Man Erased
I enter the 4 digit code. It is unchanged in 4 years, easy enough to remember for me, difficult enough for a resident.
“Are you my Bobby?” a shrill voice greets me.
“No, I’m not your Bobby,” I gently reply to the skeleton on a Zimmer frame who hovers just inside the door.
“Then where’s my Bobby?” she wails, reaching for me, her and my anxiety rising.
I rush past her, the smell of shit and disinfectant enveloping me, and disappear around the corner to Room 4.
I peer through the door, where he is seated, bent over his desk working. It reminds me of the earlier years, down at the beach house, where he would spend hours a day in his study reading and writing, oblivious to all around him. Ironically, it is the same today. Except he’s wearing elastic waisted pants exclusively, his hair is messy, he doesn’t shave every day and he doesn’t know my name.
‘Hi Dad!’
He turns and raises his head, the usual vacant distant look in his eye. Then he hits me with a penetrating, knowing look.
“Oh it’s you, great, I was hoping you would come today.” My heart leaps.
“There’s something I want to show you,” he says. Wow!
He gingerly stands and moves to the bed and lifts his pillow. I look at his pyjamas, neatly folded by his carers.
“What do you think?” He asks.
“What about?” I query.
“These fellas, aren’t they terrific?” He gently pats his pyjamas and looks at me with a look of pride and wonder on his face. My heart sinks again, this is going to be a visit just like the last.
“Yeah, they’re great Dad.”
He continues staring. I have to change the subject.
“So what are you working on here?”
I motion to the desk.
He shuffles back over and sits down.
“I’m getting ready for upstairs.”
“You’re not going upstairs,” I say.
“Yes I am. When I’m completely gone up here,” he motions to his head, “they’ll put me upstairs, that’s where everybody goes.”
“Oh”
“And I won’t need these.” He gestures to a number of books he had opened in front of him.
He then continues to rub out any of his underlining and marginalia from the books — line by line, page by page.
Dad hit his retirement doing what he loved best, reading, writing and dabbling in poetry. He would read three newspapers each day and collect articles that interested him and he would love nothing more than to sit around and discuss the issues of the day. In that regard I am a bit of a chip of the old block and when we would visit Mum and Dad down the beach I would love nothing more than getting the kids off to bed and sitting up late with him and a glass of red solving the world’s problems.
I watch bewildered, more than a little upset as Dad erased his history from his beloved books. He has just enough self awareness to know he is losing his self awareness. In this small window he has available he is erasing the imprint of himself on the things that he loved, knowing that he would never use them again.
In his humble way he assumes no-one would care for his scratchings in the margins of his books.
I can’t watch anymore.
“I have to go Dad.”
He turns and gives me his guilty, vacant stare. The one where he knows he should know me but doesn’t. He puts out his hand, we shake.
“Ok, bye Steve.”
“Dad, I’m Ben.”
“Oh sorry.”
“It’s alright, you have a few sons so don’t worry about it, see you next time.”
“OK, bye Steve.”
2021 Ben Murphy
