Lifeboat

John Hodiak and Tallulah Bankhead on a lobby card

I'm thinking of the Alfred Hitchcock film now, a World War II propaganda piece that takes place all in—ready for it?—a lifeboat. It's the only film with Tallulah Bankhead that I can remember, and its characters are as two-dimensional as propaganda symbols need to be.

Not that it's bad writing: John Steinbeck wrote the script, though later tried to get 20th Century to remove his name, since they had distorted key characters and incidents to turn it into the palatable propaganda it is.

But if you look underneath the Nazi baiting and patriotic chest beating, it's also an intimate film about life: its values, virtues, vices, shortcomings and possibilities: As many layers of understanding in art as in life.

I had that experience this evening sitting in Steve's hospital room at Huntington Memorial, waiting to transfer him in the ambulance.

But let's back up and catch up on the zaniness of the week:

The broken hip was repaired in surgery on Sunday. I showed up and sat for four hours: seems the surgeon overslept or something, and the procedure didn't start on time.

I learned my lesson. Show up about 15 minutes before the surgery is expected to be completed: Sitting through the whole thing in the waiting room is maudlin and a waste if time: even if your loved one dies on the table, you're not going to hear about it right away.

No, its wisest to find out when they arrive in the recovery ward, then plan your entrance about two hours after. You'll still sit through hours of drugged snoring, and when your loved one comes to, they won't remember you were there, even if they hold an extended conversation with you.

On Monday, Natalie, who handles post-care arrangements, gave us four options:

1. Stay at the hospital while receiving physical therapy (but Medicare would not cover the $180 room cost);
2. Transfer to a local extended care facility that would provide the physical therapy needed (20 days covered by Medicare w/remaining stay at 20% copay;
3. Transfer to VA extended care in Long Beach; or
4. Return to home after installing adaptive devices.

No rush: we didn't have to make a decision for a day.

Surgery on the broken shoulder occurred on Tuesday. Fighting back the guilt, I timed my arrival for 3 p.m.: Still spent hours watching Steve sleep. At one point, his blood oxygen content monitor went off (very loudly) and he woke up, looking around the room as the nurse came in to fix it. He looked at her. She began firing questions at him:

"Do you know where you are?" she asked him. His eyes wobbled around, taking in the room. "No," he replied.

"Do you know what your name is?" His head bobbed a tad. "No," he said.

"Do you know who I am?" He looked at her with mild affront. "I have been taking care of you all week." His sniffed. "No."

"Do you know who that is over there?" she asked, pointing to me. Steve's gaze bobble-headed over in my direction. His eyes focused a bit and he smiled. "That's Mark," he said. "He's my husband." And with that he fell back asleep.

I was stunned to realize I penetrate that far into his psyche and his consciousness: He couldn't remember who he was, but looking at me brought him together, made him happy. The feeling is mutual. It brought tears to my eyes to realize how strong love is, the kinds of primal pathways it carves into our heads, and the spiritual, emotional and psychic strength it provides.

Wednesday, Steve was in great spirits, all things considered; the staff were telling him he would be discharged in the next day or two. We had decided on local extended care, since we can afford the copays, and six to eight weeks of round trips to visit him in Long Beach seem infeasible to me. Natalie found a bed in a facility just two blocks from the hospital.

Thursday and Friday Steve got more and more agitated: they kept changing the discharge dates; they were starting to talk about Saturday or Sunday instead.

On Friday morning, Physical Therapy got him out of bed and sitting up in a recliner. I visited about 2 p.m. He said as far as he knew, they were transferring him Saturday morning, so I told him I would put together a set of clothes, toiletries, etc., for his new digs and drop them by around 6:30 or 7:30. I said my good-byes and went home.

A not long after, Steve called to say they were moving him tonight, and he needed his stuff as soon as possible. Having just cleaned out a neglected cat litter box, I was not in a good mood to start with, and I snapped about it. Steve started crying and apologizing for what he's putting me through.

Hell, I'm the whiney baby ballerina man; I'm going through stuff, yeah, but Steve's the one who bears all the inevitability and suffering here. I'm just sharing a slice of it; interfacing with it, we would have said in the 1980s, but not having to own it.

I got the clothes and toiletries he requested together, put them in a shoulder bag and drove off to spend my last $8 on valet parking ($7 plus $1 tip; with the self-parking at $6, why not valet?).

I got up to Steve's room and sat down. There are so many people who come and go in the room, it's rather confusing; I'm sure even Steve didn't know who all of them were. In all that hubbub, that's when it happened:

While we were waiting for the ambulance to arrive (they take their time on non-emergency runs) I looked over at Steve and I realized who contented and fulfilled I was, sitting here with someone I really loved and just sharing the moment; all the incredible physical and emotional and spiritual layers of what has gone past, what is happening and what is yet to come.

I'm not even sure he was aware of what I was feeling; like I said, he's the one with the real troubles: I am Goofus to his Gallant as well as yin to his yang.

Very like Steve's room, except his is warmer,
sports green walls with white leaves

After several technical delays and remedies, the paramedics showed up to take Steve by ambulance the two blocks to the Californian-Pasadena. I arrived there first (since I had no paperwork before leaving, save giving the valet my card). In a few minutes the ambulance arrived, and we got Steve situated in his new bed. He has only one roommate (not a jolly-looking fellow, but perhaps friendly; it's hard to tell when people are really ill). We shall find out.

As for me and my days, the house is terribly lonely without Steve. I look around and remember a time when I still didn't feel quite at home here, before marriage was a possibility in our lives, when the cats still looked suspiciously at me, the longterm interloper in their domain.

Now one cat has died, replaced by a young female named Patty. The other cat is now old, and has actually chosen me over Steve as his favorite person. They both look at me nightly with an accusing gaze that says, "What have you done with him? Did you put him in a burlap bag and throw him off a bridge into the river? We heard that happens."

So while Steve contemplates six to eight weeks of physical therapy, I contemplate six to eight weeks alone in this house. I have work to keep me busy, but the thrill of absolute control of the remote wears off after a week or so. At least there's a timeline penciled in before us. Goal: getting Steve back home and mended.

And the saga continues…