On Time
Go to the store go to the bank. Pay the utility and water bills before they’re late gas up the car. Unload the groceries turn on the heat. Remember to change over the kids’ insurance. Call the vet call the cell company to “upgrade and save money.” Make plans. Make money to make more plans. Diversify. Call the friend you’ve been meaning to call be relieved you can send a text, and get credit for trying, when she doesn’t pick up. Call your sister call your brother for their input. Plan to make more money. Consolidate.
The hallways at Pine Valley Health and Rehabilitation Center are white. PVC as the staff, and now you, have come to call it. Its disinfected smell you now recognize, and appreciate, as something of a disguise, a cover for continuous human emissions. Dad seems to be taking it well, “it” being his stay here, a transition. To what, no one’s saying. After the last fall in his apartment in independent living, followed by your series of doting attempts to get him to eat better, or at least to make sure he was getting down the hall to his meals, not to say taking his medications in proper doses, he landed in the hospital with a bout of pneumonia for the allotted three-day stay. Three days was not enough, but according to hospital policy, to insurance, your only option (a curious term as there was nothing optional about it). And now he has to be somewhere for another week or two, because you’re all afraid that if they release him to his old apartment, he’ll just sit and do nothing, might stop getting down the hall to meals. Might fall again. (I can’t be there all day, all three of you repeat like a Greek chorus—or for that matter all night, and what if?) It’s been three and a half weeks since he fell, since you’ve been holding your collective breath.
Just yesterday he said, again, “I don’t want to eat. I just want to die. What’s wrong with that?” He looked up at you quizzically, pale green oxygen tubes slung over his ears. Slipping from his nostrils. He really wants to know. We’ve been over this Dad, please. But you’re evading the question, and you don’t know, can’t say, what’s wrong with it, either.
He’d been lucky at that last fall, hadn’t broken anything. But he kept saying, to anyone who asked, “Sure was sore, though, and it’s slowed me down some more. That, I don’t need!” He added a chuckle and a merry wave. You admire Dad’s social ways, always have, and wonder how much of it might be his age, the bantering way of the best generation. Not that he’s always so upbeat. When you wheeled him in here four days ago, freshly released from the hospital, the hall bustled with staff—nurses and aides dressed in their lively patterns, lavender, pink, and turquoise scrubs. He looked up at the head nurse and said, this time without humor, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to be here long.” Your smile was tight. Theirs were warm, but practiced, and you wondered what they really thought. This is the first level, the skilled nursing wing, where people are “not so well off.” The day room is lined with wheelchairs, each dotted with a slumping gray head. The residents are curled, fetal, as if preparing to return from whence they came. Once you wheeled Dad into his room he said, “Good God, I’m not that bad off, am I?”
You’ve got to get him out of here.
Pick up the kids after work—on time—Patty from a friend’s house working on a science project, Michael from after-school care. Go to the grocery store again. Make pleasant small talk with the checker and the bagger, who both remember when the kids were this big. Gas up the car again and be appalled. Make a to-do list, but don’t remember some of it, things that have kept you up at night, things you must take care of but just haven’t. They only insinuate themselves when you’re trying to sleep. Wishing for it. Get home unpack the groceries just review this statement before you start dinner. Marcus, the big grey tiger, has both vomited and shat in the hall. And, the elongated “eeeww” from Patty tells you, also in the living room. Wonder why neither your brother nor your sister is as helpful as you’d like. Don’t know where to begin. The house needs: new carpet, new furniture, the toilet replaced (it leaks internally, costing who knows how much every month), a wall in the hallway repaired, new curtains, the holes in the yard filled (“before someone comes over—could be anyone, a kid from the neighborhood to play” your former husband said the last time he reminded you of everything you’ve left undone) to avoid a lawsuit. Call the vet back. Remember, again, to pay the damn bills.
Imagine Dad here (once you’ve cleaned up after Marcus). Remember how much you hate having Patty and Michael sharing a room, still. Remember that you can’t figure out a way to do it, to take Dad in. Your sister, Shannon, is the only possibility, but not really, since she works full-time, long days, just like you and Mark. Besides, she lives too far away, and you don’t want to drive two hours whenever you want to visit your dad. Anyway, you don’t really trust her to take the best care of him. If he could be alone all day, he could go back to his apartment. But that’s the newest news: he’s not going back to his apartment. Signs of dementia, the doctor said this morning; he’s “slid some,” and twenty-four-hour, live-in care is now the only option (there it is again). Your boss is annoyed that you keep taking time off for these appointments. Call your brother call your sister. The cost of live-in care is prohibitive, and insurance doesn’t cover that. Call independent living to give notice; plan to move all his things this weekend with the help of Mark and Shannon. Continue hoping for this help.
In only two weeks, Dad gets evaluated and okayed for a move up to assisted living. Great news, as it’s a little cheerier up here; fewer wheelchairs line the hallway, replaced by occasional walkers, and staff seem less visible, but there when you need them. This is improvement: forward, upward progress.
