Carry Me Home (119 page)

PREAMBLE
—DRAFT

Before I am a living being I am an element of the earth ...

All afternoon Bobby wrote, rewrote, conceptualized, diagrammed the Ascending Line of Life, and the Great Flowing Circle of Nourishment. When it was again near dark he returned to the house.

On the twenty-ninth of August he spiked a temp of 101.

All the way up Bobby was nauseated, freezing. He lay, in the stifling car, the windows opened but a slit, wrapped in a blanket, one end over his head, covering his eyes. His head hurt. He lay rigid, seemingly holding on for dear life even though Tony drove more smoothly than he’d ever driven in his life.

The pain was different than all other pains Bobby had experienced. Other pains—mental, emotional, physical—had always, after the initial onset, given him strength, given him insight, stirred him to action. But this pain robbed him of focus, of his disciplined nonfocus, forced him to concentrate vaguely on himself. His body seemed to react to its self-destruction with a physical terror he could not control.

“This is not me ...” Tony heard him mumbling under the blanket. “Grant me the strength and courage to try hard ...” Fragmented thoughts or fragments escaping, seeping outward, reaching Tony’s ears, making Tony want to accelerate, to get there faster, yet afraid of bumps, of jars, of causing a bruise that might start an uncontrollable bleed. “I could run the Dipsea ... I’ve climbed the Indian ladder carrying Josh ... I could play full-court for hours ...”

“Hey Bobby, you hear the one about the bulimic party?”

Bobby only groaned.

“You know the difference between a rubber tire and three hundred and sixty-five used condoms?”

“What?”

Tony sighed inwardly. He’d broken through, gotten Bobby off himself. “One’s a Goodyear. One’s a
really
good year.”

A laugh, a groan. Silence. Tony’s mind scanning for new jokes. He heard more mutterings.

“... and to never give up.”

Labor Day, 1983, was September 5th—Sara was required to be in her classroom on Friday the 2d and again Tuesday the 6th. Students returned on the 7th. Sara did not come to West Haven on the 30th but came instead, for two days, on Saturday the 3d, her 36th birthday.

At this time, Josephine Pisano moved into the farmhouse at High Meadow, nearly full-time. Through September John Pisano Sr. went up daily. He brought up Johnny, who was now eighteen months, and who liked being with Am and Paul. Noah, assumed the roles of teacher, babysitter, supervisor, director. Jo cooked, cleaned, did the laundry. Linda helped. Annalisa assisted. John Sr. puttered in the gardens, fixed the wobbly front porch railing. Sara taught full-time, worked when she came home, still hosted rap-group meetings—the women’s group, the couples’ group—in the living room on Tuesday and Wednesday nights, and let the old staff run, covertly, new barn sessions. Sara was responsible, too, for the farm—planning, with Tony, ordering, overseeing, with Tony, paying bills, alone, paying percentages to Miriam, Joanne and Brian, and, alone, by arrangement, virtually everything else to the IRS. Every night she called; every Friday she packed up the kids, headed to West Haven. Every Sunday night she returned. Everything she did, work, chores, time with the children, with the groups, was scheduled around Bobby—getting to see him, talk to him, help him. And every week, almost every day, there was something new: a new infection, new fever, new bleed. Every day throughout September Bobby was scheduled for a possible surgery the next day. Every day, at High Meadow or in West Haven, Sara attempted to find, to convince, matching platelet donors. The fear of another transfusion reaction was constant. The fear of bleeds was continuous, of infections, of not having the money to make the trip, of paying everyday bills, the old Chevy giving out ... The list was endless.

And every day, something new.

“That’s how paranoid I am,” Bobby told Tony. “It’s the steroids. The doc thinks they’re responsible for my rib. I’m afraid ... I could stand up and my ankle might crumble. Or I could blow my nose and bleed to death.”

To Tony it wasn’t real, wasn’t fully tangible. Bobby looked frail but not so frail. Back on IV antibiotics and transfused he sounded healthy. Whatever unacknowledged fatalism his body held, his conscious actions did not betray. Then his crit would fall. Then a new infection or an unfound infection would erupt, re-erupt. Then Bobby’s mind would sag, cave in upon itself, and he would have to fight to rise to zero, to overlook positive; and his doctors would grasp at new treatments, attempting to find the specific yet elusive magic bullet for his changing condition.

—Another bone marrow. “To see how fast the leukemia is spreading, growing,” Doctor Dachik told him. “If it’s the slow-growing kind, a very slow-growing leukemia ... well, the chances of you surviving a slow-growing leukemia are greater than of you surviving chemotherapy.”

