home is burning

It’s easy to treat a man with Lou Gehrig’s like he’s a baby. The two are similar in many ways. They both wear diapers. They both need to be fed. They both can’t talk. They both can’t walk. They both cry a lot, one because he or she needs something, the other because he or she has lost everything. They both can’t do anything if I molest them. But being treated like a baby can be demoralizing for a 55-year old man, especially if you dress him up as one and talk in that obnoxious baby voice all the time.

“How’s my wittle Bobby Marshall doing today? Does he need to be tickled? Maybe later I’ll push you around the wittle park in your wheelchair.”

But certain people actually have respect for others and will go out of the way to try to make a patient feel like they’re still an adult human. When my Dad was in the hospital after having his tracheostomy, Greg and I got a taste of this. We had just called our Dad’s diaper a diaper. The rough nurse on duty at the time—who probably hadn’t had her pussy even looked at in twelve years, probably got a cesarean section, not because she needed one but because her ObGyn didn’t want to look—caught us saying it and pulled us out into the hallway. 

“We don’t call them ‘diapers.’ Okay. He’s a 55-year old man not a fucking baby. Okay. We call them ‘briefs.’ Okay. Call them ‘briefs’ from now on. Okay. If I hear you call them ‘diapers’ I will force you to look at my pussy, which hasn’t been looked at in twelve fucking years. Okay?”

Greg and I both responded, “Okay.”

We can understand that we should treat my Father as if everything is normal, like he’s his old self, only confined to a hospital bed and a prisoner of his own body, but we thought calling the diaper a ‘brief’ was going a bit far. After the crusted old nurse left, we both looked at each other and smiled.

“Fucking bitch,” I said in Beavis’s voice.

“Yeah, what a fucking bitch,” giggled Greg as Butthead.

I mean, my Dad didn’t give a shit what we called it. If he had requested that we call if a ‘brief,’ then sure, we’d call it a fucking ‘brief.’ Anything for Daddy. Anything at all. But calling it a ‘brief’ wasn’t going to make him feel any better. It wasn’t going to rebuild the motor neurons that Lou Gehrig’s disease had destroyed. It wasn’t going to make the respirator unnecessary. It wasn’t going to prop him back up on his feet and send him off for his seventh marathon. It wasn’t going to reactivate his sex life. Well maybe.

“Fucking bitch.”

We started to have bit of fun with the whole diaper euphuism.

Me: Excuse me nurse. What do we do about this diaper rash? Is there a cream we can apply?

Nurse: [Starring me down like I had just slapped her across her cesarean section belly with the tip of my dick]

Me: Oh, excuse me. Is there a cream we can apply to his brief rash?  

Or.

Me: Hey Greg, do you think we should try spending a whole day in one of Dad’s diapers?

Greg: In one of his what?

Me: In one of his diapers.

Greg: Dad doesn’t have diapers he has briefs.

Or.

Greg: Grab that case of diapers.

Me: Don’t you mean ‘grab that briefcase?’

Or.

Me: Greg, Lee Jeans should make diapers and call them ‘Brief-Lee,’ like briefly. Do you get it Greg? Why aren’t you laughing? Oh fuck it. Just change Dad’s diaper and let’s get the fuck out of here.

My Dad’s neurologist, Dr. Bromberg, also got into the diaper naming game. Dr. Bromberg is furry man whose eyebrows like each other so much that they’re holding hands. If he wasn’t a neurologist he could be a professional beard grower, if such a thing exists. His breath suggests that he’s too busy for hygiene.

We were at a monthly check-up, the one where they come in and basically say, “Well, there’s really nothing we can do. You’re pretty much fucked because there is no cure for Lou Gehrig’s disease. Fuck, we don’t even know what causes it. Are you taking your Lexapro for depression? That’s about all we can give you. Oh, and morphine if it comes to that point where you just can’t stand it anymore. Anyways, have a great day. Oh, do you need validation for your handicap parking?”

We caught Dr. Bromberg at the end of the day on this visit, so he was worn down and ready to get home. My Mom and I were present. My Mom always cries throughout these appointments, but Dr. Bromberg is desensitized to all of the effects of Lou Gehrig’s disease, so he is able to talk about it with a medical slant instead of the emotional one my Mom applies. And I’m dead inside so I just sit there looking for funny things to report.

Debi: When’s he going to die?

Dr. Bromberg: Well, I will never say he’s going to die on this day or that day because the disease progresses at different rates with different people. It’s usually a good sign when the fasciculations begin in the upper motor neural region, your arms and shoulders, but it has gone after his lungs thus necessitating the respirator which is not good.

Debi: So, when’s he going to die?

Me: [With note pad] How do you spell fasciculations?

On this visit we were concerned with making the care-taking easier on us. We were waking up two to five times a night and the disease was starting to take a toll on us. They always say Lou Gehrig’s disease only needs to have one victim. That’s fucking impossible. Anyone who loves anyone with the disease is an indirect victim so fuck who ever said that. It was probably me. We weren’t getting the sleep we needed and we were consequently not physically able to provide the care my Dad needed. We were tired and agitated.

Bob: [Lipping the words, ‘you’re not shaving me correctly.’]

Me: [Throwing the razor into the pan of water] If you’re so fucking smart then why do you have Lou Gehrig’s disease?

The night before the appointment, his respirator alarm wouldn’t stop beeping, so I called it a ‘motherfucker’ and bare-knuckle punched it three times. My Dad woke up and told me to stop.

I turned to him, “If you’re so fucking smart then why do you have Lou Gehrig’s disease?”

Dr. Bromberg started suggesting solutions:

Suggestion: Well you can rotate every other night so one person can get a good night sleep.

Me: My mom has cancer and needs her rest too. All I have is a drinking problem.

Suggestion: You could move the last feeding to around 8 PM so he wouldn’t be getting up in the night to urinate.

Me: Let us do the fucking care taking. Oh wait. That’s actually a really good idea. [Running my finger across his uni-brow.] Thank you Dr. Bromberg.

Suggestion: What about a condom catheter so he doesn’t have to wake you to urinate throughout the night?

Me: Hahahaha. Do they really have those? My father’s hung like a circus freak, so he’ll need a Magnum condom catheter. Do they make those?

Dr. Bromberg: Yes, black people also get Lou Gehrig’s disease.

We took a few ideas from him and then he started asking about the bowel programs. I guess ‘bowel program’ is the medical term for when my Dad takes a shit. I always called it his shitting schedule because I like getting shit out of my mouth whenever possible. You wouldn’t think it because no one talks about it, but managing the pissing and shitting of a person who can’t move or feel parts of their body are one of the biggest care-taking responsibilities. I’d say at least 40%. Though embarrassing, a patient must push their dignity to the side and allow others to help them. We discussed.

Dr. Bromberg: [Like it’s some non-profit endeavor] How’s the bowel program going?

Debi: Fine. He shits at 8 PM ever night.

Dr. Bromberg: And that’s working?

Debi: Yes, he shits at 8 PM.

Dr. Bromberg: And is he still wearing an exclusive dressing?

Me: [Looking at my Mom, who also has no fucking idea what he’s talking about] A what?

Dr. Bromberg: An exclusive dressing.

Me: I’m sorry. We don’t know what that is.

Dr. Bromberg: An adult brief.

Me: Oh, a diaper. [Stretching my Dad’s sweatpants out so his diaper is visible to Dr. Bromberg] Yeah.

Debi: When’s he going to die?

An exclusive dressing.

I couldn’t believe it. It’s a fucking diaper. Let’s stop fucking around here. I mean, it’s nice that he was trying to protect my Dad’s dignity, but when he asked about his shitting schedule, dignity was lost. An exclusive dressing sounded more like something you would put on a salad with golden croutons. Not something you would call something used as a catcher’s mitt for shit.

I imagined a stuck-up family caring for someone with Lou Gehrig’s using the phrase.

Stuck up Mother: Alvin, would you mind changing your father’s exclusive dressing? I’ve got to be at the gallery by six. They’re naming another wing after us. 

Alvin: Not at all Mother. Let’s me just put my croquet racket in the rec. shed and I’ll be right up. Are you still keeping them below the Rembrandt?

Stuck up Mother: No, we moved the Rembrandt to the attic. I was getting bored of it. There’s an exclusive dressing pack to the left of the shark tank.

Alvin: I’m sorry, did you say shark tank or octopus tank.

Exclusive dressing.

I had to share this with Greg, so I rushed us out of the appointment. “Thank you Dr. Bromberg. I love your beard. Thanks for all you do. Blah, blah, blah.” 

