but he’s got to get over it; it’s too important.
At the next break, I want to show him something about external heart massage. I talk him into getting down on the floor again.
‘Now look, Dad, while you’re doing mouth-to-mouth, you should also give external heart massage. This is to get the heart beating again. You have to push hard, once every second, right in the center of the chest.’
I lean over and begin pressing him with the heel of my hand on his sternum about half as hard as you should for effective heart stimulation, but hard enough so he gets the idea.
‘Hey, that hurts! That would really hurt a woman; you’d be hitting her right on the … in the … breasts.’
‘She wouldn’t feel anything, Dad, she’d be unconscious. It’s better having a few black-and-blue marks than being dead, isn’t it?’
He lifts himself up on one elbow.
‘She’d never let me do that, Johnny. She’d never let me hit her like that. I’ve never hit a woman in my life. I could never do that.’
‘You’d have to, Dad; it’d be a matter of life and death.’
The program’s on again; it’s about some smart dolphin, if you can believe it. Dad settles with a deep sigh into his rocker. He’s breathing hard and sneaks a look at me as if he’s narrowly escaped from a crazed sex maniac.
While he’s busy with the TV, I write out on cards, in big letters, the hospital phone numbers, the fire department, the nearest ambulance and Joan. I stick these cards on the wall over both phones, the one in the living room and the one in the bedroom. The big trouble is Dad never uses a phone. It’s hard even getting him to pick up a phone and hold it when someone else has called him. To be honest, I’ve never seen him dial a number. We didn’t have a phone when I lived at home. It’s only here in California they’ve had one. I hate phones myself, but Christ, in this world, spread out as it is, you can’t just ignore them.
So it’s going to be tough preparing Dad to dial a number, then get across an emergency message. I try reducing it to simplest terms. I tape the message over each of the phones. It says:
THIS IS A HEART ATTACK EMERGENCY. THE VICTIM IS UNCONSCIOUS. COME IMMEDIATELY. ADDRESS 10432 COLBY LANE, OFF OVERLAND AT PALMS.
I have Dad repeat this till he knows it by heart. We practice dialing Joan’s number with the phone on the hook till he can do it. Then I go into the bedroom and call Joan. I tell her Dad’s going to phone and practice his emergency-call routine. She says she’ll wait.
I put the phone down and go into the bathroom. When I come back into the living room, Dad’s watching dolphins again. I crumple onto the floor in front of him and lie there with my arms spread.
‘Now, Dad, I’m Mother and I’ve just had a heart attack. Call Joan and give her the message.’
He gets up and stands over me.
‘Are you all right, Johnny?’
‘Yes. Now do what we practiced.’
He drops to his knees and starts putting his hand behind my head, pulling away and back.
‘No, Dad. Call Joan first, give her the message.’
He struggles up and goes over to the phone. He dials without lifting the receiver.
‘Lift the receiver, Dad.’
He lifts it and holds it against his ear listening but now he isn’t dialing.
‘Dial, Dad.’
He has the receiver wrong way around, the wire coming out of his ear.
‘Turn it around, Dad.’
He turns the phone around on the table.
‘No, the receiver, Dad. Turn it so the wire comes out the mouth part.’
He pulls it away from his head, stares at it, then slowly turns it around. He smiles. Now he concentrates on the card tacked to the wall.
‘Remember, Dad. Call Joan, not the ambulance or the fire department or the hospital. Call Joan.’
‘Yeah, I got it, John, Joan.’
He begins dialing. He dials each number with great precision, keeping his finger in the hole to and fro. From the floor I can hear the phone ringing. Thank God, it’s Joan’s voice. I strain to listen. Dad’s holding the receiver two inches from his head.
‘Hello, Dad?’
‘Oh! Hi, Joan, how are you, nice to hear from you.’
I loud-whisper from the floor.
‘Give her the message.’
‘Here, Joan, Johnny wants to talk with you.’
He starts trying to pass the receiver down to me on the floor but the cord isn’t long enough.
‘No, Dad. Give her the message, remember, the message.’
‘Oh, yes. I remember. Joan? Johnny’s lying on the floor here, in front of me, and he says he’s Mother and he’s had a heart attack.’
I’m not sure at this point if he’s kidding. I get up and take the phone.
‘Hello, Joan; guess who.’
I can’t get a sensible word out of her. I’d been so involved with making my invincible plan work I hadn’t been seeing how funny it all is. I start laughing, too, and Dad’s sitting in the chair smiling. He’s glad to hear us laughing.
We practice this sociodrama till Dad has it down pat. I phone the ambulance company and ask if they’ll handle a dummy call. They’re cooperative and go along with it. Dad spends half an hour afterward opening the door, expecting an ambulance.
The next day he takes his usual hour making the bed. I peer in. He’s carefully smoothing out every wrinkle, crawling around on his knees, checking to see if the covers are hanging evenly on all sides. I try to show how he can just pull the covers up, tuck them under the pillows, pull the spread tight and smooth it all out. It’s one of those chenille bespreads with little white bumps in a swirling diamond pattern.
Dad’s worrying there are hidden folds in the sheet underneath. I’m building a Frankenstein monster. He’s only got two sheets, the electric blanket and the bedspread but it’s enough to occupy him for an hour.
I move along slowly with the heavy burlap sack hooked to my belt. Every foot length I push a hole in the moist earth with my staff, drop in a seed potato and stomp it down. It’s like sliding eggs under a brooding hen.
I give up. It keeps him happy and gives him something to do. I have more time for myself. I begin doing my yoga while he’s fooling with the bed. I’m already fitting into Mom’s routine.
Two years ago she saw me doing yoga and went into a whole drama about it being a heathen Hindu religion and I could be ex-communicated. She