“Huh!”

“If it’s the fast-growing variety ... chemo will be ...”

“A last ditch effort?”

—“Ahhh! No change from the last biopsy. No chemo.”

—“Sorry. Low-level chemo. A continuation of the August treatment but changing the mixture ...”

—“Sorry. Another bleed. We need a chest X-ray. Need a gallium scan. Need a CAT scan.”

—“You’re still popping fevers.”

“I know. One oh one, eight. That’s the highest ...”

—“Seems to be a hairline fracture.... Can’t find it.... Could be a pleural effusion.... Could be ...”

—“The multiple transfusions and the ensuing bilirubin have caused gall stones which may be the source of the infection ... gall bladder ... removal ...”

“Forget it! It took you guys seven times to do my arm. We’re talking periphery there. You’re talking deep inside ...”

—Tony: 20 September: “What the hell you doin here, Man? Are you ready to die? What are you stayin in the VA system for? You got leukemia. That’s curable, Man. You don’t have to die from leukemia. Hey! Look! What the fuck do you think the VA’s goina do for ya? The VA wants you to die! It cost them money to have you in here. You’re not payin. They’re not makin a profit on you. You cost them money! It is in their best interest if you die quickly. They’re not trying to cure you. Get your fuckin act together, Man. Get the fuck out of this hospital. Get your ... Aah, stop feelin sorry for yourself and get your ass up to Boston General or to that Jewish hospital out on Long Island that specializes in leukemia. Man, they’ll have you in remission in five, six weeks.”

Bobby chuckled. “And who’s going to pay ...”

“I will. I’ll sell my house.”

“No you won’t.”

“I’m serious, Bobby. It’s not you. It’s not part of you. Why do you need it? You don’t need to be sick for me. We’re all sick of you being sick.”

“Me too.”

“Man,” angrily, “you’re letting it do to you whatever it wants. And you’re saying, ‘Look what it’s doing to me.’”

Joking. “Makes a good media show.”

“Fuck it! Fuck them hangers-on. Those bastards hooked on tragedy. Don’t mean nothin, Bobby. What means somethin is what you’re going to do about it. Your words.”

“My words?”

“Uh-huh.”

—On Friday the 23d Sara and the children arrived to celebrate Paulie’s sixth birthday with Bobby. Aside, while Bobby blew on a noisemaker, Noah explained to Tony, “I’m eight and a half. Pop’s going to buy me a bicycle when I’m nine.” And a little later Am said, “Pawpee, know what? For my birthday I want you to get big and strong again.”

—On the 26th: “Don’t tell Sara.”

“What?”

“Do you remember Stacy Carter?”

“Oh yeah! Great—”

“She sent me a card.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You know, nothin much. Just a blank card. An Ansel Adams photo of Half Dome in Yosemite. And a ‘Get Well Soon’ written inside.”

“Who’s the cute doctor down there with the nice legs?”

“Her? I don’t like cute doctors. She makes me nervous. She always wants to see my butt. I hate that. Leave me alone. I’m sweaty. I stink ...”

—Tuesday the 27th—Tony on the phone to Linda. “They just aspirated 300 cc of blood from a pleural effusion which was causing his lung to collapse. They want to reenter the cavity with a larger needle but they’re afraid that might create even more bleeding. They want to try but his bleeding time, you know, in you or me it’s maybe two minutes, they can’t do surgery if it’s over nine minutes, and even after infusing ten units of platelets and rushing him to the OR his bleeding time was twenty-five and a half minutes!!! It’s driving him crazy. Sara too. It seems, you know, because of potential liability ... Good God! Like how much more liable and how much greater remuneration ... Shit ... Seems every night they ask him to sign a permission and liability release agreement okaying the next day’s procedure. And he knows full well that he’s approving a procedure that could cause him to bleed to death....”

—On the 28th of September they suspended the chemotherapy, explaining to Bobby that it might be the chemo, not the leukemia, which was causing the bleeds; explaining further his options: full guns chemo, change the chemo, no chemo. Over the next few days he agreed to a two-month ceasefire to give his body a chance to regroup, rest, rearm enough to sustain him through the next chemo battle.

—“Bob, the problem is we can’t seem to stop the bleeds.”

—“Bob, the problem is you keep spiking these temps.”

—“Bob, I’ve got to be straight with you. There’s only a ten percent chance you’ll survive a full course of traditional chemo.”

