9. Chapter 9 Staley
Chapter 9 Staley
D ad and I sit in his doctor’s office. AC/DC plays at a low roar overhead as the pink-haired receptionist drinks water from a bottle with a timeline printed up the side. From the looks of things, she’s about two hours behind in her water intake, which is never good.
Financially, we’re behind. First, it was Dad’s job; the human resources department called it a sabbatical leave. The leave turned into a We’re so sorry, but we think it’s time to allow you to pursue new career opportunities as if he could pursue anything other than being cared for by his college-aged daughter and a home nurse.
Dad was only forty-eight years old when the first signs of his early onset dementia arrived, too damn young. Tests, specialists, applying for disability—it’s all been impossible to navigate.
He is deteriorating.
In the earlier days, when little things slipped his mind and he’d drop words from conversations, we all brushed it off as a single dad, overworked, and underslept. Three years later, I am grateful for his ability still to put his feet on the floor of our home.
Theo opens his front door looking like six different kinds of bow-chicka-bow-wow is forever ingrained in my lady bank; a designated archive of things I find worthy of dropping my panties for—Luca Blue’s tracks live rent-free in my archive on a loop, and now so does a disheveled, grumbly, cold-shouldered Theodore Sullivan.
I swear my body came alive when Theo’s hand brushed against mine. The feeling wasn’t a natural disaster but wholly right and hot. As much of a bad idea as it is on paper to hope he’s secretly a nice guy who stands up for me as he did in class, his first impression when we were alone was lacking.
The door to the back of the office opens, and a smiling nurse scans the room.
“Mr. Monroe, the doctor is ready to see you now.”
Dad is compliant—a good headspace kind of day—and stands when his name is called. He pauses to stare at me to ensure I’ll go with him. My heart quivers a little at the gesture.
Don’t get your hopes up. The day ain’t over yet.
“I’m right behind you, Dad. Come on, Dr. Abbott is waiting for us.”
The nurse nods at me in pity. What is this life where I started belonging to no one and was lucky enough to get Russell Monroe as my dad, only to feel so alone again? There are some cousins, weird aunts, and uncles, but none are my home. I remind myself he’s still alive, even if it feels like he’s already gone.
The nurse settles us in a patient room.
“What time is it?”
Time checks are part of our daily routine, and Dad can be relied on to ask a few times a day. A clock can be right before him, and he will still ask. It’s a nervous tic to offload.
“It’s 9:30 a.m., Dad. We’re on time, don’t worry.” I say his name as often as I can because he won’t remember who I am to him before the day is over.
He pats his empty pants and rubs against the parchment paper on the clinic table so the paper crinkling is the only sound to fill the space. This is normal too. It’s like I’m watching the heat waves ripple off of a mirage; his energy is a hazy illusion with nowhere to go but out. All his thoughts—whatever they might be—are scrambled within; his body’s actions and movements tell me how he’s doing daily. He’s nervous despite having been in this room hundreds of times.
“Appointment?”
He stands upright and walks to the framed picture on the wall. Dad runs his finger along the edges of the watercolor fruits, tracing the limits of the citrus. He turns to me, his finger hovering over the picture, his face questioning.
“Limes, Dad. You like limes, remember? You and Noah used to drink Corona with lime wedges in them. You told me the citrus distracted you from the taste of the beer—which, if memory serves me correctly, you called bitter piss-water.”
He shakes his head, angered at my words or that we’re at the doctor’s office again. Anxiety is worry over things you can’t control, and my love for my dad is a living embodiment of my fear for him and us.
“No.”
“No, what?”
He retraces the fruit and sighs—and this leaves me deep in thought. I want to dig through his archive and search for the words no longer on the tip of his tongue. Long buried. I wish I knew what he was thinking. A growl leaves his lips as he slams his hand into the glass. Startled by his aggression, I let out a small cry. Blood trickles down the side of his hand where the glass cut into the meaty part of his skin. His eyes, the size of a child who realizes their owie is bad, lock with mine.
I press some paper towels into the wound and smile at him. My inclination is to calculate how much replacing a generic doctor’s office painting with a faux gold frame will cost.
“It’s okay. Dr. Abbott will fix you right up.”
A tiny whimper leaves his lips as he looks back at the painting. Blood paints the glass.
“Bergamot,” Dad says.
Dr. Abbott raps on the door, greeting us with a smile.
Sense memory floods me with the aroma of Theo. When I tackle-hugged him the first time, his scent gave me security with no basis as to why I accepted it. Dad’s clarity around the word bergamot strikes me as poignant. Aromatic memory has a chokehold on a long-forgotten reminder of my past, tucked away, not easy to find.
