The Great Illness

Le duc has not been well. His blood pressure was down to nearly nil, and they rushed him to the Emergency Room, and Sis had to spend the whole night down there and then go to work on an hour of sleep, and Baby Bro drove down from upstate to be a nurse liaison officer, as well as a kid. I mean, a large, imposing man of a kid. Actually. He is a nurse. A kind of big, macho one.

So here are some highlights from the past 36 hours.

le Duc to Sis (on the subject of him having three kids): So who's your father?

Sis: You are.

Eyes widening: I am?

Sis: Yup!

le Duc: And who's his father?

Sis: Well, his father's you, too.

le Duc: And where's Adam?

Sis: He's Adam.

(Here I'm a little confused... after all, I wasn't there.)

le Duc, to Baby Bro: but who are you?

Adam (for it is he) (thinking on his feet): Butch! You remember Butch?

le Duc, fondly: Ah, Butch! (pause.) But where is Butch?

Baby Bro (thinking fast again): Well, Butch grew up...

Or: the nurse is there, trying to make le Duc wear his support stockings to prevent blood clots, which after all seems the least of one's worries. Adam says, "You might as well not take them out of the wrappers, he won't keep them on."

The nurse looks at him. Platitudes about protection from clots. Adam says to her, "why don't you ask my father? Dad, do you want to wear these stockings to protect you from blood clots?"

Le Duc says: "No."

Baby Bro says: "Take them away; the man has spoken." The nurse departs.

Le Duc says: "Good! That's better than that usually goes!"

Or:

Le Duc, talking about being everyone's dad ("There was a third one...", he said musingly), mentions that he saw our mother the other day. He means Mama B of course, and he did see her one day when she came to get me at the Hebrew Home: there was an historic occasion on the lawn, when they mainly asked each other how they were feeling lately, before digressing onto - of all things! - Edith Wharton (that was me). Sis says, cautiously, "you did? Well, you hadn't seen her in a long time! Was it nice?"

"Oh, yes," replies Dad.

"What did you talk about?"

"Oh," he says airily, "we talked about The Great Illness."

Anyway, I think he's back in the Home now. The crisis is over and there will be a hospice care meeting this week, and I think a "Do Not Move" order which means the next time he has a decline he won't be rushed to ER.

Meanwhile, I receive a letter from Parcel Force saying they are holding my last of three parcels - my remaining picture - my Currier & Ives Little Girl print, in a sweet Victorian Adirondack frame, a survivor of le Duc's long-ago days as a young gadabout in Greenwich Village ("Quick! There are some tourists! Do something native!"), the last of her kind from his once-large collection. They want £38 in VAT and handling charges. Such is one's relief that it hasn't disappeared, it seems like a small price to pay.