—Sunday, October 9th: “Don’t tell him.”

“I know. But he should be told.”

“It’ll kill him. You know how attached ...”

“What if one of the children says ... It would be better if he were told.”

“No. Shit! Poor Josh.”

“You know he couldn’t hear anymore. I’m sure he never heard the car. You know how he was always down there at the road.”

“Yeah. Rodney’s really broken up over it. He blames himself.”

—Monday, 15 October: “Full guns chemo, Bob. Your choice. It’s designed to force the cells to differentiate and mature but it will make you very ill. Nauseous, vomiting, hair loss, and there’s only a ten percent chance ...”

To chemo or not to chemo?

Bobby explained it to Sara, detached, as if he were saying, “One b.l.t. coming up. Mayo or no mayo?”

She couldn’t answer. She let him talk on. “It’s like attacking a hill,” he said. “You attack it because if you don’t, it means eventual defeat and loss of the entire country. But by attacking we risk immediate defeat, yet there is hope for eventual victory. Even if it’s only one percent, you go for it.”

Sara touched her chin, ran her hand down onto her neck. She despised the green walls of his room, the buffed aluminum frame of his bed, the uncomfortable chair for visitors in which she’d spent so many days. If it means ... she thought but she could not say that. She tilted her head, gazed at Bobby. “When?” she asked softly.

“Not till after Thanksgiving,” Bobby said. “When my strength’s up.”

Bobby reached out his arm. Sara grasped his hand. Bobby winked. “You better go,” he said. “It’ll be dark before you hit New York.”

“Um. Guess I’d better.”

“Give me a call when you get in so I know you’re safe.”

“I might wake you.”

“I’ll feel better if I know. Give the kids a hug for me, too.”

Through October, into November, Sara came every weekend. Every weekend she brought the children. They visited twice each day but spent most of their weekend time at the Boyers’. Tony had stayed Monday through Friday in September, but less time as the fall progressed. Don Wagner filled some of the gaps: and Jeremiah Gallagher, and Carl Mariano, Tom Van Deusen, Kevin Rifkin, Rodney Smith, Renneau, Denahee, Fernandez, Bechtel and Hacken. Each pulled his stint at guard, at watch, never leaving Bobby without someone close by.

Through October and into November Bobby’s condition worsened. Some days he read. Some days he wrote letters. Some days he talked with other patients or with official visitors—a local Catholic priest, a national reporter—or with whichever vet was up from High Meadow. But visitors were discouraged. Bobby was technically, if not practically, in reverse isolation. Visitors were required to wear masks, gowns and gloves so as not to expose his frail immune system to worldly viruses. The rules were not enforced and Bobby seldom mentioned it to anyone. Instead he closed his door. A week before Halloween, he began recording the tapes.

Hi Noah. This is your pop. I’m talking to you on a tape recorder at the West Haven VA. Today is Wednesday, October 26th. I’d rather be with you but right now I can’t be and I want to say some things to you I may never have the chance to say.

You are my eldest son and I love you very much. The day you were born was the happiest day of my life. If I close my eyes I can see you and hear you on the day you spoke your first word, the day you first learned to walk holding on to Josh, the first time you went to camp, your first day of school. How proud you were to walk up the steps of the bus that first time. Most recently I think of you at the beach, burying me in the sand, then running for the surf and turning back to me and saying, “Let’s go!” You’re already a great person, a great brother to Paul and Am. Always believe in yourself. Listen to your heart. Noah, you’ve a good heart and a good mind. When someone’s yelling at you for something, judge yourself. Trust yourself. Trust your feelings, Noah. Even if it is Mama yelling at you. You’ve a good soul, a good mind, and a good heart. Look inside yourself for answers.

That’s the essence. Here come the particulars. The drug that I’m about to take might kill me. And if it does, then you’ll have this tape to remember me by. If it doesn’t, you’ll simply never have this tape. There’s so much I want to say to you, because I love you so much. I don’t want my death to be something that ruins your life. I don’t want it to be an excuse for you to not achieve all you’re capable of. Rather it should be a reason for you to succeed. To be the best person you can be. And the happiest. I guess I worry more about you than I do Paul or Am because, well, you are the oldest.

And I guess the biggest problem right now is, I don’t feel I’m going to die. I think this drug is going to work. And I’m going to get better. And you and I, Paulie and Am and Mama, we’ll have a great life together.