We got home and I laid my father into his bed. He mouthed the words ‘thank you’. I usually reply, ‘I know. I’m fucking amazing,’ but there wasn’t time for that. We had morbid jokes to make.

I ran down the hall and pulled Greg out of nap to tell him about our new toy.

“Greg, Dr. Bromberg called Dad’s diaper an ‘exclusive dressing.’”

“That’s amazing. Let’s just hope he doesn’t get an ‘exclusive dressing’ rash,” Greg said, putting the ridiculous phrase into practice.

We laughed and slapped a high-five.

My Dad then rang his bell at the end of his bed, signaling that he needed us to help him with something. I walked over to the edge of his bed and asked him what he needed. I was having trouble reading his lips. Maybe I need to take Hooked on Phonics for lip reading. I deflated his cuff, which is a small balloon around his internal trach. that can be deflated so air can pass is vocal chords and allow him to talk. 

My Dad cleared his throat and formed a half-mass smile on his face before saying, “I need you to change my exclusive dressing. I just took a shit.” 

The second I heard that my Dad was getting a computer that talks for him my face lit up, my palms got sweaty, I smiled for the first time in years, my pussy got hard. The excitement wasn’t generated because the device, an ECO-14, would allow my father to speak to us and express ideas, cruise the Internet or play solitaire. No. No. No. I was excited because you could program phrases into the computer and it would say them back to you in a Stephen Hawking-esque voice. I always wanted to hear Stephen Hawking say, “Fuck my anus, you heavy-cocked whore,” and with the ECO, I could.

Him losing his voice was the next step in the Lou Gehrig’s grind. At this point, my Dad could still talk, but his breathing was so weak it was really difficult to understand him. He was spending most of his time on a his BiPap breathing machine. It was painful watching him get a sentence out and it was only going to get worse with the respirator lurking in the imminent future. So the ECO would become his voice.

“Fuck my anus, you heavy-cocked whore.”

The ECO is large and flat, like a worst-case scenario girlfriend. It has a touch screen, which proves useless teamed with my father’s inability to move his arms. He would need to navigate the ECO using an infrared sensor and a silver dot to be placed on his forehead as though he’s a futuristic Indian. The ECO website has this cheerful description for the device:

PRC’s new ECO-14 ushers in a new generation of augmentative and alternative communication (AAC) devices by combining advanced communicating and robust computing in a single device! This sleek, large-screened, and versatile device is an AAC aid and Windows® XP based computer rolled into one-allowing powerful, independent AAC communication plus convenient, state-of-the-art computing on the go.

I like the “computing on the go” part, like my Dad’s going to be bouncing along on the subway, double-espresso in his hand, needing to get an email back to corporate before his racquetball match with the chick he’s fucking on the side. All told, it cost $7,575, but my family is so fucking rich it was insulting that they didn’t charge more.

The ECO was a bit esoteric, whatever that means, and so my Dad, Greg and I took the device down to this geek named Scott. Scott knew everything there was to know about the ECO just like I knew everything there was to know about wiping my Dad’s ass. He was your prototypical nerd. Bacon breath. Glasses. Called computers ‘her’. A personality like a stale fart. Full of McAfee anti-virus jokes. Cum stains on his favorite puzzle, I bet. Way happier than I’ll ever be. But the fuck face knew his communication devices and was the only way we where going to learn how to get Stephen Hawking to call my mother a spic.

When we went my Dad was still walking. Breathing was the issue. He was getting lots of “Jesus Christ, that guy looks like he’s about to die” looks from strangers, except if they were Mormon because Mormon’s don’t do anything wrong like take that cock sucker Jesus’ name in vain. Utah is such a tragic backdrop for a tragedy.

“Fuck you strangers and open the God Damn door so my dying father can get through. Why don’t I open the door you ask? Because my father is dying and we ALL need to do what we can to help him as his weak body limps towards death,” I imagined saying.

The tricky part about taking my Dad anywhere back then was we could never stay long. He needed to be on his breathing machine most of the day. Plus, Greg and my dumb ass would always forget to bring things like extra Kleenex or a change of pants in case God sent us an angel in the form of a runny diarrhea shit.

We got in and asked for Scott. He was in the back training for the Doritos eating contest my imagination entered him in. They took us to a large room in the back of the building. Scott entered.

Scott: Hey Bob. [Reaching in to shake Bob’s hand but then remembering that he can’t move his arms and thus settles for a shoulder pat] You got the ECO -14 right?

Bob: [Nods head yes]

Scott: Great device.

Me: It cost $7,595, which is a small fortune for some families, but for us it’s but a crumb from the cookie for us.

Scott: Great. Let’s take a look at her.

Scott poked around the screen for a bit, cracking a couple antivirus jokes, before realizing that we had put the computer in the wrong mode. What dumb asses. He fixed it with a couple of touches to the screen and set it up so the alphabet appeared.

“That was easy,” said Scott. A booger hung from his left nostril.

We began playing with it. I started to type in “Greg is gay” but I stopped after the “Ga” and wrote “gathering for the winter” instead. Greg responded by starting to type “Dan is fat” but stopped after the “fa” and wrote “fantastic at basketball.”

In other words, we were learning how to fuck around with the thing.

But I wanted to get into the funnier things, things like changing the voice to a woman’s or a very deep-voiced black man. I pictured my Dad with Karl Malone’s voice and laughed.

“I wanted to be traded yesterday, but don’t today. I’ve done a complete 360,” said my Dad through the computer in Karl Malone’s voice.

We couldn’t fuck around though. We were here to learn and, as I mentioned before, we never know when a diarrhea will slide into the picture.

“How do we change the voice?” I asked.

This was replacing our Dad’s voice, so we tried to find one that sounded sort of, kind of like his own. That was really hard to do since they all sounded very computery. That’s right, I just made up a word. Fuck off. We finally found one called ‘Mike’ and picked that.

“Fuck my anus, you heavy-cocked whore,” Mike’s voice said in my head.

We also wanted to know how to preprogram buttons to say certain things so my Dad didn’t have to go through the arduous task of spelling everything one letter at a time.

“Oh, you mean quick hits,” said bull shit Scott. “Go into the toolbar here and push modify page then select the button on the page you wish to modify. And then you just type in whatever you want said. You can also change the icon using this picture option here and type in whatever you want it to say. Let’s try one. How about we do one that says, ‘Hello, my name is Bob Marshall’?”

“Stupid,” I thought. “Let’s do one that says, ‘fuck my anus, you heavy-cocked whore.’”

“Sure Scott, let’s try that one,” I actually said.

“Hello, my name is Bob Marshall,” said the ECO in Mike’s voice.

Perfect.

My Dad leaned in a notified me that he needed to go on the BiPap, that we needed to leave, that we could come back later maybe.

We got home. Greg put Dad down for a nap and then laid himself down for one. I went straight for the device to work on some amazing quick hits.

“Fuck my anus, you heavy-cocked whore,” said the ECO, finally letting me get that out of my system.

I started to think of practical things, things he would actually need to say, assuming that “fuck my anus, you heavy-cocked whore” was not one of them. I first programmed these:

–“I need to go to the bathroom.”

–“Can you move my arm?”

–“I need a nap. Can you help me with that?”

–“I need to go to bed.”

–“Leave me alone.”

–“Could you scratch my back.”

–“I’m hungry. Can you feed me?”

–“I need some water.”

I was bored out of my mind with bottom of the Marlow Hierarchy of Needs bull shit. I started to ease into the funnier, more risky ones.

–“The dogs are barking. Can you get them to shut up?”

–“Debi, can you please turn down the crazy.”

–“Please don’t smoke around me. My lung capacity is at 18 percent you inconsiderate asshole.”

–“Don’t look at me. I am not a monster.”

–“How am I doing? I have Lou Gehrig’s disease. How do you think I’m doing? Unbelievable.”

–“If you love me you would put three shots of gin into my feeding tube.”

–“There’s a knife downstairs. Please kill me.”

–“Please give me five dollars. I have Lou Gehrig’s disease and you can still do all the things you love.”

I also thought my Dad would probably want to thank me so I programmed a few ways he could do that.

–“Thanks for all your help Danny. You are the best thing that’s happened to this family.”

–“For the past two weeks you have been reading about the bad break I got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth, especially since Danny is my son.”

But fuck all of those. Those aren’t funny compared to anything sexual. Because sex is funny right? Boobs and tits and penises and vaginas and blowjobs and mouths and penetration and titty fucking and cream pies and cumming on faces and cumming on tits and accidentally farting during a blowjob and rim jobs. I continued to program.

–“Wow that was a great round of sex. Let me go on the BiPap machine for five minutes and we’ll do round two.”

–“Boy, I could use a blowjob.”

