Drifting

It's cold in the hospital room—not just the frigid temperature but also the general atmosphere itself. Oh, they've tried to add warmth to it, the comfy furniture, the wood paneling, pastel-colored walls. However, it's still a hospital room and will never achieve the "family-friendly" ideal the designers envisioned.

Two o'clock AM and Dad is having a stormy night. He is adrift on an angry ocean. I hope by early morning, he'll find his way home and set foot on a familiar shore, albeit a jagged one.

I know that one night he will not return to us. He'll remain lost on that bitter sea.

I'd like to believe he'll find his way to a farther shore and find my sister welcoming him. I want to think that all his family is there: his mother, father, sisters, brothers.

His legions of friends would also be there, laughing and telling jokes in French.

I know there is a fear in all sailors from my naval service, mostly unspoken—a fear of being swept overboard. To watch as your ship fades into the distance, to remain abandoned and forgotten, alone in the great emptiness that is the ocean.

That's how I see him now—alone and helpless, drifting in unnamed waters.

One of the nurses enters the room and checks his status. They do a good job. Kind and considerate. I'm only here to make sure he doesn't try to remove the many tubes and wires attached to his arm.

She looks at me with concern.

"You should try to get some sleep. It's not healthy for you to be up like this."

"I'll catch-up with my sleep later," I say.

She smiles and leaves to make her rounds.

I was lying. The truth is, I don't sleep very well at all. Not for a long time.

The turn of the century has not been kind. The woman I loved walked away and married someone else. My dog, Rocky, had to be put down. My sister's death from cancer. My father's struggle with Alzheimer's.

Then there were the disasters; first Katrina, then the oil spill.

The new millennium has shown little promise.

The stroke came unexpectedly. Except for the Alzheimer's he was in perfect health. No heart problems, no high blood pressure. At 95, he walked straight with little effort. His cane was only to help him keep his balance—more of a relief for the nursing home staff than out of necessity.

As strokes go, it was a mild one. From my studies as a speech therapist, I knew what to expect. The prognosis would be good.

And something else. Some of his memories have returned.

The brain is a resilient organ. After a stroke, it sometimes re-routs itself around the damaged areas, bringing a sudden and unexpected recovery.

But miracles sometimes come with a price. The stroke has left him with cardiovascular problems in his legs. Because of his extreme age, the doctors can't perform surgery. He is in great pain.

"Pisse!" he suddenly calls out. I help him up and grab the urinary bottle from the counter. I try to preserve as much of his dignity as possible as I help him urinate into the plastic bottle.

When finished, he lays back down in the bed.

"Merci, Ro'ber," he says.

I'm stunned. It's the first time he's spoken my name in three years.

I want to tell someone. Share the moment. But there's no one here. Not at this hour.

So I whisper, "thank you." A prayer of sorts. First one in quite some time.

For the remainder of the night, I sit in a chair next to his bed, watching him sleep, being there if he needs me, just as I will for the next four nights.

Sitting in the dark, I realize we were so wrong as sailors. Cast adrift on a dark, rolling ocean, fighting to stay afloat, shouting defiance at the depths of despair. We never recognize a simple truth: we are never really alone. We need only to reach out to find solace, to find calm on a bitter sea.

The End