Free On Pluto by Greg O'Brien

of Assisi once said, “Preach the Gospel at all times, and when necessary, use words.” My mother preached with her courage.
    Out of a gut necessity and an innate love for one another, my parents ultimately morphed into one. Mom became my father’s legs, fetching for him what he needed while in his wheelchair; Dad became her intellect, her raison d’être . It was a Love Story of Erich Segal proportions. My siblings and I watched this slow-motion train wreck with bewilderment and with awe.
    Then, one late Sunday afternoon in 2006 on a visit with my parents, I finally got it. Hit me like a dummy in a crash test. I brought my mother a photo of all her children from a recent family reception, and she couldn’t name one of them, including me. She had no clue, and was still driving at the time. As I left my parents’ home that night, I could only think of the jarring interjection in the movie Jaws when Chief Brody first encountered the mammoth shark: “We’re gonna need a bigger boat!”
    We had a leaking dinghy at the time. Two weeks later, ironically Independence Day, 4th of July weekend—with my dad continuing to suffer from acute circulation disorders and internal bleeding after numerous fire drill ambulance runs to the hospital with Mom in tow—my mother took me aside and said she was about done.
    â€œI don’t know how much longer I can do this,” she told me. “I’m not sure how long I can hold on.”
    Instinctively, I reassured her that the family had her back, all of us, but I felt this penetrating sinking feeling that we were at the precipice of a steep cliff and ground was giving way. Hours later, I got an emergency call that Dad once again had been rushed to Cape Cod Hospital in Hyannis. Mom was with him, yet another fire drill. The nurse told me to hurry.
    I met my parents in the emergency room, filled to the brim with the walking wounded of summer. It took 36 hours to get my father into a hospital room. About 28 hours into the ordeal, Inoticed that my father, sitting in his wheelchair in an emergency room cubicle, was bleeding onto the floor. In a panic, I tried to divert my mom’s attention from the pool of blood. It was too late. She was horrified. I could see it in her face; she was done.
    â€œI’ll get the doctor, Mom, don’t worry,” I said as I raced for the door.
    She grabbed my right elbow from behind.
    â€œGreg, would you take over,” she asked quietly and in unusual peace.
    â€œYeah, Mom, I’m getting the doctor now,” I said. “I’m getting the doctor.”
    â€œNo,” she replied as I continued for the door. “Would you PLEASE take over?”
    I stopped in my tracks.
    Something inside me said that she was saying goodbye. I turned and looked into her eyes. It was as if someone had pulled down a curtain. As I watched her, I had the feeling of seeing a person, who had been holding on to a dock on an outgoing tide, let go.
    I saw her drift. Within ten minutes, she curled up like a kitten in my dad’s hospital bed, while he sat unconscious, bleeding in his chair.
    Who are the parents now , I thought?
    ****
    My wife finally broke the silence.
    â€œDo you know where you are going?” she asked.
    I wasn’t sure on a number of fronts. So, I just kept driving.
    The exit for Plymouth came up quickly, an anesthetizing ride north on Route 3 past miles of scrub oaks and pines. I had to call several times to the office of neurologist Dr. Donald Marks to get the directions straight. I was a bit on edge, awaiting results of a SPECT scan brain image test.
    On the third floor of a boxy red brick building, Dr. Marks’office had all the ambiance and accoutrements of a hospital waiting room. Opening the door, I felt as though I were slipping into Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland where “nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t.”
    I was dizzy