openly singing and whistling along. I'm amazed. Well, not amazed, but more dumbfounded and dissapointed. How can a day in the life of David, be so bad - so extreme, so difficult, so dangerous, so painful, so sad, and then so so good and true to life, so full of spirit. How can one body handle such polar emotions in a span of 10 hours? I hate it. A night like this was out of a movie; seeing my parents squeezing hands, swaying over half-eaten plates of pasta, tears running down Mom's face as they sing along to "these foolish things." I didn't cry today until that moment - and even then it was just a couple tears. But it was pure wonderful.

We get in the car, and pull out of the parking lot. "that is a pleasant place." Dad says. "yep... it sure is." Mom and I agree.