This is a slight intimation of what Dad goes through; for me, it’s a pesky feeling, one I know will leave me when I wake at three in the morning when the memory returns to me. When I’m anxious it’s easy for the brain fog, the constant searching for simple words, to roll over me—sickened by the feeling of knowing but not, I gather myself to interrogate Dr. Abbott.
“Mr. Monroe, it’s so good to see you. I got word from the hospital you took a fall this week. How’s your pain?”
Dad’s face is childlike. I chime in.
“Leslie brought him in; they said he’d need to follow up with his primary, and since it was time for me to bring him in anyway, I hope it’s alright to bring up some concerns I have while you check his collarbone.”
I continue while pointing at the bloodied tree. “And, well, he’ll need some stitches while we’re here too.”
Dr. Abbott scans the broken glass and moves to examine Dad’s hand. A sad sigh leaves the doctor’s mouth too, which he finishes off with a meager grin. I know this look. It’s one confirming I’m out of my league and drowning while on shift at my caretaking job. It’s impossible not to be desperately sad.
“This should take two or three stitches, Staley, nothing too critical. We can address your concerns while I sew him up.”
Do not calculate the going rate per stitch or how much the lidocaine costs.
Oh, God.
Avert your eyes. Don’t stare right at the needle as it enters Dad’s skin.
My head swims as my stomach clenches in on itself. The room’s brightness dims rapidly as my body slumps into my dad’s side. I come to as I hear a familiar voice calling my name in concern.
“Staley! Wake up, kiddo.”
“Dad?”
His smile is golden and reminiscent of the days he’d wake me from afternoon naps over the weekends. I’d fall asleep in a pile of my studies, listening to an audiobook. He’d wave a plate of food in front of me with a beaming grin. But this time, it’s not his voice but Dr. Abbott’s I’m hearing repeatedly.
Blood doesn’t bother me in the slightest, but needles, on the other hand. I’ve not discovered the trick to overcoming my aversion to seeing one go into another’s skin. Leslie teases me about how I’d never make it as a phlebotomist.
“Staley, sit up slowly, or you may pass out again.”
Dr. Abbott steadies me and calls the nurse to bring some cold juice. While I wait, he snips the stitch thread and bandages Dad’s hand up.
The citrus tree comes back into focus, clear and grounding. A clear breath and a few sips of apple juice calm my heart rate and get me steady on my feet again.
The nurse leads me to the chair, where the backs of my sweaty legs tack themselves to the plasticky vinyl. Dr. Abbott does some simple assessments and directs his attention back to me.
“So, aside from the clavicle break, which appears to be healing right on schedule, what’s coming up for you, Russell?”
Even though Dad is lost most of the time, the doctor centers all questions on him if he can answer independently.
“I’m worried—” Dad nods in my direction, and my heart cracks a little more.
“It’s okay, Russell. I’m sure Staley can help fill in some of the details.”
“The neighbor brought him home again. The confusion is still there. He only recognizes his nurse, Leslie. I’m surprised he knew my name today. What can we do? A different medicine?”
Dr. Abbott types some notes in as I speak, and all I feel sitting in his silence is complete and utter defeat.
“Keeping him on a regular schedule and patience. At some point, you’ll need to consider better—increased—home care or an inpatient facility where staff can watch over him and keep him safe twenty-four seven. There are some other medications we can try, but I can’t assure you his disposition will improve by much. And there’s the price, and I know you’ve mentioned money being an issue.”
His last comment is more a statement than a question. Dr. Abbott knows I’ve been fighting with disability for months now and how we’ve been paying out of pocket, unsuccessfully, for more services than I care to admit.
“I’ve been picking up extra work, so whatever he needs, I’ll find a way to pay for it.”
Dr. Abbott types up a prescription and signs it electronically.
“Russell, here’s some information on the medication I’m prescribing for you. Let me know if you have any questions.”
“Am I sick?”
This question propels me to his side. I embrace his arm and drop my head to his shoulder.
“It’s okay, Dad, we’ll take care of you.”
“Staley, here’s a number you can call to see if there’s a coupon you can apply. It’s a newer drug but has lauded excellent results in patients.”
The doctor says his goodbyes after he tells me when I should return to get the stitches removed. I can clip them out or have Leslie do it and save the money instead.
The dehydrated receptionist waves some paper at the two of us, probably regarding money.
Past due. Overdue. Due soon.
“We’ll catch up with you next time. My dad’s not feeling great.”
Leaving the office relieves me and gives me space to breathe. The prescription remains folded up in my hand. Hope isn’t a pain management plan, but I’ll try anything to make him better.