L

The past is prologue

         I was an oncologist in the mid 1990s.  My days were filled with drama, but the occasional 48 hour work day were taking their toll. Cyn worked part time. 

         We were raising three children, delightful toddlers who shared blue eyes and  weak lower esophageal sphincters . For this reason, the house smelled faintly of baby formula, the carpets were sticky and crusty, and we realized our decoration schemes had to camouflage the  beige color variation of oatmeal  and Similac vomit.

         Because of our long work days, we hired a series of Au Pairs. These young women appeared  in July and lived with us for a year. They were given room and board and a stipend. In addition, they were treated  as members of the family, with access to our car, and a spot  on our vacation travels.  The program ended after a series of  horrors, committed both by the Au Pair and the families .

         We loved the  program. The kids learned about  other cultures and the Au Pairs learned not all Americans were  fascist-crypto-neo-nazi-tubs O butter. Ah, the Clinton years. 

         Cyn and I  established vaguely parental relationship with our Au Pairs. We worried when they  were out late, or dated local West Hartford boys. I was suddenly the father of a series  of young, usually, Norwegian, women.     

         Flash forward to 2019  The  baby formula has been replaced by Two Cal HN, Dense  Protein nutrition to rebuild my  decaying  body. I spend much of  my day forcing this viscous off -white liquid down my G tube and into my stomach. I spill a little, so the house once again has that   faintly sweet sticky  vanilla scent and  the carpeting  beneath my “ feeding chair” has developed  a nostalgic crust.

         I am well into my second childhood.  I am unable to lift more than five pounds, I can’t stay awake past 7:30 or so and, although I am starting to drive again, my reflexes are a little slow. The GVHD has stiffened my joints and muscles, getting dressed is a 20-minute production. Socks? Forgetaboutit.

         Enter L.  L. is. Twenty something college student. She has become my au Pair.  She treats me with the same amused condescension   I once reserved for my Au Pairs   Karma, is, in fact, a bitch.   She texts Cyn about my mood. ( I’m worried about Steven. He is particularly dark today)

         I am grateful for her presence.  I find our relationship disconcerting, I am certainly not her father (although her real dad is one year younger than I). I am her charge. I’m certainly not her peer, I’m a creepy, creaky  old man.  I try to connect though music, but she doesn’t know about the Beatles, whose music, I realize in horror, is 55 years old.  Music written 55 years before birth included “Give my Regards to Broadway” I am horribly old.

She has no knowledge of Steely Dan, so when I quote them:

         Hey 19, that's ‘retha Franklin’

She doesn’t remember the queen of soul

         Hard times have fallen us soul survivors

She thinks I’m crazy but I’m just growing old

she gives me a blank stare

         Thank god for  bicycle spin  classes  where contemporary music is played  so I have some idea of the current music scene. Taylor swift is still a thing. I have that peculiarity  old men share, an incredulous  anger that young people have no idea of what good music is. How  can anyone exist  not knowing of Paul Simon’s existential "Graceland?" I finally understand the true meaning of the word “ whippersnapper.”

I am grateful for her help. I am taken aback by her bemused attitude. We both know who is in charge.  When I do particularly well at a doctor visit,   she takes me for donuts.  When we get home, she feeds me  250 ml of  enteral  feeding through my  G tube.

She plans to go to medical school.  She needs a place to stay  after she graduates  college. Cyn and I will offer her the old Au Pair  room.  I hope she doesn’t date our  next door neighbor's son. He’s three.