Your brother, Mark, is sitting with Dad in the day room watching a baseball game on the too-big, too-loud, flat-screen TV. “Hi,” you give a little wave near your waist. Dad says, “Well, where you been? Mom’s got dinner near ready and—” Mark puts a hand on Dad’s arm who then stops and says, “No?” Mark looks at you with meaning. You’re pretty sure, though not entirely, about that meaning. Then your eyes (both yours and Mark’s) roll around like pinballs and you summon yourself to ask whether he’s staying for lunch. Yes, and you ask whether he’s let them know at the front desk. He nods and gives you that blank look, maybe not so much blank as, so I forgot, can you not make it an issue? Keeping your voice even and non-threatening, “I’ll just make sure they’re planning on both of us.”
Dad’s assigned to a smaller dining room that offers “more care,” along with some others who need “a little more assistance for now.” The whole staff says things in the same way, a language specific to PVC and you wonder what a staff meeting, or training, is like. One of the residents (remember, they’re not patients) has come to dine with her nightgown on over her clothes and over her oxygen tubes. The nightgown is inside out. She needs some help to go back to her room and dress properly. Basic rule: if you can’t dress and get yourself to meals, maybe this level of enhanced-assisted care is not for you. Maybe you belong back downstairs.
Sam, who sits at the next table, has a bad battery in his hearing aid, so periodically it whines, at first softly, and at a pitch no one can quite identify, but everyone senses, and eventually, hears. Sam turns it down, but then can’t hear, turns it up a little at a time, and the slow whine begins again. One of the aides comes to help him turn it off for now. Lunch is spaghetti and soft meat loaf. The overcooked green beans have a few limp almonds in them to mitigate something, though you’re not sure what. It’s not bad, you and Mark both say, and repeat, until you get past the third bite and you can’t say it anymore, but you keep eating, just the same as you did when Patty and Michael were six and two and you worried about their growth percentile. You watch Dad, too, in the same way you used to watch them. He herds his food this way and that on his plate, has taken exactly three bites, pushes with shaky fingers at his oxygen tubes where they hover at his nostrils, takes a teetery drink of his milk, during which you privately celebrate the calcium intake, but you and Mark hold your breath, determined not to reach over and help him, hold the glass, feed him, tell him for God’s sake just eat!
The big wall clock says 12:45. You’ve been sitting here for an hour. Your to-do list begins to loom and you picture yourself stopping by the mall for sheets and socks and then One-Stop for school supplies. The science fair is nearly here. You remind yourself to stop at the vet for medication for Marcus.
Two aides have just served a vaguely coated tapioca pudding. Dad says, “I love tapioca!” and you settle into your chair. Try to be present, the therapist has told you. A new resident, who seems to have a lot of stories to tell, has joined Dad’s table just this week. Dad has introduced you both times you’ve dined with her. He starts to tell a story about a family vacation you all took and gets some of the basic details, such as when and where, wrong. Mark says, “But…” and you give him a meaningful look. Dad turns his head to look at him, and you’re impressed with the fire still in his eyes. Mark has to go and gives Dad a slight peck on the temple. Dad ignores him, clears his throat and says to the new woman, Virginia is her name, “Do you like to dance? Louise and me, we always loved dancing.” You forgot about that. He tried to teach you once. Virginia says she’s not much on dancing, but they loved to travel, and then she tells another story. At first you think maybe she and Dad could be friends, but they can’t hear each other very well and the repetition, on both sides, stalls in the details.
You help Dad, with his walker and oxygen, creep back down the hall to his room. He says, “What an old wreck I am. I feel like I’m back in the war,” and you reassure him. He stops and you bend to look into his face. “Do you want to rest?” He shakes his head, no. Nurse! But there aren’t any; this is assisted living, and you’d better not need too much help or it’s back downstairs for you, buddy.
Go to work at the insurance office where you push papers around, this one here, that one there, to be “processed.” Meaningless, though if you were to switch or misdirect those forms there’d be hell to pay, as your boss likes to say, and you imagine receiving a bill from Hell. Pay to the order of Satan. Remember you don’t have time to worry about whether or not you like this job. Suck it up and think of how much worse off people are. Go to the bank to manage Dad’s money; get enough in the account to pay PVC’s staggering bill. Wish you weren’t the eldest, the executor with power of attorney. Wait in line. Look up at the clock and wonder just what the chubby woman in front of you is doing. She doesn’t speak very good English, for one thing. Scold yourself for being petty and mean-spirited. Get through it and race to pick up kids from school get one to soccer and the other to piano and try not to seem as if you’re pushing them out of the car to be on time. Go to the gas station again and become resigned as you watch the digital numbers fly. Back to the grocery store further amazed at how much two kids can eat. At least they eat now. Make more plans to make more money.
Ground Patty for being caught truant. For being caught, or for being truant?
