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The Right to Let Go
Fall 2000
Sally Cole Mooney
THIS WAS SCANNED IN WITH OCR SOFTWARE AND CONTAINS MANY
MISSPELLINGS AND STUFF. I'M IN THE PROCESS OF FIXING IT NOW
Do you know how to get out of this place?" His eyes are fixed, his
gait
a shuffle, and he's asked me the same question twice. He's wandering
up and down the hall in pajamas, bobbing in and out of patients'
rooms. He doesn't know he's in a locked psychiatric ward in
Chandler, Arizona, or why, and I'm
wondering that myself. He looks harmless enough. Pushing against the
door;
he sets off the alarm again.
I wish I could set him free, along with my father; who'>i nol
h~s2lne, justa viclim ol slroLc who koops longing out loud lor "Ihc
happy hunling gl
ound." In this cullure, dcalh-wishillg just won't wash. So the
doctors pul
him herc and signed hin1 up for "Group," hoping to coax him hlto
scntiments mole fitting of an elde~: rl'bey don't want to hcar thc
trutll, th2lt my fatller
wants to die, thollgll it makes perfcct sense to mc. Hc can't walk,
read,
or write, and it's not going to get any better thun this. I might
wish it
over too.
In Group the attitude police ask, "~;Vhat is onc thing you'd like to
accomplisll today?" Whcn his turn comes, my father answers, "I'd
like to find a way to gc~t out of Group." Hc may have lost his
mobility and zest for life, but he
sure hasn't lost his edge. And he's still handsome, r egal even,
with his
hawklike face and silvcry hail: Two of the women have fallen for
him. J'hcy
call him "Professor" and say they'd like to take him home. So would
1, but
it's too late for that. I'd never get him on a plane, and he was too
stubborn
to Icave his home for mine in New ()rleans when he had the chance.
'I'he
insurance has him covered herc wllile we find an assisted-living
home, so
wc'rc making thc best of it, playing it l'or lauglls.
"Come on, Datl, Ict's go pl2ly the llUthullse olgan," says my
brothc'; Tom, for all to hetu: We wheel him down thc h2tll and help
hUli play thc standards wc gre\v up hettl ing oll thc old piano my
mother told llS WtlS thc first piece of furnitule lhey ever owned.
His fingers are locked
into almost-claws, so my brother pulls the hlne out for'him, a whiny
organ version of "Willow, Weep for Me." My fathe1 used to play that
stmg in long, stridc strokes with the pedals pumping and his voice
off-key above the melody To the last, plaintive, "Weep for Me," he'd
add a final touch, "Dlrty, old me," with thu "me" drawn out until
the last notes encled. I smile, r emembel ing all that now.
Tom has launclled into his J2lck Nicholson routine, clcatl-on 2tntl
de2ltlly h1 this "CuLkoo's Nesl": "You g~'ys do nothing but complah1
about how you can't stand il in this place, antl then you haven't
got thc guls to walk out.
Wh2lt'tl you thillk you arc`, fol Christ's sake, crazy or
sometlling? Well,
you'lc not. You're no crazicl than thc avcrtlgc assholc out wallcing
armnld
on the slrecl." kIy father misses the allusion. He's lost much of
what he
once knew, birds, for examplc, his life-list washed from memory, or
names,
detached IIOW from the stream of faces—students and colleagues—that
used
to crowd around our table whele the stolies and thc wine would flow.
"Tonight,
we live," my father would say, lifting his glass.
Now we ask if hc can eat in the lounge with us, a feeble stab at
festivity. But he's not hungly hasn't bcen for months. I cut up his
meat and coax him to eat, "just a bile ol breatl, a taste of pie," I
say—then r ealize I'm doing
it too, steering him toward life, against the current of his O\VII
desires.
And what gives me the right'? Or Tom, wllo's selling Life, in
Nicholson's lines, whenevel there's a pause? "Yoll're just 21 ym~ng
kid. What're you doing
here? You ought to be Ollt in a convel lible, bird-dogging ehicks."
NVe'rc
only holJing thal thc stall is rigllt—th2lt hc's just
deprcssetl—antl wherc's
the harm hl lhat'' 13ut 1 know bettcl; know hc's dyhlg antl l'vc
lailetl
him when the ehips arc down, latched onto hopc, when I could havc
stood square
and looked it in the face, thc way hc~ taught me to.
One night at Lake Itasca, Minnesota, where we spent our SUmmerS in
thc sixtics, a bal gol into my i'oom. It swoo,ued dowll over my bed
and then my siste,'s. We shrieked. Then it disappeared, having
navigated through the wide log cracks and ended up in my brothels'
room where they set at it witl1 cries and pillows. My father tad a
class in the morning, an all-day biology lab, and was having trouble
sleeping. He e amc roaring up the stairs, tulned on thc light,
grabbed the bat burehantlcd and threw it out into the nighl, then
scolded us for our
panic.
A few years earlier, in the desert, wc had found a tar.lntula and,
at his coaxing, had let it walk ovel our hands. Hc promisetl us it
wm~ldn't bitc. Thc nightmal e disal metl becaille a gentlc touch of
p2ltldetl 1oel. 13ul b`~Ls antl spitlers ure O,lC thing, dealil
quile another. My datl's Ihe only one who isn't flinc hing now.
Tom's still al il: "That Nursc Ratched, man. She ain't honest. Shc
likcs a rigged gamc, you know wh2lt I mean?" And he's put his finger
on it therc. At thc eleventh hom; the rl,les .rll change. I''or 81
years ,ny f2llher pl2lyetl iL fast and loose, pUI suing happiness as
he saw fit, eccentric and ir r everent.
He never lied to us about the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, or (Iod,
and the
desert landscape backed him up, brooking no illusions. I was wcaned
from
the breast directly to the cup, the bottle but another crutch wc
weren't aHowed,
like those consoling tictions. But here my fathcl's options shlink.
He can't
call a shade a shade, much less embrace one.
It's Sunday and I've got to go, be back at wolk on Monday. I kiss
him goodbye and tell hi,ll I'H retuln. But I know hctll be gonc. He
has that look around the mouth, his tceth too big no\v, getting in
the way of words. It' I couLl make one wish for hh1l, I'd \Nish him
de2tth, a speedy by-pass of indignity and p2lin. But I know \vherc
wishes Icad, cspeeially this onc, a thousand miles from ()regon.
[~~`n'nO\V, lhorc's no one to guide US out ~o[ this plum`` und, in
my fatller's C`21SC, a pcn2tlly jusl 1~n asking. fi
6'(lily 111~0~~~~y i.s `(.~.~i.~t`~~'t /)'oJ`.s.so' ot' h~lZglisl~
~ct Del(/a(lo Co'~~~~'u~'ity Colle.ge i''Ae~u, Or/e(ZLZS all~l a
IllelIZller ot t/~~~.~~~~, 01l`~~~~~~.s S~~cZ`l~/' f/~~~~'a'Zi.~/
.-lSsOCititiOIZ.