Bustin’ Out

 

When my dad went in, we were sure it was the end of the road for him. He had stopped eating, stopped cleaning himself, stopped putting on his pants and stopped trying. Just about the only thing he hadn’t stopped was drinking scotch and smoking cigarettes. Then he fell.

The sign read “Rehabilitation Facility” but nobody was rehabilitating. It seemed like a nice enough place when my sister picked it out, but they always seem nice when you take the tour and they’re trying to take your money. It goes like this: “We’re not the fanciest place, but our staff really cares.” Plus, there was the added comfort of knowing that it was affiliated with the Presbyterian Church.

But it wasn’t nice. This became clear on my very first visit when I met with the director to pay the deposit. The director was a woman in her 60’s with a short silver haircut and sensible shoes – she seemed smart and practical. She asked me to make myself comfortable while she attended to some other business. A talk radio show was on in her office, but the talker wasn’t talking, he was yelling. He sounded like a preacher, but he was not preaching love, acceptance or any religion known to me. He was angrily spewing bile, hatred and nasty bigotry and no one was safe from his wrath; immigrants, poor people, blacks, you name it. He covered a lot of ground in the 7 or 8 minutes that I sat there and by the time she returned, my blood pressure had risen, I was inexplicably angry and definitely not comfortable. Surely, this must be a mistake.

“Who is this hateful person on the radio?” I asked her when she returned.

Without any shame she replied, “That’s Rush Limbaugh. I like him because he speaks the truth.”

Gulp. I was about to write a big fat check to this woman and consign my father to her care, and my stomach just dropped to the floor. I’d heard of the heinous Rush Limbaugh before, but I’d never actually heard Rush Limbaugh. He was worse than I’d imagined and it did not bode well for this so-called Christian institution to be operating under the guiding principles and moral compass of Rush Limbaugh, let alone for its managing director, Nurse Ratchetface.

I weighed the immediate alternatives. Do I get into it with her? Try to educate her on the difference between truth and opinion? Engage her in a lively discussion about the use of inflammatory language and fear mongering to increase ratings and thusly advertising dollars? No. I cut the damn check and threw up in my mouth.

When he fell, my dad was living alone, having lost his wife to lung cancer a few years before. He was sustaining himself on a fifth of scotch a day, plus beer, cigarettes and the occasional Little Debbie Honey Bun. He was so frail that I was afraid that the detox would kill him. Surprise! It did not. Slowly, his health improved. His fingernails lost their yellow tinge, his skin stopped peeling and his eyes became clear.

But this new vitality was directly proportional to the hatred he had for his prison and anyone associated with it.  I couldn’t blame him; he’d lost his dignity, his belongings, his privacy, and in this new world order, he’d lost all control of his life. So, in an attempt to control what little he could, he horded cookies, refused to socialize or talk to anyone and was a complete and total dick. Gerald Austin McGlinnen, known to his friends as “Mac”, was a mean son of a bitch and had perfected the art of effective cussing. He would regularly tell the male nurse to “fuck off” or “get fucked” or “get the fuck out” or “fuck no, I’m not gonna eat that shit, shove it straight up your ass you stupid prick.”  I’d act mortified and apologize for my dad’s atrocious behavior. The nurse laughed it off and said it was no big deal, he was getting used to it.

“Come on dad,” I said. “It’s not so bad, you should talk to some people. Make a friend.”

“Yeah, right,” was his response and then he set out to show me what he had to deal with – the potential candidates for friendship. “Come on, watch this.”

He peddled himself down the hall in his wheel chair with his feet, Flintstone’s style, past a row of immobile demential grannies in various states of mental decay and neuron deficiency.  They were lined up opposite the nurses’ station so the staff could keep an eye on them.  Strapped to their wheelchairs, they were dressed in sweat suits and slipper socks with their cataracts and oxygen tanks, drooling, sometimes talking to a loved one from their past.

“Jack, Jack, is that you?” one shouted as we passed.

“Nope, Jack’s dead,” my father barked. “See, it’s a fucking looney bin, the cuckoo nest.”

It was almost entirely women in there. It’s a fact – women live longer and end up in a nursing home. The men have it easy, they just die. My dad had two roommates while he was there, they both died. After that, they stopped giving him roommates, figuring that it might be a contributing factor to his depression.

One day, the Limbaugh enthusiast director lady informed me that Dad was too healthy to stay and that we had to “transition him to another facility.” I made arrangements for him in a senior apartment complex close to my home in Chicago. My sister and I decided not to tell him until the last minute, afraid of what he might do with that information (like possibly kill someone as a parting shot). The night before, I told him that we were moving him in the morning to his own apartment. I showed him the photos in the full color brochure of the workout room that he’d never use, the pool in which he’d never swim and the happy smiling faces of the virile residents. He sat there in silence as I assured him it would be a good thing, a big improvement. He’d be living with regular people. They had good food and a large selection of Jello. I kissed him on the head and told him to sleep well, we’d be back to get him in the morning. Later that night he called me. “You gotta get me outta here,” he whispered desperately. “I’m gonna die if I have to stay one more night!”

Lo and behold, the sun rose again. We packed up his cookies and his socks and said our goodbyes. Correction…I said goodbye. My dad didn’t look back as he peddled out the door, stopping only long enough to hoist a double fisted middle finger salute and cry, “Adios motherfuckers, I’m bustin’ out!”

About karimcglinnen

I practice my comedic voice on Twitter @kmcglinnen

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