TheBanyanTree: Stories Lost

[Monique Colver]

                Fred has written books, but they're gone now. He tells me
this as if it's not all that important, though he surely would like to have
them still. But his iMac crashed, taking his books with it to technology
heaven. I ask him if he's had anyone check to make sure they can't be
retrieved, and he tells me he knows, he worked on iMacs for years, he knows
all about them, and there's no retrieving them. He misses his iMac, and says
that learning a PC now would be like learning brain surgery. It's not likely
to happen. Fred is 64, and on hospice for his emphysema.

                During the week he has a home health nurse 4 hours a day, he
has his wife, he has his wife's family, he has hospice, but on Sunday his
wife wants to go to church with her mother and it's difficult to get anyone
else to stay with him, other people are going to church also, so that's when
I visit.

                When I get there at 10:30 on Sunday he's playing with his
PlayStation. Now that his iMac is dead, the PlayStation is the only thing
left to play games with, and he plays with an intensity that I'd expect to
find in someone much younger. His wife shows me where the morphine is, and
Fred says he'll come out of his room once he gets to a good stopping point.

                He comes out with his walker, his oxygen hose trailing
behind him, and he makes his way slowly to the hospital bed that's been set
up in the living room. The oxygen machine is in a corner of the living room,
and his hose apparently can reach wherever he needs to go. He sits gingerly
on the edge of the bed, rests to catch his breath, and we give him morphine.
His wife leaves then, her mother is outside honking the car horn, and
Jenifer is shouting, "I'm coming, I'm coming," as if her mother won't wait a
minute for her to get outside.

                After Jenifer leaves Fred swings his legs into bed, and I
pull the comforter up over him. I find his eyeshades, and he positions them
on his face. "I'll probably go right to sleep," he tells me, and I tell him
to do whatever he wants to do, I'll be right there on the couch.

                That's when he tells me about the books he's written, and I
tell him I'd like to hear about them sometime, when he wants to tell me. So
he starts talking, despite the morphine. He tells me that Jenifer is
learning disabled, she only has a 4th or 5th grade education, and so one of
the books he wrote for her, at her level, using her, as he said, as a
"guinea pig" and heroine. She really liked the book, and when she had a
fight with a friend and didn't want to see her anymore Fred took the friend
out of the book and replaced her with someone else, and this made Jenifer
very happy. I gather that overall Jenifer is easily pleased, though she can
get overwhelmed easily.

                He tells me he wrote a book about when he was part of a
motorcycle club in California, a club composed of members of law
enforcement, and they let him join because he worked with someone's wife.
Good times, riding with the cops, and he relishes the telling of his
stories.

                I commiserate on the loss of his books, and he says that
perhaps, if God wants, he'll get another iMac and do some more writing, but
he doesn't seem to mind if he doesn't. It's just an idea.

                We talk about computer games. He plays differently than I
do. When I play Sim City I create cities, then move on to another city, and
another, and I quickly lose interest in my cities. He had, on his iMac, a
city he'd worked on for years, a city that became very wealthy, with
characters based on he and his wife and their friends, but now it's all gone
to technology heaven. On the PlayStation he plays Resident Evil. He offers
me his iMac games, but I don't have an iMac. And I don't need any games. I'd
rather offer him an iMac, but, as I said, I don't have one.

                He starts to have trouble remembering something he was
trying to say, the morphine is taking effect, so he says, "I'm going to
sleep now," and I tell him that's fine.

                I read while he sleeps. I write in my journal. I read some
more. The only sound is the oxygen machine in the corner.

                He starts to stir about the time his wife is expected home,
and he wakes up just before we hear the back door open. Jenifer walks in
through the kitchen, all shiny and properly churched, and Fred yells out,
"Hi beautiful!" They are so happy to be together again.

                She asks me, in her hesitant little girl voice, if I can
stay a bit longer the following week, since her mother has to take
refreshments and wanted to know if it would be okay. I assure her that it's
no problem at all. She asks me again, because that is Jenifer's style, and
repeating things is how she learns. I repeat myself, and I assure her that
it really is no problem.

                I leave then, giving Fred a squeeze on the way out, and tell
him I'll see him next Sunday. Perhaps he'll tell me about another of his
books then, so his stories won't be altogether lost.