I placed a picture of a limp penis as the icon for the “blow job” button and a picture of a vagina for the “sex” button. But I didn’t want to turn this $7,575 device into a dirty talking, slut-fucker (is slut fucker hyphenated?) so I backed off after those two. Two was good enough. I had gotten my fix and I already had it say, “fuck my anus, you heavy-cocked whore.”

My Dad had finished his nap, so I brought him down to sit in the kitchen, the heart of our house. He sat at the head of the table. He was still the man of the house, the head of the pride. I started to go through all the quick hits with my Dad. “And this is if you need to go to the bathroom,” I said hitting the button to cue Mike’s voice. It didn’t take long before he noticed the limb penis dangling halfway down the screen.

Bob: [Pointing with his nose] What’s that one?

Me: Which one? I can’t tell what you’re pointing at because you’re pointing with your nose because you have Lou Gehrig’s disease and can’t move your arms.

Bob: [Taking a moment to clear his throat and muster up enough oxygen to blow past his vocal cords and thus create speech] The penis.

Me: [Smile inching onto face knowing that I was going to get some payoff for my labors] Oh, this little guy?

CLICK.

ECO: Boy, I could use a blowjob.

You can’t laugh when you have Lou Gehrig’s, it’s one of the rules, but you can call over your wife and tell her to listen to or watch something, a sign that that something is funny. He called for my Mom, who waddled over in a nightgown with a permanent frown on her face. I clicked again.

CLICK.

“Boy, I could use a blowjob.”

Her permanent frown flat-lined, her version of a smile, but when you’ve had cancer for 15 years, you can’t laugh, it’s one of the rules, but you can call over your daughter. My youngest sister Chelsea came over.

CLICK.

“Boy, I could use a blowjob.”

Chelsea is a laugher, sometimes so much so that you can’t even understand what’s she saying. She erupted with the reaction I was looking for and asked what a blowjob was. My other sister Michelle entered from the TV room and asked what was so funny.

CLICK.

“Boy, I could use a blowjob.”

She smiled, knowing exactly what a blowjob was, being a 17-year old who drinks. Greg walked downstairs, having just awakened from his nap. He wore a robe and looked like he was on a mission to get some tortilla bread into his body. I told him to listen up.

CLICK.

“Boy, I could us a blowjob.”

Tiffany entered and set her keys, coat and cell phone down on the kitchen counter, as she always does. A few recently fallen snowflakes sucked into her coat.

“Hey guys. What are you up to?” said Tiff.

The whole family was here, together again. The past few years had pulled us all apart. I had been living in Los Angeles working on my tan and cigarette addiction. Tiffany had moved out, was working two jobs and going to school for her MBA. Greg had been in Chicago finishing his journalism degree at Northwestern and had recently picked up a nap and tortilla bread addiction. Michelle had been alternating between getting drunk in our basement and getting drunk at the local, shitty amusement park Lagoon. Chelsea was wrapped up into the tenth grade and dance practice. It was hard to find a moment where we where all together. This was one of those moments. Sure, the circumstances were a bit different. We weren’t sitting on a Maui beach applying sunscreen and reading Dan Brown. But Dad was back at the head of the table, in the heart of the house, with his little, bald wife by his side, with his children resting their hands on his shoulders. We all took in the moment. I knew my father wanted to stand up and give a Lou Gehrig’s-esque speech.

“We have been through a lot over the years. We have recently encountered an unprecedented amount of bad luck that all decided to hit at once. Shit has piled up pretty deep. But we are all still here now and I want you to always be there for each other, to be part of one another’s lives, because when it comes down to it, family is all that you have, all that’s really important in life. I love you all very much and am so proud that you are my family.”

But there was no way he could rouse that from his weak body. The ECO was his new voice. It spoke for him. I clicked a phrase that I thought best summed up what he was thinking, what we were all thinking.

“Boy, I could use a blowjob.”

I took my little sister Chelsea skiing for her 17th birthday. On the way up the canyon, we had this short conversation:

Chelsea: God, I woke up at 6 AM.
Me: Oh, because of your birthday?
Chelsea: No, because I had a dream I was being murdered.

My little sister, Chelsea, recently told me with a mouth full of laughter that, upon closer inspection, she realized that some pretzels ended up in her shit. I asked her how she knew they were pretzels and she replied, “Because there were pretzels in my shit.”

It started as a typical Friday in our household. I woke up hung over with a boner. Everything smelled of cat piss. My Dad still had Lou Gehrig’s disease. My Mom was sleeping, waking only to down yogurts and ask silly questions like, “do you want dinner” at 11 in the morning. My sisters were M.I.A. My brother, Greg, was planning on either running on the treadmill or riding the stationary bike. Big fucking decisions to be made.

 The usual shit.

 After ingesting a whiff of cat piss smell, I decided I needed a break from the mess that was my life.

 But, free time was a hot commodity in our household. Between the moving of my Dad’s right arm and the moving of his left arm, there was little time to move our own arms, even in the clinched fist up/down genital area sense. Plus my Mom, fresh off of three chemotherapy treatments in the last 72 hours, was in no condition to do anything but eat yogurt and threaten to drive. But it was Friday, the day were young adults celebrate their youth by consuming alcohol and fantasizing about clashing genitals, or if you’re a Mormon you watch Adam Sandler movies and talk about going to sleep. I wanted to do the former, focused primarily on the consuming of alcohol part.

You: You said you were hung over. So you drank the night before?

Me: Yeah, but that was when I was alone in the basement, playing pinball against myself, only to realize how pathetic that was and thus started playing pool against myself.

You: Pathetic.

Me: I need a glass of water. I’m hung over.

Everything was running smoothly. Greg had finished with the treadmill, flipping the stationary bike off in the process. My mom was ten naps and 12 yogurts deep. My sisters were still M.I.A. My Dad had Lou Gehrig’s disease. I called friends. Plans were made. Alcohol would be consumed. Genitals would mostly likely not be clashed.

I laid my Dad down for an afternoon nap next to my Mom, who had fallen asleep with a yogurt and spoon in her hand. He was suppose to get a tracheotomy and go on a respirator on Tuesday, but his Mother’s funeral was on Saturday, so he wasn’t feeling up to life-altering surgery. He pushed it back one week. It was a big fight. My Mom as insistent that he get the surgery as soon as possible and was convinced that he was going to die if he didn’t. But my Dad didn’t want to do it. He was breathing fairly well and we recently purchased a suction machine to lap up all the snot dripping from his nose, so that wasn’t an issue. He was, however, spending more and more time of the Bi-Pap machine.

For those of you without a father with Lou Gehrig’s disease, a Bi-Pap machine is used to push more air into someone’s lungs. The Lou Gehrig’s disease had attacked my Dad’s diaphragm, so he wasn’t able to fill his lungs up with enough air without the assistance of the Bi-Pap. In fact, his lung capacity was down to 18%, meaning he was basically able to only use 18% of his lungs, meaning he needed to take five breaths of air to get a normal breath. Sorry for using the word meaning twice in that last sentence, but fuck you. My Dad has Lou Gehrig’s disease.

Anyways, nap time.

I was all ready for a great night. I’d start with a bit of wine and finish with a flurry of gin and tonics. Perfect night. As I was about to pour myself a glass of wine, my Dad rang his bell on the side of his bed.

I ran upstairs and pulled my Dad up from his nap. He didn’t look good. He was white as a Mormon. He was really struggling. The five breaths for every one was more like seven for one.

“I can’t Breathe,” gasped my Dad.

“Ok, well, I’m going to have a glass of wine. Ring if you need anything.”

He looked very serious so I stopped my fucking around for a minute, figuring the survival of my father was a touch more important than pounding wine, especially since I don’t even really like wine.

“Shit Dad, you ok? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

He didn’t answer. He was too focused on breathing, keeping himself alive. I walked over to my Mom, and tried to jostle the yogurt in her hand loose, a process that wakes her up 98% of the time. She jumped from the bed with energy I hadn’t seen out of her in years.

“Don’t touch my fucking yogurt.” She held her spoon like it was a pistol and looked more like John Wayne than a cancer patient.

“Dad isn’t breathing well. What should we do?” Of course I ask the cancer patient. “How about we get me some more yogurt,” I expected her to say. She walked over to my Dad, still placing a death grip on the yogurt.

Debi: Bob, are you ok?

Bob: [Rapid breathing, look of absolute fear in his eyes]

Debi: Fucking answer me. Just because you have Lou Gehrig’s disease doesn’t mean you can be an ass hole.

Bob: [Rapid breathing, look of absolute fear in his eyes]

 Me: Should we call his doctor? Mom, call Dr. Bromberg and figure out what we should do. Fuck, I really wanted to get drunk tonight.