One of the most important things I want to say, Noah, is I don’t want to see you in a war. I don’t want you killing anybody. And I don’t want anybody hurting you. That may sound selfish, and people are going to give you arguments about loyalty to country and duty to humanity. You remember this. You remember how sick your Pop was. And you see what loyalty and duty did for him. See how loyal the country was to him when he needed them most. Noah, you don’t have to go into the service to prove to anyone you are a man. You are going to be a fine young man. There is no doubt about it. Should you
need
to fight, pick your causes and your battles carefully. And be equally careful picking your allies. No matter your strength, no matter your fire power, a weak pointman can lead you into a kill zone.

I hope you stay active in sports all through school. It shows respect for your physical body. And please study. Do your best. It shows respect for your mind.

I don’t have to tell you to love your mother. You do. And you always will. I know that. But don’t forget that you have your own life, too. And don’t be afraid to explore that. I hope that you and Paul and Am will always be friends, and that all of you and Mama will always be a family that helps each other. And if you get married and have children, you can go to Mama’s house and the grandchildren will be there, and that you’re all happy. That’s what I want for you, Noah. I want you to experience the elation of learning and doing, loving and growing, living and expanding.

I want you to remember that you have responsibilities, too. When you get old enough to drive, don’t you do any of that drinking and driving business. And when you’re dating, remember, treat the girls with respect. You have responsibilities. I certainly hope you don’t get any young girl pregnant. That’s one of your responsibilities. There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin when you graduate high school. I was, and you still were born.

I wish I could hold you right now. You’re always the one that comes back for a special hug. You were such a beautiful baby, and are such a handsome boy. And strong! I love you, Noah. I loved you from the moment you were born. I was so proud and so worried that day. You had respiratory distress and had to be suctioned a number of times and I stood by you every time watching over you. Someday you’ll be on your own, standing on your own two feet. And you’re going to do just fine. You’re very fortunate. You have a mother who really cares, who loves you and takes care of you. And you have a brother and a sister who put up with you when you become “the Director.” You’re good at that. As you get older you’ll learn how to do that with a lot more class. It’s called selling. And it’s called leadership. Lead by principles. By a code.

I think about all the things that could have been between you and me. All those little milestones in your life when I’d like to be there. When you turn sixteen. When you graduate from high school and college. When you get married. When your children are born. I’d like to be there to see the smile on your wonderful face. To pat you on the back and say, “Way to go, Kiddo.”

I feel so frustrated. I never knew my father. And I want to be a Pop for you as long as I can. I hate this disease, Noah. It’s taking me away from you. It’s stopping me from being a Pop. I made it without a mother, too, so you’re light-years ahead of me. Your mother and I love you so much. We’re rooting for you all the way. I want to be there with you just to see the look in your eye.

This is an important point, Noah. You are worth all the good things that can happen to you. You are worth having a good life. You are worth all the blessings of God. One thing I don’t want you to worry about, you’re not going to get what I have. It is not something that is passed down from father to son. You’re healthy. Agent Orange has not affected you. Don’t worry about it. Just go out there and live your life.

I don’t want to say good-bye. There’s so much I want to say, I could ramble on for hours. I want to hang on, Kiddo. I don’t want to leave you. Don’t blame yourself for what’s happened to me. You had nothing to do with this. Don’t blame God, either. All the good things in the world came from God. You and Paul and Am came into Mama’s and my lives from God. And Mama came into my life, not by some fluke, but she was a gift. When you were little babies people used to say, “What do you do with little babies?” And we’d say, “You cherish them. Ya hug em and you hold em close.” I cherish you, now, Noah. Still. Always. I’d love to see you become a man. I can imagine what you’re going to be like when you’re a teenager. Oooo-weee! It makes me happy right now thinking about you having a great time.

It’s hard to talk right now. There’s a lot of noise in the hall. I feel good today. I think I’m getting better. I want to get better. I don’t ever want to give you this tape. I’d be happy just watching you get up in the morning, making you breakfast, seeing you go off to school. Maybe that sounds boring but to me it sounds like a great life. You know, Mama brought your picture, and Paulie’s and Am’s. It’s on my bedside table. I look at you, at all of you and I say to myself, “There it is! Because of them, I’m going to get out of here.” That’s what you do for me. Because of you and because of Mama, I’m fighting real hard to get better.

You’ve brought so much joy into my life, Noah. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for being you. I’m not going to say good-bye. I don’t want to say good-bye.

Take care, Noah. Love yourself. Think good things about yourself. I love you.