On Saturday morning, the kids dropped off at their dad’s, you walk into the PVC “skilled nursing facility” and into the time warp. Even the softly played music is slow. Dad has had to move back down here because of incontinence and once, wandering the hallway in the middle of the night. Nurses and aides move pleasantly and purposefully but never anxiously (do they train for that?) down the carpeted hallway.
You begin to recognize the residents. Edith smiles up at you as if you are a favorite niece, “Well, how nice to see you!” and you try to respond with some appropriate enthusiasm, short of delusion. Joe says, “Well, there she is. Is it nice out today?” You tell him it’s windy and a little chilly, hoping to imply that he’s not missing much, but he looks wistful. Most of the others don’t speak at all, even when the aides bend and speak loudly to them.
Dad is in his room and unfortunately, in his bed. It’s 11:00 a.m. and this makes you question, why do they let him just—? Try not to show it or scold him. Instead, say cheerfully, “Hey, you! Not up yet?” while you glide past the bed and to the window to open the curtains. His response is some kind of grunt and you look above his bed and wonder whether the framed photo of him fishing with Patty when she was five makes the room feel better or worse. The TV blares like a trumpet. You turn it down just as Dad’s roommate comes in, walking his wheelchair with his heels, crablike, saying, “Hey, I can’t hear that!” You turn to him, “Oh, hi, Larry. I’m sorry, it just seemed a little loud.” Repeat the whole exchange, on both sides, him first. Repeat again using different words; realize it doesn’t matter which ones you choose.
Under his comforter, Dad is fully dressed. Lean toward him, gently now. “Dad, let’s get you up a little. It’s beautiful out and we could go sit on the porch. How’s that?”
He looks startled. “I don’t know why I’m so tired. I was up to breakfast.” With great concentration, he gets his legs over the side of the bed and with your help eventually sits up. When he pulls on you, his hand is bones and paper in yours, and his body follows, a paper doll. He looks you in the eye again, still those same strong brown eyes, though filmy and a little watery now, “Do you know why I’m so tired?” You tell him you don’t, but it’s all right. Wonder when his shoulders got so narrow. Spend the next fifteen minutes on this process: help with his slip-on shoes, help him stand at the walker, get him to the bathroom. Smell urine when he comes out and try to see where on his clothes he may have gotten it, but you can’t, and then follow his pace, poking his walker, stork-like, down the hall to the porch. On the way down the hall he stops to look up at you and says, “I can’t hurry, you know.” Remind him there’s no need. Remind him we should look into one of those nice rolling walkers, don’t react when he waves that away. Again.
The desk nurse and an aide watch and smile as you inch past. They smile some more and say nice, encouraging, and empty things that have faded like old wallpaper. The desk is a landmark, an indicator that shows you are actually moving. The sense of waiting seems too much. Yours, theirs, his. You don’t know how you can keep doing this. But then you wonder how he does. Try to make small talk. Tell him about Patty with a sigh. Dad says, “You did it too, you know.” Then he tells you that grounding Patty sounds like something off their menu with a wry, sideways look. You giggle and remember his sense of humor.
From the glassed-in solarium, called “the porch,” you can see someone sitting in her car in the parking lot. She looks about your age. She leans her head on her steering wheel and cries. You look away and Dad is looking at you. Completely, sharply focused, your dad from years ago. “Claire, thank you for being such a wonderful daughter. And mother. I don’t see how you do it all.” You smile, swallow twice, and try to wave it away as you turn and look back out the window. After a little, he says, “Why am I still here?” You know he doesn’t mean PVC and you swallow again and say you don’t know. And that you guess no one knows. You ask if he’s uncomfortable and he chuckles, glances at you like you’re nuts, and then says, politely, “No.”
The doctor starts to talk about keeping him comfortable. New complications due to a shift in blood pressure (haven’t we already been through and treated this?). Decisions have to be made about additional, or fewer, medications, about which direction you’d all like to go. You think less is more, but you want to be sure you’re “doing all we can.” You, Mark, and Shannon decide in a long, teary conference call (Shannon’s the teary one, ever the baby), after a team meeting with the doctor and the staff, that Dad has to be moved once again. “Hospice” is jolting the first time you hear it, but you begin to tell yourself it’s just a word. Just sit with him. He knows you’re there. Stop his meds. Make arrangements. Make time. Plan to use the time better. Show him that you’re ready.
• • •
Stephanie Zappa has been writing since she got her first diary, at eight years old. A lovely thing with a pink floral cover and a lock with a real key, an important detail so she could keep it from her three nosy big sisters, though they never cared to see it. She continues in the spirit of journaling, with a wealth of autobiographical work she would otherwise not remember. She dabbles in auto-fiction, is working on her fifth (or sixth) novel (two of which are finished), and has retired from twenty-five years of teaching English in the Bay Area. Last fall, in 2024, she won a Fellowship with Writing X Writers for their Asilomar Retreat and earned Honorable Mention in the 2025 flash fiction contest. She has previously published in the Santa Barbara Review, Red Light Lit, and the San Franscisco Chronicle.