Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
It sits in the space next to mine, someone’s hot little brown car. I am told that it has been in the garage of my apartment building for two years and some change. It is covered in layer upon layer of dust and grime, but one can see that it was a sassy machine in its day—a Mazda sports coupe. Hot stuff. It has been waiting patiently for its owner to recover from whatever is keeping them apart, hoping for a wash, a jumpstart and a tune-up, so they can once again sail down the streets of Hollywood in style. I feel badly for the abandoned car and have long wondered about the owner.
Last week, I went down to the laundry room. (Yes, it is on the first floor, and yes, I hate that particular part about this place, but there were so many positives, I have made a reluctant peace with this situation.) There were two people there whom I did not recognize. They were busy filling all three of the machines available in the space. I tried not to frown or sigh or make evident my disappointment, but they must have sensed it.
“Sorry. We are doing laundry for our patient. We are from Hospice.” the woman said.
My heart sank. I have been through my share of hospice scenarios.
“Oh, no worries. You all do what you need to do. I can come back.”
When I decided it was time to set my dad up with hospice care, he was absolutely against it. He was certain that the personnel would arrive on day one, armed with killer narcotics, ready to put him down like an old dog.
“Dad, it doesn’t work that way. People can be in hospice for a long, long time. They offer care that we cannot get any other way in this town. There is no one here to hire, except hospice. They will just be here to help you out. You and Sara need some help.”
Sara, Dad’s wife, was furious about it. She was always pretty rough on me, but she became vicious. She did not want the intrusion; did not want what she felt would be scrutiny in her own home.
She needed help but would never admit it. My Dad was a huge fellow, not particularly fat, just huge. I often described him as looking like a refrigerator with feet. Helping him with the shower and other daily needs was too much for her to handle. I persisted with the arrangements, despite her angry protests.
“You have to trust me, Sara. They will be a Godsend.”
They were, in fact, a big help, and my dad adored them. It had been a long time since he had a pedicure. He was showered and shaven and felt as good as one can feel in his condition, which, though he was unsteady, was overall pretty damned good. He especially loved the registered nurse that oversaw his case. Her name was Meaghan, and she was fantastic. Even Sara eventually came around and was glad to see the caregivers when they visited.
Dad went along with his cancer diagnosis for a while, but then decided to reject it entirely, while very much appreciating the services that came with it.
“That was someone else’s blood work. It’s a mix-up. I am perfectly fine.”
“Dad. You’ve lost eighty pounds in the last few months.”
“Well, old people lose weight. You’ve all got this wrong. I don’t have cancer. Period.”
He was a character.
Before I left the laundry room, I wanted to ask the two hospice workers about the person in their care, but I did not. None of my business, really. Folks dealing with life or, in this case, death, have a right to their privacy.
It was only a few days later when items began appearing in the lobby. Someone had hastily scribbled on a piece of lined paper and taped it to one of the boxes. It read:
“FREE”
That first day, it was just a few things. Mostly a collection of vases of varying sizes and shapes. They had a distinctly feminine flair and sported swirls of pastel color and dainty patterns. Over the next few days, there was an avalanche of personal belongings. Too many for the lobby, so they were set on the street outside. A larger sign, now scrawled across cardboard paper, said again:
“FREE”
A tall lamp with a chipped shade, a table and chairs which seated four. The art was mostly posters from art shows and fairs of different kinds. She, it was definitely she, got around in that hot brown car of hers… saw lots of exhibits and frequented antique shops. From the looks of the sophisticated barware, she also threw her fair share of parties.
The sight of all her possessions caught in my throat. Her carefully curated belongings, which had once been arranged just so on the bookshelves, were now scattered on the lawn, and the bookshelves themselves rested along the low walls that line the sidewalk.
“FREE”
It’s just stuff. I know that, but it is also evidence—a testament to how a person conducted their life. When I left Austin, I brought only my artwork (which is a sizable collection), and my clothes, plus a few odds and ends. A gorgeous bench that I knew would look great in Jeff’s yard, a few treasured pots and pans. The rest was given away. Yes, I know I could have listed it on Facebook Marketplace or what have you, but I am not that person. We have pretty well established by now that I do not have a practical bone in my body. The pizza plates went to the family next door. The teens will use them on a regular basis. The woman who helped me with housekeeping got the place-settings and some of the glassware. I gave all the rest to pals, and it was a good feeling to leave bits of my life in the possession of folks that I love.
ONE MAN’S TREASURE.
The bad news for many of us is that most of the folks you love don’t want most of the stuff you own. That antique doll collection? Nah. The kids don’t want it. Nor do they have any appetite for Grandmother’s china, no matter that it is still intact, every piece accounted for. The prized collection of art books? They might take one or two. They have houses crowded with objects of their own curation.
There might be an estate sale, where strangers will set upon your prized goods with relish, asking if the price is negotiable. Some of your things will be got rid of that way, but much of it will one day, one way or another, be free for the taking. Goodwill may pick it up, or the kids may find another way to donate it. What do you care? You’ll be dead, and from what I can gather, there are not a lot of knick-knacks in the afterlife, so let it go.
I had hoped to see someone resurrect the hot brown car from its dormant state, but as of yet, she remains abandoned. I wish I were more of a driver; I’d offer to buy it just to see the poor thing washed and shined and gassed up.
Dad was in hospice for three years. They all got a kick out of him. He was awash in champagne and high hopes until the last. Much to their surprise, but with their generous assistance, I was able to soup up the wheelchair and take Pop on a few trips. We even flew to Los Angeles. Only in the last three months of his life did he finally agree to give up the ruse of being misdiagnosed. He was bedridden and forced into diapers, which he hated, but he still managed to hoist a glass of the good stuff on occasion. He had one possession that he cared about: his grand piano. He was a deeply talented and soulful musician. When he could no longer play, he got mad at the instrument as well as himself. He wanted rid of it, so in his second year of hospice he cajoled my sisters into transporting it down to their home. A happy ending for the beautiful thing that had brought him endless joy.
I talked to him for hours at a time on the phone. His mind was still sharp, though he had grown fuzzy on the details, and many times the conversation was a repeat of one we’d had before. He was a good patient. Having gone blind several years before, he had cultivated a profound level of patience. His nurse Meaghan called me after he passed. Said he cracked her up until the end.
“You know, Meaghan, I think this thing has finally caught up with me. Seems like it has.”
He winked at her. and just a few hours later, he died. After we cremated him, we offered his ashes to his wife, Sara.
“I don’t want that. It’s just a box of ashes. That’s not my husband.”
She had a point. The urn sits on my brother’s mantel, where it will rest until he goes on to the next plane of existence. Then it will just be a jar of ashes that someone will dispose of. It will just be part of some dead guy’s belongings.
We are all just borrowing these bodies and renting our time on this planet.
I like to think of my neighbor behind the wheel of her snazzy car. There was a time when they were both hot stuff. There was a time when Dad was too, a time when we all were. I like to think about that.
On we go …
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