 

I hooked my Dad back onto the Bi-Pap machine, sure that if we didn’t do something immediately the last words I would have said to him would have been about my fat ass getting drunk.

 

My Mom, still clutching the yogurt spoke, “I fucking told you ass holes that we should have done the surgery on Tuesday, but no one takes the cancer patient seriously.” She spooned a huge load of yogurt into her mouth as she sat on the edge of the bed, dropping a bit onto her sweatpants. She closed her eyes. “I fucking told you.”

 

“Mom, call Bromberg. Dad can’t breath. Jesus Christ.”

 

She opened her eyes, picked up the phone and slowly dialed the number. I heard her hang up the phone a couple of times, probably because she misdialed or something. She finally held the receiver to her ear.

Debi: Hi, we’re trying to get hold of Dr. Bromberg.  This is Bob.  

Pause. Receptionist says something.

Mom: [Eyes completely closed] No, this is Debi, his wife. Did I say Bob?

Pause. Receptionist says something.

Mom: Ok, so he’s in Africa?

Pause. Receptionist says something.

Mom: What part of Africa?

Me: Mom, give me the phone.  [Grabbing phone and turning to my Mom]  Which part of Africa?  Are you fucking kidding me? [Holding phone to ear]  Hello this is Robert’s son Daniel.  My father is having a lot of trouble breathing and may need to go in for an emergency tracheotomy. What should we do?

Receptionist: Well, just call 911 and they’ll take him up to the hospital. 

Me: Ok. Is Bromberg really in Africa or was that my Mom’s chemo talking?

Receptionist: He’s really in Africa.

Me: Oh, what part?

Of course. Why the fuck didn’t we just call 911? Instead we sat there like a couple of fucking idiots with yogurt spoons up our asses. So I called 911. I was amazed how calm the operator was. So smooth. So in control. So nonchalant. Probably fairly sexy. Who knows. I tried to match her calmness, but couldn’t. This is how I wish the conversation went.

Me: [Very jovial, very sexy, James Bond-like] Hello, my father has Lou Gehrig’s disease and can’t breathe.

Operator: [With a calm seductive voice] Ok, well I’m sorry to hear that. You’re so brave for calling. Would you like me to get an ambulance over there? They could rush him up to the hospital and save his life.

Me: Oh really? That would be so great. Man, you are such a sweet heart. I might be in love with you.

Operator: [Sexy laughter] What’s your address?

Me: 2393 E. Briarcreek Dr., just off of 45^th South.

Operator: That’s a nice neighborhood.

Me: Yeah, I know. We’re rich. We have a swimming pool, a hot tub, three pinball machines ($5,000 each), a tennis court, and two beautiful golden retrievers ($700 each).

Operator: Wow, that’s really impressive. I bet your cock is huge. I hope your Daddy’s ok. You are so brave and so strong and such a great person. I might be in love with you.

Me: Oh really? That would be so great. Listen, I’m going to get back to saving my Dad’s life. Can I call you sometime?

Operator: Sure. You know my number. [Getting especially sexy] It’s 9-1-1.

I wish it went like that. But it went more like this.

Me: [Frantic] My father, he can’t breathe. My God, what in the lord’s good name should we do?

Operator: I’ll send an ambulance over. What’s your address?

Me: My address. I don’t know. Fuck. My Dad can’t breathe and you’re asking me my address?

Operator: Yes. Someone will be there in two minutes. I just need your address.

Me: Shit, ok, it’s…a…2393 E. Briarcreek Dr., just off of 45^th South.

Operator: They’re on their way.

Me: [Hanging up phone] God, that woman was such a bitch.

Right after hanging up the phone, I heard the sirens. They were for real. They didn’t fuck around. I bet they didn’t make a joke about getting drunk or hesitate to spoon yogurt in their mouths. They understood the magnitude of the situation. It’s their jobs.

One fire truck, one ambulance, and some strange truck with the words “Utah Unified Fire Department” showed up. All of our bored Mormon neighbors also showed up for the show my Dad was starring in. One small boy, probably eight or nine, kept casual riding by on his Razor scooter like he was just strolling around, enjoying the sunlight instead of there to possibly watch a corpse exit the front door. Fucking Mormons. So bored all the time.

Four paramedics came up into my Dad and Mom’s room. They began asking a series of questions, from simple to complex.

Q. What’s his name?

Wish I Said: Bob Marshall. Middle name Wendell after his father who shot himself in the head with a sawed off shotgun when I was in the fifth grade. That was also a Friday and also fucked up my weekend plans.

Really Said: Bob.

Q. How old is he?

Wish I Said: Only 55. Can you believe that? He should be out enjoying the world, drinking wine in France and compiling a reading list for when he retires. But instead he’s a prisoner of his own body, not able to do the things he loves. Ski. Running. Swimming. Visiting friends. Holding conversations without people having to say “what” every two seconds. Lou Gehrig’s disease can go fuck itself.

Really Said: 55, I think.

Q. Is he on any medication?

Wish I Said: Fuck if I know. What the fuck do I look like, some sort of pharmacist fag? I think just Miralax for shitting.

Really Said: Miralax for shitting.

Q. Does he have heart problems?

Wish I Said: Nope, he’s really lucky in that area. He’s actually a really healthy man, minus the Lou Gehrig’s which has blessed him with the inability to push that crucial element we so casually refer to as oxygen in and out of his body.

Really Said: No.

Q. Why didn’t you call sooner?

Wish I Said: Because we’re a bunch of slap-dick, ass hole fuckers who don’t know how to care for another human beings. Fuck, we don’t even know how to care for ourselves. I smoke sometimes, for example. Can you believe that? My Mom has cancer and my Dad can’t fucking breathe and here I am smoking.

Really Said: We called as soon as we realized he was having breathing difficulty.

Q. Do you think we should intubate him?

Wish I Said: What the fuck does that mean? You fucking paramedics with your fancy words and your fancy questions. You put the “dic” in paramedic.

Really Said: I’m not sure what intubate means.

They were good, very professional and all contained more masculinity in their left pinkies that I did in my whole body. One of them focused on taking my Dad’s vitals (oxygen level, blood pressure, pulse, other shit I don’t know about). One guy asked me the aforementioned questions. One guy was on his walkie talkie. And one guy roamed around the room looking at photos, not really doing anything, saying things like “Nice house.” He was no help. I bet the others hated working with him. He kept asking the others questions. He also used the word ‘bro’ a lot, like he was sitting around a bong waiting for next on Tony Hawk. He would say things like:

“Did you take his pulse bro?”

“Did you activate his oxygen bro?”

“Bro, should we run him up to the University of Utah, or would St. Mark’s be the better choice?”

[To me] “Where was this picture taken bro? Looks like Hawaii.”

My Mom sat there with her yogurt. “I told you fuckers he needed it on Tuesday. And now he’s going to die.”

Because my Dad’s vitals were very low, they decided that a run to the hospital was the only thing that could keep him alive, bro. We had an elevator ($45,000) being build, but it wasn’t in yet. We need to take the stairs.

“Grab the transfer chair bro. We’re going to have to carry him out of here.”

They got the transfer chair and lifted my Dad onto it.

“One, Two, Three, Bro”

They carried him out with ease and kept asking if he needed to be intubated. I learned that intubation was a process by which a breathing tube would be jammed down his throat into his lungs, what I would imagine being a painful process unless you were some sort of deep throat champion, which my father wasn’t, I assumed.

“You want to be intubated bro?” asked the casual medic.

“Fuck off and get me to the hospital, bro,” I imagined my father saying. But he couldn’t talk. He could only focus on breathing, not shitting himself, and enjoying the last moments he would spend in his dream home without a respirator breathing for him.

Some how in the mayhem of it all, I ended up in the ambulance with my Dad. The neighbors swarmed. “Is he ok?” asked one.

“He has fucking Lou fucking Gehrig’s fucking disease and he fucking can’t fucking breathe so we’re fucking taking him to the fucking hospital, you fucking fuck fuck,” I wanted to say.

The kid scooted by on his Razor. “I’m just enjoying the sunlight,” I imagined the little faggot thinking.

We settled into the ambulance. It was actually quite cozy. I mean, I wouldn’t throw a sleepover party in there, but I could certainly nap in the fucker. I sat holding my Dad’s hand, asking him every five seconds or so if he needed anything and was ok. As we were sitting, I looked over at the medic that said “bro” a bunch. He was drawing doodles on his latex glove, like he was a bored fourth-grader sitting in science class. I guess the whole, “my father is dying” thing didn’t really peek his interest.

