Bentley Little - The Walking

As always, the corridor leading to the CCU was crowded with doctors and nurses and interns, but he'd been here so often over the past few days that no one stopped him and several people actually smiled and nodded.

He walked up to his father's open door, took a deep breath to fortify himself, and peeked inside. If his father was asleep, he'd wait in the hallway. He didn't want to disturb him. But Bob was wide awake and staring at the television mounted on the wall. Miles walked into the room. The sound of the monitoring equipment hooked up to his father was louder than the muted noise of the TV. He looked up. Oprah was on. His dad hated Oprah. Miles searched around until he found the remote control, and changed the channel to the local news program Bob ordinarily watched.

He sat down on the chair next to his father's bed. He forced himself to smile. "Hey, Dad, how's it going?"

Bob's hand reached out and grabbed his own with a surprisingly strong grip. He tried to talk. He could speak only in a whisper and only without moving his lips, the words emerging from remembered rhythms of breath. Miles leaned closer to his father, placing his ear next to the old man's mouth. "What is it?"

"Eeeeeee... Eeeeear."

"Ear?" .

"Eeeeeee... Eeeeear."

E Ear? Miles frowned. It didn't make any sense. "Eeeeeee...

Eeeeear."

He patted his father's shoulder. "It's okay, Dad." He felt bone beneath the skin beneath the covers. It was a disconcerting sensation, made even more so by the in comprehensibility of Bob's speech.

"Eeeeeee... Eeeeear," his father repeated.

Miles did not know what to say, and he kept patting his father's bony shoulder and saying, "It's all right, Dad. It's all right." He realized that since Bob probably wasn't going to die from this stroke, he would be coming home at some point. Miles felt horribly out of his depth, unable to deal with the responsibilities that would entail. The only reason he was coping even now was because the hospital was taking care of his dad's physical needs, monitoring him. He had no idea how he would go about taking care of his father on his own.

It would be one thing if Bonnie were here to help him, but his sister had not even bothered to come down and see their dad. That was to be expected, but it still pissed him off. She'd called, of course, but only once, and it hadn't seemed to occur to her that perhaps her father would like to see her or that perhaps Miles himself would like a little moral support. \020As always, she was thinking only of herself, of what was convenient for her. I-uh?" his father whispered, i

Miles

He squeezed Bob's hand. "I'm here, Dad."

His father nodded, almost smiled, and his head sank back onto the pillow. He closed his eyes. Miles found himself thinking of Claire.

His ex-wife and his father had always gotten along great, and he considered calling her. She'd probably want to know what was happening. But he knew he would not be able to bring himself to do it.

Even after all this time the wounds were still raw, and the only reason he had even thought of phoning Claire was because of some harebrained idea in the back of his mind that this would lead to some sort of reconciliation, that this would bring her back and that somehow they'd get together again and live happily ever after. It wasn't for his father's sake that he had considered calling her, it was for his own, and that was why he could not contact her.

That and the fact that he didn't want to discover how she was incredibly happy with her new life and involved with a guy she loved more than anything in the world.

"I- uh".

"Yeah, Dad."

Miles started talking. He gave his father a rundown on his day, keeping out the gruesome details of the morning.

Carrying on a one-way conversation was awkward, and he was not good at it, but his father's firm squeeze told him that the effort was appreciated, and he racked his brain try thing to think of things to keep on talking about. Eventually, he started making things up, and around that time Bob finally drifted off to sleep. Miles slipped carefully out of his chair and made his way across the hall to the monitoring station. "Is Dr. Yee here?" he asked a nurse.

"He's coming back for his rounds later, but I think he's out right now. Do you want me to page him?"

Miles shook his head. "That's okay. I'll wait and catch him when he comes back."

An intern standing behind the nurse looked up. "Maybe I can help you."

"I just have a question about my father I'd like to ask Dr. Yee."

"Which room is your father in?"

"Twelve."

"Oh, yes. Mr. Huerdeen. I'm familiar with the case. What would you like to know?"

"I was just wondering if he's going to be going home. I mean eventually, not right away."

"He'll probably be going home next week. He doesn't require life support or continued treatment, and to be honest, there's not a lot we can do for him at this point. He'll be prescribed anticoagulant medication, and we'll probably enroll him in our stroke-recovery program, which involves informational classes for the family as well as physical therapy for the patient. As you know, your father's right side has been affected by his stroke, and the rehab will be concentrating on retraining his mind and body to adapt to their post-stroke condition.

"But the fact is, he'll need full-time care. He'll need a live-in nurse, someone with professional training. I don't know what type of insurance your father has--"

Miles cut him off. 'that's not a problem."

"Are you sure? I hope so, but I'd suggest you look into the details of your father's plan. A lot of these senior health plans let the HMOs determine the course of treatment rather than the patient's doctor, which means that they have standardized solutions to every problem and a set amount they'll pay for each illness or disability. I'm not saying that's what

your father has, but if it is, you're going to be facing some major, major medical bills."

Miles drove home feeling depressed. He wasn't the happiest guy on the planet even under the best of circumstances, but now he felt as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. His life seemed oppressive, stifling, and instead of going straight home, he drove aimlessly toward the Hollywood hills, Cruising over the narrow winding canyon streets, concentrating on the road, trying not to think about his father, his job, or anything remotely related to his life.

Luckily, his father's insurance covered everything. Bob had worked in the aerospace industry during the boom years and had retired when pension benefits were at their peak, so he wasn't locked into an HMO and could pick his own doctor. As Miles sorted through the documents and policy statements, he learned that not only would the insurance company pay a hundred percent of the hospital bill, it would also cover ninety percent of the rehab costs.

He wished his own insurance coverage was even half this good, and he longed for those bygone days when employers actually took care of their employees rather than giving them the shaft. The shaft. Did anyone even use that phrase anymore?

He sighed. Another sign of encroaching old age.

It was Saturday, and after visiting with his dad, Miles went down, policies in hand, to talk to the hospital's "patient representative."

The representative, Ted, bore more than a slight resemblance to Claire, and like his ex-wife she seemed at once sympathetic and capable. She efficiently sorted through the documents he gave her, made a few phone calls, and within an hour everything was set.

'l'hey'll be sending a nurse--or a 'caregiver," as I think they prefer to be called---out to your house this afternoon

at two. As I'm sure you heard from that last phone call, the hospital no longer provides in-home care to our patients directly. We've contracted with another company for that service. Everything is coordinated through here, however, so if you have any problems, come and see me and we'll get them straightened out."