“Bro, the 45^th South Bridge is closed. You got to take 39^th.”

An ambulance is a pretty slick way of getting around town. Everyone pulls over for you and lets you zoom by. It’s like being royalty. One car, however, decided that they would follow us, saw the ambulance as a way of beating the thick Salt Lake City traffic. The “Bro” Bro took notice. He hit one of the other paramedics on the arm, “Bro, check out this ass hole.”

The ride took only about ten minutes. I was thankful the “Bro” dude didn’t ask to stop at Wendy’s so he could raid the dollar menu, bro. When we arrived at the hospital, two of the medics picked my Dad up and carried him into the hospital’s emergency room.

Safe and sound. His life was now in the hands of professionals.

I hopped out of the back and figured it was time to start making phone calls to family members and cancel plans with friends. No drinking for Danny tonight. Tonight would be the first of many spent at a hospital praying to the God that doesn’t exist that my father would live another day, Bro.

My sister Tiffany and I hadn’t been getting along, so I decided it would be a nice gesture to call her first.

Me: [Very gleeful] Dad’s in the hospital.

Tiffany: No shit.

Me: Whoa, you don’t have to be a fucking bitch.

Tiffany: I’m not, but I fucking know when my Dad’s in the hospital. Greg called.

Me: Sorry.

Tiffany: Well, I’m coming up. Do you want anything from Starbucks?

Me: Coffee drinks give me diarrhea.

Tiffany: So do you want anything?

Me: I’ll have a non-fat vanilla latte.

I hung up with Tiffany and looked over at the ambulance. The “Bro” guy leaned against the side working on a text message or something. I walked over to him, deciding it was finally time to chitchat.

Me: What’s up man?

Bro Dude: Not much, just chilling.

Me: Well, thanks for helping save my Dad’s life.

Bro Dude: It was my pleasure. I was glad to help, bro.  

My brother, Greg, and I were never very competitive. We each picked the things we were good at and stayed off each other’s turf. For him it was theater, drama, debate, The Wizard of OZ and being gay. For me, it was basketball, tennis, collecting Pez, rooting for the Jazz, and not being gay.

But for some reason when I came back from Los Angeles, Greg and I got really competitive when it came to caring for and loving my Dad. I think it was because he was initially so much better at it than me. He knew how to put my Dad’s breathing device, the Bi-Level Positive Air Pressure (BiPAP) machine, on him. He knew how to feed him through the g-tube implanted in his stomach. He was better at understanding his speech. When we would meet with my Dad’s neurologist, Dr. Bromberg, my Mom and Dad would both acknowledge him as the primary care giver.  

I was only good at making jokes to my Dad about how I hoped the Lou Gehrig’s disease didn’t effected his cock. Or I’d make dark suggestions like, “Hey, we should call the BiPAP machine the ‘Bye-Pop’ machine” or “Hey, let’s do a round of high-fives. Oh wait, you can’t move your arms” or “Hey, let’s throw you into our pool’s deep end and watch you try to swim. I’ll film it and put it on youtube.” or “Hey, I was in Terminal 2 of the airport today and I thought of you and Mom.”

But everything was too real for anything to be funny. My Dad would usually respond by saying, “Could you wipe my nose” or “Could you get Greg. I want to go on the BiPap for a few minutes.”

“Don’t you mean the Bye-POP,” I would say with a smirk.

“Hurry up. I can’t breath,” he would say back.

I didn’t really mind that Greg was better at caring for my Dad than I was, but still, fuck that. I expressed my slight rage by saying, “Fuck that. I can care for this shithead way better than your gay ass” as I gestured towards my Dad. I didn’t really start actively competing against Greg until he started referring to himself as the ‘Primary Care Giver.’ “Fuck that,” I thought again. He shortened it to PCG. “Fuck that,” I thought again. I started engaging in mean dialogue:

Me: Do you wipe Dad’s ass?

Greg: No, Mom does. He doesn’t like me to. 

Me: Because you’re gay?

Greg. Why do you think everything that happens or doesn’t happen is because of my sexuality?

Me: I don’t. I was just thinking maybe Dad wouldn’t want a faggot wiping his ass.

Greg: You’re an ass hole.

Me: I am what you eat.

Greg: Well I’m the PCG.

Mean. Cold-hearted. Unnecessary.

The competition began.

I upped my care giving abilities. I wanted to be the PCG. I learned how to run the Bi-Pap machine, and started calling it by the right name. I even went as far as googling the mother fucker, becoming the first 25-year old that’s to do that shit. I mastered the feedings. During those I would ask, “Man, it sure it nice having me feed you instead of Greg isn’t it.”

At the time, my Dad had a doorbell by the side of his bed so when he needed something at night he could ring it. Greg would always respond to these rings. I started to respond faster. Greg would still enter the room, but I’ll tell him to go back to bed, that I was handling it, that I loved our father much more than him.

We started competing on every level.

Greg: [Wiping my Dad’s lips] Daddy you don’t like it when Danny wipes your lips do you? He’s so rough.

Me: [Grabbing a tissue and wiping his lips] Daddy you don’t like it when Greg wipes your lips do you? He’s so gay.

And

Greg: Here Dad, let me massage your shoulders. [Begins rubbing them] Doesn’t that feel good?

Me: [Standing up] I bet your shoulders don’t hurt as much as your lower back. [Begins rubbing lower back] Doesn’t that feel good?

And

Greg: Dad I love you. [Leans in and kisses his cheek.]

Me: Dad I love you too. [Leans in and kisses lips.]

I started learning everything there was to know about the disease.

Me: [Noticing that Greg was close enough to hear] Oh Dad, did you hear that an Italian study with 44 ASL patients found that lithium slows the progression of ALS? Can you believe that? Lithium. Wow.

Bob: Could you wipe my nose?

Me: [Making sure Greg was watching] I would love to.

We were dueling pianists. Bird vs. Magic. Yankees vs. Red Sox. Clinton vs. Obama. Federer vs. Nadal. Coke vs. Pepsi. Shoes vs. sandals. Youporn vs. Redtube.

Because we were trying so hard, my Dad was getting incredible care, but Greg and I were in a dead heat.

Me: Between Greg and I, who do you think takes better care of you?

Dad: Both.

Greg: Really Dad? I’m the PCG.

Dad: Could you wipe my nose?

Me: [Scowling at Greg] I would fucking love to.

I needed something. An advantage. Some way of pushing ahead and becoming the PCG. So I started wiping my Dad’s ass, but that didn’t work well because, upon first whiff of the shit, I would begin dry-heaving and sometimes even vomit. It would end with me apologizing to my Dad.

“It’s not you, it’s me. I’m going to get Mom…Fuck I’m going to puke.”

I learned how to adjust the settings on the Bi-PAP machine, but that ended with my Dad suggesting that maybe a respiratory nurse should be doing something that complex instead of an unemployed, pot-bellied, fart machine who hasn’t been laid in months, who spends his free time playing pinball and questioning whether or not he looks thinner with or without a beard.

I dedicated myself to enhancing my Dad’s quality of life. I would take him up one of the local canyons, pasted all the changing leaves and waterfalls. But a higher altitude isn’t the right place for a man with breathing problems. This was like smoking in front of my Dad. A real stupid move fucking pot-bellied Danny.

I didn’t know what to do, so I did what every beaten down, out of luck white man does: I wrote a rap. Sure, some critics suggest that a white man shouldn’t write a rap. They also suggest that a white man use the N-word with such frequency and passion, and that I rhyme the word ‘me’ with something other than ‘me,’ but fuck the critics. Fuck them hard. I think it turned out great.

The Rap:

[Warning: includes the N-word eight times]

 I wake up in the morning tired as can be

I look at my dick and I’ve got morning woody.

 

But I don’t have the time to rub one out

Because providing primary care is what I’m about.

 

My Dad has Lou Gehrig’s disease

And I’ll help him. He don’t even need to say please.

 

If he wants his pants pulled down,

Nigga, I do that shit without a frown.

 

If he needs some food,

I’ll take care of it and even grab his boob.

Because…

 I’m the PCG, nigga that’s me.

I’m the PCG. Don’t mess with me.

 

If my Dad wants a cup of water

I’ll get him that shit, even dressed as Harry Potter.

 

Let’s say my Dad wants to watch TV,

I’ll say, ‘shit nigga, that’s fine with me.’

 

Lets say my Dad just took a shit,

I’ll wipe his ass without throwing a fit.

Because…

I’m the PCG, nigga that’s me.

I’m the PCG. Don’t mess with me.

 

We needed more help so we brought in Regina.

But she doesn’t understand how to work the machina.

 

But even though I used to be a chronic masturbator,

I know everything there is to know about the respirator.

 

Oh no, it’s time for a feeding,

I’ll be doing anything you be needing.

 

Oh no, you need to be dressed and you need a shower.

I don’t mind, not even if it takes an hour.

Because…

I’m the PCG, nigga that’s me.

I’m the PCG. Don’t mess with me.

 

The list of tasks be growin

(Wipe his ass, brush his teeth, change his diaper)

But my care giving ain’t be slowing.

 

What that you say? I’m a pussy

Nigga you don’t know me. Nigga you can’t show me…

 

How to hook up the BiPAP machine,

And then make it all clean.

 

Because you ain’t the PCG,

NIGGA THAT’S ME.

End.

The rap was a hit and led my sister, Tiffany, to say without laughing once, “It was funny. You did use the N-word quite a bit though.” My Dad loved it and said, “Wipe my nose.” My Mom thought it was funny and asked who Hairy Potter was while eating her third yogurt of the hour.

I was expecting Greg to write a counter rap, maybe start a little 2-Pac vs. Notorious B.I.G. cross the hallway rivalry, but Greg didn’t write a rap. In fact, Greg went out and got a job, leaving me to hog up all the Dad Duty’s.

Silly Greg.

The crown was mine.

I’m the PCG.

We would go to doctor’s appointments with my Dad. Dr. Bromberg would ask who the primary care giver was. I would raise my hand. “I’m the PCG. You want to hear my rap.”

But the game was over. Greg wasn’t around to rub it in. It was sad. I started to really miss Greg. The competition was all in good fun and it was always nice to have someone besides myself laugh at my cock jokes. I loved the fucker. 

Late one night when I was listening for the ring of the bell, Greg and I ended up in the kitchen together.

Me: How’s it going?

Greg: Good.

Me: The new job’s going well?

Greg: Yeah.

Me: Listen Greg, Dad and I really miss you.

Greg: Really?

Me: Nope, you fucking faggot. 

A cocksucker, who shall go unnamed (Robert Cooper), owes my parents some money. Both my Mom and Dad have tried to approach Robert to put him on a collection plan. As you can see, their approaches differ quite significantly. The first is my Dad’s and the second my Mom’s.

 

—

 

Greetings, 

 

I know that this loan continues to be a difficult issue for all of us. With my recent diagnosis of ALS it is really important to me to try to clean up this problem. Do you see anyway of getting this paid off? Would it be helpful to sit down and talk about this?

 

Let me know what I can do. 

 

Thanks,

Bob

 

— 

 

Robert,

I’m tired of fucking around. Pay up now.

 

Debi

 

On the first Tuesday of every month the Muscle Dystrophy Association (MDA) holds an ALS support group meeting. The meetings last about two hours and bring together a variety of people affected by the disease in one-way or another. Either they have it, are with someone who has it, or lost someone who had it.  Snacks are included. Pizza. Cake. Sprite. Capri Suns. Remember those?

Those with ALS look at each other either as warning signs for how bad it could get or as reminders of how much they themselves have lost. It’s one of the few places my Dad can go and say, “At least I’m not as bad as that fuck,” but he usually doesn’t swear despite the fact that when someone with ALS swears it’s 47% funnier than when the average Joe does it. I always encourage my Dad to swear and at times act like his trainer.

Me: Can you say Fucking?

Dad: Fucking.

Me: Can you say Shithead?

Dad: Shithead.

Me: Can you say Lou Gehrig’s disease is a Fucking shithead?

Those accompanying the person with ALS usually look tired and have more to say than the two hours will a lot. Bags are under their eyes. Shoulders slumped. Haven’t fucked for months, maybe years. These are the people that really go for the free Capri Suns and pizza provided by the MDA’s scrawny budget. They throw caution to the wind. “Fuck it,” they think as they try to stab the straw in that tiny little hole that the makers of Capri Sun put on top of the juice pouch in an effort to completely fuck with society and God.

Those who had already lost someone look like they’ve had the wind knocked out of them. Like they’re still mad at God. Like they are trying to get rid of a wheelchair accessible van or commode.  I usually ask, “Oh, so you’re personally not using the commode?” to which they usually reply, “I’m going to go refill my Sprite.”  I then usually drop some confusing play-on-words like, “It’s your Sprite of passage” or “You got to fight for your Sprite to party.”  These people can be fucked with because they’re in better shape than the rest of the group.  They laugh more, smile more, say the phrase “Believe me, I know” more. They are limbless Vietnam vets with Sprites in their hands.  

The topics are as depressing as the crowd. One month, owners of a funeral home came to explain how everyone could save a shitload of money if they prepaid for their funeral, picked out a coffin in advance. Honestly. During this meeting, I was tempted to squirt my Capri Sun at the ass holes, but was unwilling to part with fruity greatness that is Capri Sun. Plus, it took me twenty minutes to get that fucking straw in. I kept looking at my Dad with a this-is-bull-shit expression on my face. “We helped a woman save over three thousand dollars,” said one of the ass holes.

I always dread these meetings because they don’t really make me feel better. They just make me think, “Oh, God fucked another hand-basket full of good people. Awesome. Thanks man (or black woman). Oh, and thanks for letting O.J. get away with murder. That was sure nice of you. Oh, and thanks for letting that cunt Zach Efron have such a great career and have a girlfriend willing to send him nude photos that later get posted on the Internet (http://www.popcrunch.com/vanessa-hudgens-nude/). Thanks. Oh, and thanks for making sure the Utah Jazz never win a championship, you know, for my father’s sake.” But unfortunately my Dad really likes attending these meetings. When asked if he wants to go, he usually mouths the words, “I’d like to go.” These people are his friends, and though most of them struggle to talk, they really understand each other.

Random insert: Sometimes I encourage my Father to call up Carlos Boozer and demand that he hits two homeruns during his next basketball game.

We’re back:

I always try to discourage my Dad from going to the support group meetings, for selfish reasons, of course. I say things like, “You don’t want to go to that stupid-ass support group meeting do you?” or after meetings I’ll say things like, “Wow, another flop. You’d think they would talk about more relevant things. The MDA fucked it up again.” If that wouldn’t work I would usually misread his lips.

Me: You don’t want to go to that stupid ass support group meeting do you?

Dad: [Mouthing the words “I’d like to go.”]

Me: What? You want to have brunch with Karl Malone?

Dad: [Shakes head, mouths the words, “I want to go to the meeting.”]

Me: You want to go to the beating?

Dad: [Mouths word “Meeting”]

Me: Meeting? You don’t want to go to that stupid ass shit. Remember what a flop the last one was? The MDA will fuck it up again.

I’ll finally give in and we’ll head off to the meeting. My brother, Greg, usually comes along and sometimes my Mom. Greg dislikes the meetings as much as I do, but it’s incredibly helpful to have him along to laugh at my jokes and occasionally grab me a Capri Sun when necessary. When I go and my Mom doesn’t I usually say, “Oh, that crazy bitch?” when people ask me how she’s doing. “She’s doing well. Bat-shit crazy though.” The people will wonder why I would talk so disparagingly about my mother and why I’m always using the phrase “Bat-shit crazy” to describe her. On this occasion, my brother and mom both decided to come along.

In addition to the anti-depressants, the ALS support group meeting requires that we make my Dad’s respirator portable (Definition: able to be ported), load him into a wheelchair accessible van (Definition: Ugly. Blue. Terrifying to drive and look at.), and bring the following items:

–One spare diaper

–One spare change of pants in case the diaper and the aforementioned spare diaper don’t do their jobs

–One urinal

–One joke about the urinal being some sort of sick cocktail mixer

–One back-up respirator battery

–Wipes

–An Ambu bag to be used if something goes wrong with his vent

–The phrase “Bat-Shit Crazy”

–Suction machine

–Water

–Something to write with

–Pocket full of pretzels

As we started readying my Dad for this adventure, Greg and I pledged that this would be the best ALS support group meeting ever and that we would use the phrase “Those Cunts at the MDA” as much as possible. We found the phrase to be hilarious because we figured no one else in the history of history had used the word “Cunt” in the same sentence as the organization responsible for assisting patients with muscle disorders such as ALS and MS. They, in fact, were responsible for getting us the wheelchair and the van (Definition: Ugly. Blue. Terrifying to drive and look at.) we would be using to get to the meeting, but to us they were “those Cunts at the MDA.”

We got my Dad from his bed into the elevator with no problem and only said, “those cunts at the MDA” three times, once when we got my Dad into the chair, once when we accidentally drove the chair straight into the wall, brandishing it with a sizable dent, and once to celebrate comedy.

After a short elevator ride down to the garage level, we pulled my Dad’s chair onto the driveway and next to the wheelchair accessible van (Ugly. Blue. Terrifying to drive and look at.) The van is a 89 Blue Ford Shit Hole and it drives like a horror movie, but it has an electronic lift in it, and, given that my Dad’s chair weights 450 LBS. and he has 130 LBS. of Lou Gehrig’s disease, it’s the only way we can get him around town. We got to the van. I pressed the switch to deploy the lift when God struck me with another token of awesomeness. The lift didn’t budge. I yelled “those Cunts at the MDA” so loud that the MDA chapter in Guam could hear.

My first thought was, “FUCK YEAH. We can’t get to the meeting.”  My second thought was, “Oh shit, Dad’s mouthing the words ‘Let’s just take the Lexus.’”

“Let’s just bake the dyslexic?” I responded to my Dad. He persisted. “Let’s just take the Lexus.”

“Those cunts at the MDA.”

Greg and I transferred my Dad into a manual chair that could be folded at stowed in the back of the Lexus.  We put the respirator in first and then my Dad. When transferring my Dad I always get really frustrated with my family’s inability to care for my Dad as well as me. I transferred while Greg and my Mom stood there. I nearly dropped him on his ass. I finally got him in. “I feel like I’m Lebron James and you are Drew Gooden here.” I told Greg, hoping he would get the obscure basketball reference.

Loaded.

I started to drive. It was then, having already gone through a huge ordeal to get my limp Father into the car that, I came up with our entrance line. I always like to have a line to enter the meeting with so everyone starts laughing and is thus distracted from my thieving of two Capri Suns. The one for this meeting was borderline the best thing I’ve ever come up with. The line:

“We’re here for the cake.”

Genius, I thought, hoping everyone at the meeting would realize what a struggle we went through seemingly just to get our hands on a free piece of cake.  Greg and I began reciting the line. We practiced by saying, “We’re here for the cake.” We joked that we ought to give each other bloody lips and black eyes to empathize the struggle. My Dad sat co-pilot. My Mom sat bat-shit crazy in the back.

“We’re here for the cake. That’s all. Just the cake. It’s a mere coincidences that my father has Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

We arrived at our destination. I transferred my Dad out of the front seat into the manual wheelchair. I nearly dropped him. Those Cunts at the MDA.

I pushed my Dad towards the building as Greg and I continued to think the “We’re here for the cake” line was the funniest thing in the world. We started reciting it in celebrity voices. Jack Nickelson. Owen Wilson. Bill Murray. Chris Farley. We approached the narrow doorway.

Now here’s the part where we fucked up. As we were reciting the line, now in Brad Pitt from Snatch’s voice, we misjudged the width of the doorway. Consequently, my Dad’s tubing, the shit keeping him alive, smashed against the doorframe.  Two of the tubes broke. We brought the back-up diaper but no back-up tubes. No more oxygen for Daddy. Those Cunts at the MDA.

We began bagging my father, a process whereupon we manual pump air into his lungs. We were ready to turn around and end this catastrophe when Vince Jr., the son of Vince Sr., who I call Vince Vaughn Jr., came out of the meeting. Vince Sr. is a three-year veteran of the respirator.  My Dad’s idol of sorts. Him and his family are pros. Vince Jr. approached.

Vince: What’s the matter?

Me: We broke my Dad’s tubes.

Vince: Do you have any spares?

Me: No, but I have some pretzels in my pocket.

Vince: Well, we brought some spare tubing. We always bring spare tubing.

Me: [Wanted to say] Well aren’t you and your disabled father just a bunch of fucking professionals.

Me: [Really said] Oh, thank God.

Vince replaced the tubes we broke. Good as new. Oxygen for Daddy. More importantly, Greg and I’s chance of uttering the world’s funniest line was saved.

We wheeled my Dad into the meeting. I looked around at the sad crowd, who couldn’t help but notice our loud entrance, and smiled.

“We’re here for the cake.”

No response. No laughter. I looked at the food and beverage table. No cake.

“Those cunts at the MDA,” I thought as I worked on getting the straw into my Capri Sun.       

 

For a Holocaust survivor, our cleaning lady, Stana, sure does hate a lot of things that aren’t Nazis When I asked her whom she liked for President, Hillary or Obama, she replied in her abstract but functional Polish accent, “Danny, I is no liken Obama. No be President.” I asked why. “Danny, it is because he is black. No black President. This is, how you say, ridiculous.”

I didn’t know what to say so I said, “Well I like him.”

“There is no way this man is President. Black people no get good jobs,” she retorted as she continued sweeping our hardwood floors.

A racist Holocaust survivor.

And she couldn’t read or write in English. One year she gave my Mom a thank you card that had the words, “I give you my deepest sympathies in this your time of mourning” on the front.

 An illiterate, racist Holocaust survivor.

Stana (Pronounced Stan-Nah), is 69-years old and we haven’t had the heart to fire her for at least 15 of those years. She has a wrinkly face, is about 5’0” and has dyed blonde hair. Oh, and glasses. She wears glasses.

Stana’s unfounded distain for black people made her hatred for our four cats seem less surprising, especially since one has streaks of black fur. As a cleaning lady and racist, Stana saw the cats as one more mess in a house full of dying adults and spoiled children. Plus they were piss-easy, which Webster Dictionary defines as someone who pisses with ease. Stana would come every Monday and the first topic of conversation was always the cats, which wasn’t a bad way to wake up considering how many times she would hilariously drop the phrase son of a bitch.

Stana: Danny, you is up.

Me: [Still in boxers, rubbing eyes] Yeah.

Stana: [Grabbing my arm] You is come with me. I is show you what son of a bitch kitties doing.

Me: Did they piss again?

Stana: I showin you.

Me: I bet they pissed again.

Stana: [Pointing to corner of living room whereupon a fresh batch of cat piss lies] See Danny. Son of a bitch kitties goin pee all over here.

I would shake my head in disbelieve and ask if I could go check on my dying father. Stana would remain starring at the piss shaking her head and muttering “son of a bitch” under her breath.

Her loathing for the cats grew so strong that she eventually started describing ways in which she would brutally murder them.

–Danny, I is taken kitty in backyard and hittin with hammer on head.

–Danny, I is taken kitty and leavin in middle of traffic.

–Danny, I is running over with my car.

–Danny, I is buyin gun and shooting kitties.

–Danny, I is throw towel over kitty head and squeeze until no more kitty.

She would have acted on any of these ideas had it not been for my Mom’s love of animals and unwillingness to take on any more death and tragedy. She would plea with Stana:

Stana: Debi, kitty is ruining home. This is no home for kitty. Daddy is no healthy and kitties is makin piss all over bedroom.

Debi: I know Stana, but I can’t stand losing anything else right now, not even the cats.

Stana: Stana take care of. I is taken kitty in backyard and hittin with hammer on head.

Debi: Not today Stana, please.

Stana: I is showin you pee in living room.

Debi: Stana I really need to lie down. I just had three hours of chemotherapy.

Stana subtlety announced her dedication to ridding our home of piss-easy cats when she showed up one Monday morning with a large animal cage. She set it in the garage and woke me up.

Stana: Danny, I is bringing cage for kitty. You is catchin and putting in cage and Stana is taken kitty far, far away.

Me: It’s seven in the morning Stana. Can I go back to bed?

Stana: Ok, when you is wakin, I is showin you cat pee in Mommy’s room.

I slowly started hating the cats as much as she did. I found myself flipping them off any time I saw one. I would occasionally catch one and shit talk it for five to ten minutes. “You better watch yourself, you fucking cat. We’re on to your pissing. Next time I catch you in the act I’m going to take you in the backyard and hit you over the head with a hammer and then there is no more kitty.” The cat would usually mistake the aggression for affection and begin rubbing its head against my face with a solid purr.

Stana had some good points though. Our house at the time was under construction because we were making it wheelchair accessible. So, half the house was covered in tarps, dust, and construction gear and the other half reeked of cat piss. It was, at times, too much to handle. I found myself escorting people around the house showing them all the places the son of a bitch cats had urinated upon. “And look at this corner. The cats pissed all over it. Those fucking sons of bitches.”

To me, the cats started to symbolize more than just a yellow marking on the carpet. They started to represent selfishness. Here my siblings and I were moving my Dad’s arms, wiping his ass, speaking for him, reading to him, showering him, and these lazy fucking cats were running a muck in our house, pissing, sleeping, eating, killing birds, playing with the curtain strings. Everything we wanted to be doing with ourselves instead of the aforementioned Daddy duties. Fuck those cats. Fuck those cats hard. Not literally.

I got to the point where I decided I needed my Dad on my side, especially since my Mom was no help. I convinced him that the cats were way worse than Lou Gehrig’s disease. It got to the point where I would say, “What should we do with the cats?” and he would mouth “kill them.” Here he was, a man on a respirator, totally dependant on others for survivor, requesting that something else be put to death. Fascinating.

Anyways.

Stana had my brother, Greg, and I so riled up one morning that we pledged that today would be the last day our house would be susceptible to cat piss. We were going to catch those fucking cats come hell or high water. And Stana was going to help. The only problem was that all three of us were scared that the cats would catch onto our scheme and collectively decide to claw our eyeballs out to the brain. I was able to round up some old racket ball goggles for Greg and I. Those teamed with the movers gloves and three layers of sweaters seems to be enough protection against the cat’s piss-easy claws.

Stana didn’t wear anything. She decided that all she need was a large sheet to throw over the cat and then “we is taken son of a bitch kitty and puttin in cage.”

We were able to chase one of the cats, Brighton, into my Mom’s bedroom. Once we got it there Greg and I decided it best that we focus on this son of a bitch kitty while Stana patrol the halls for additional cats. Greg and I were especially scared and had trouble seeing out of the foggy racket ball glasses. Brighton had cleverly placed herself beneath my Mom’s king-sized bed where she sat poised to claw the fucking lord out of our eyeballs. Greg was on one side, me on the other. Stana entered.

“Me is no findin kitties. We is focus on this son of a bitch.”

Stana was the lead strategist. She suggested that Greg and I lift the bed while she wait with her sheet. We lifted the bed. We couldn’t see the action unfold but could only hear Stana yell, “Son of a bitch, shit head kitty” followed by the sound of a swooshing sheet and a struggling cat. We dropped the bed and looked over at Stana. She had Brighton wrapped up in the sheet. She struggled and made a meowing noise that sounded like “help.”

This is the part where we fucked it all up. Stana walked the cat over to me and said, “You is put son of a bitch kitty in cage.” As she tried to hand her over to me, Brighton squirmed loose and darted off. We didn’t see her for another week.

Mom was home. The game was over. “Why am I wearing these moving gloves and racket ball goggles? Well Mom, because of all the construction dust of course. I suggest you do the same, especially since you have cancer.”

Stana, Greg and I were all disheartened. Stana said it best. “Son of a bitch kitty. Danny we is be so close.”

Stana came the next week. She didn’t show me any cat piss. Things were out of order. Stana seemed to have lost her motivation. She focused on mopping the floors, washing the dishes, doing the laundry. I was temped to grab Stana by the arm and guide her around to all the cat piss spots staining our carpet, but Stana left without incident.

But on Tuesday, Greg and I, both unemployed at the time, saw killing the cats as the only meaningful activity we could engage in. Fuck you Daddy. Move your own arms. We have cats to kill. We saw the cats as our biggest problem.

Greg: Do you think Dad’s going to be ok?

Me: Dad’s fine. It’s these cats we need to worry about.

Greg: I know. I hate them. We almost had Brighton.

Me: I say we get them today.

Back to the goggles, gloves and sweaters.

Trying to catch a cat with a gay brother isn’t easy. All the squirming, unnecessary screeching, and “Danny, maybe we shouldn’t do this” comments served to be a distraction. But we were hot on the trail of one, Bailey, and eventually got him cornered in Greg’s room. We couldn’t find the cage Stana had brought, so we had a box, and, because we were both so scared of the cat, we figured the only way to get it in there was to chase it in and then tape the top closed. Bailey was freaked out, so freaked out, in fact, that in the process of getting her cornered, he had shit twice and pissed one.

“You’re not helping your case kitty,” I yelled.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” said Greg.

The doorbell rang.

A family friend, Janet, arrived to drive my sister to dance practice. She was quite surprised to see both Greg and I decked out in our cat catching attire.

Janet: Are you guys playing tennis or something?

Me: No were trying to catch cat.

Janet: Why?

Me: Piss and Shit.

Janet: Oh, that’s not good.

Me: I know.

Janet: So, why don’t you just grab the cat?

Greg and I watched in awe as Janet calmly walked over to the cornered cat, pet her face twice, gently picked her up and set her in the box, all without gloves or goggles. Amazing. We sealed the box and I drove Bailey down to the Humane Society. “You don’t fuck with me. You hear that Bailey?” I said. He made meowing noises that sounded like “help.” 

One down. Three to go.  

Wednesday rolled around and I realized that I hadn’t seen two of our other cats, Pongo and Pierre, for quite some time. I asked other family members if they had seen them. “Not that I give a fuck, but have you seen Pongo or Pierre?”

They would realize that they too hadn’t seen them. I figured that maybe they had had a powwow with Brighton and decided to take off for the Canadian border where all cats are given free healthcare and they don’t have to lock their doors at night.

Thursday came. No Pongo. No Pierre. I walked through the house inspecting the piss stains, none of them fresh.

Depressing.

Later that night my sister, Tiffany, came bursting through the front door holding the two cats. “So some lady brought Pongo and Pierre over. She found them in the middle of the Salt Lake.”

Apparently pets are now required to have electronic ID chips implanted just below their fur so, if lost, a vet or other local animal authority can identify them and return them to their rightful owners. Pongo and Pierre were both registered to my sister’s address.

“What the fuck where they doing in the middle of Salt Lake?” asked my sister as she filled the cat’s dishes full of water and food.

I knew. I knew it was Stana. I knew that she had decided to take the law into her own Holocaust surviving, illiterate hands. I knew that she had gone behind our backs, rounded up the two cats in that cage she had brought over and left the them for dead in the middle of Mormontown.

But I responded, “I have no fucking idea. That’s so strange. They must have ran away or gotten lost. Maybe they hopped into the back of a pick-up truck or maybe they just headed to Canada for the free health care. Fuck, that’s weird. Well, it sure is nice to have them back.”

We were all surprised to see the cats again, but no one was more surprised than Stana. On Monday morning, when my Mom was a too far away to hear, she approached me.

Stana: [Whispering] Danny, how is the cats here?

Me: What do you mean?

Stana: Danny, I is catching kitty and takin so far away.

Me: They have these ID chips in their necks. Someone brought them back.

Stana: [As if the cats had thought up the ID chip thing themselves] Son of a bitch kitty. I is no believin.

My Mom caught wind that Stana had taken the cats. She wasn’t happy. She bitched me out to the point where I loved cats and then decided to write Stana a long-winded note about how it is “My house” and that “She had no right to take those cats, even if they were peeing on our carpet.”

After my mom had delivered the letter directly to Stana’s mailbox I broke the bad news.

“Mom, Stana can’t read.”

We still have three cats.

Quieting all those critics (I’m looking at you Mother Teresa), who say a man with Lou Gehrig’s disease can’t perform sexually, my father got what teenagers call a boner. I wasn’t there to witness the monumental event first hand, but my mother and an aide where present for liftoff as they gave my father a sponge bath.

I found out that my Dad got the boner in front of the aide when my mother said, “Dad got a boner in front of the aide today.” I looked over to my Dad and asked, “Did you really?”  He confirmed the story with a nod and a smile, as well as an eyebrow raise, you know all the things males do to confirm the validity of a boner story. 

After congratulating him no less than four times with words like, “wow” and “that’s great” and “thank God” and “Really a boner? Wow that’s great. Thank God,” I started looking for causation.  I started asking questions as though I was lead detective in a Whodunit mystery novel.

“The aide,” I thought.  “I must have been the aide.”  I figured she was a young hottie with a ripe body to go with her naughty twaty.  A started asking my mom questions:

Q. How old was she?

A. Older.

Q. What did she look like?

A. Older, brown curly short hair.  Not very tall.  Not attractive.

Q. Was she thin?

A. Fairly, yes.

Q. Did she exude sexuality, much like my self?

A. You do not exude sexuality, maybe the smell of fart, but not sexuality.

Q. But did she?

A. I don’t understand the question. No.

Q. Was she wearing a low cut top that, how do say this tactfully, exposes her tigglebitties?

A. What are tigglebitties?

Q. Tits?

A. No.

From my questioning I concluded the aide had only a face a mother could get a boner to.  With no direct source I concluded that maybe he just got a boner from nothing, a random act of nature.  Then my Mom chimed in, “I think he got it because of me.” 

I looked at her bald head and her wrinkled face and said, “Excuse me?”

Now more confident, my Mom said “He got it for me. I’m his wife. He’s still attracted to me.”

I looked over at my Dad and he confirmed the story with a nod and a smile, as well as an eyebrow raise, you know all the things males do to confirm the validity of a boner story.