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| Never put beer in yuh Suddern Comfut, Fanooch . . . |
F ores
eeing the fate of a teenage boy—an imminent death six months before it would happen—was difficult.
Then, watching
him die over twelve hours, his gasping breaths, his family around him
holding an oxygen mask near his face, his ignorant physicians assuming
he had no discomfort, his heart that took nine minutes to stop once he
had stopped breathing, his family weeping once they knew he was gone,
washing his body, and taking him to the morgue, was enough to send me
into an abyss I almost did not get pulled out of.
Following
my return from the morgue and the end of my twelve hour shift, I
decided not to call in sick for my second job working for a nursing
agency. My next shift would begin a mere four hours later and I traveled
out to another hospital in the dead of winter to look after more dying
patients.
I
was not trying to be a hero; in hindsight, I was so angry, so
distraught, so unsupported and yet so numb, that I was trying to destroy
myself. I was exhausted and could not sleep and when I arrived home the
next morning after a ninety-minute icy drive, I began drinking: my
drinks of choice, Southern Comfort and beer and my choice of movies to
accompany my bender to Hell: The Godfather series.
There
are several scenes in each of The Godfather films which make my heart
pound and melt all at the same time. I was interested to see how these
scenes would affect me lubed up on booze and rage.
In
The Godfather, the first film in the series, a still innocent Michael
goes to see his father in the hospital after an assassination attempt.
When he realizes the Don is vulnerable, Michael makes a choice. He leans
over towards his Dad—who looks in bad, bad shape, with a nasogastric
tube coming out of his nose and a blood transfusion running in his
arm—and says, "I'm with you now" as he holds his hand. The Don sheds a
tear and then a new Michael is born.
Many
years ago, before he died of a blood clot, my father in law, an Italian
born in the boot, large in stature with huge baseball-glove-sized
hands, had a massive heart attack.
He
needed to be rushed to emergency surgery, and his family—a clueless
bunch that would give Dr. Phil enough shows to last a year—was not
present to sign the consent to allow the surgeons to perform open heart
surgery and "perhaps" save his life.
I
was there in the empty corridor as the surgeon approached me with a
subdued look on his face. "Would he want the surgery?" he asked, as my
pop-in-law was unconscious at the time.
"Yes" I said, and I signed the consent.
Three
weeks later, he survived and was to be extubated. Once again I was
present for the monumental step which meant that perhaps, this once bull
of a man, could finally breathe on his own. The respiratory therapist
pulled the tube out of his throat, and he breathed, asking for a glass
of water. He looked at me, I held his hand and said "You almost died,
but you're okay now," and he shed a tear.
Watching
this scene again, as the booze kept flowing, I did not feel rage but a
source of comfort that I had done something good, something right. The
next scene unfolded, and I continued to drink.
The
hours kept going by and all of the sudden, I realized I had not slept a
wink in two days. After The Godfather I became more and more angry,
threatening to quit my job in an email to my head nurse if I didn't get
some support.
She
called me, then a doctor called me and said the boy did not feel any
pain or discomfort when he gasped for breath—in a scene that looked like
it was out of a zombie film. (At one point he did not breathe for 90
seconds, I thought he had passed, so did his family, then he let out an
enormous sigh that sounded like a balloon being deflated; he still had
hours left to go.)
This
doctor was not even at his bedside when he died. How could she know
what the boy was feeling? I became more and more angry and I knew that
tomorrow I would see the boy again, this time in his coffin.
It
was eleven a.m. now, just a few hours away from the boy's funeral. I
kept drinking and moved on to Godfather II and still had not slept for
three days.
Somewhere
in my blurred reality of booze, insomnia and severe restlessness, I had
managed to get fired from my second job with the nursing agency. It
seems they were unhappy with a hungover nurse's performance when he
refused to poke an 88-year-old dying man with a needle to check his
blood glucose—a completely useless test that a doctor forgot to cancel
in light of the man's near-death state precipitated by a long battle
with cancer.
Despite
not having to trek out in the middle of the night, I took the firing
rather personally and continued to drink and not sleep. In Godfather II,
a young Vito Corleone gets let go from his bakery/ fruit store job so
that the Black Hand's cousin can take his place. Vito's boss feels bad
and starts crying when he breaks the bad news to young Vito.
But
Vito won't accept a parting gift of a food basket from his boss, nor
will he let his boss take the blame for being forced to let him go.
Instead, he takes it like a man and with Nino Rota's stirring score
playing in the background, he brings home a beautiful pear for his wife
who he kisses at the dinner table, he is happy with seemingly no regret,
no anger, and no self-pity. With my head spinning after I chugged down
another belt of my favorite 40-proof drink, I said to my wife—who was
clearly worried about my state of mind—"Now there's a real man!" and
headed out with my friend Gerry to the boy's funeral, loaded.
The funeral home was packed, standing room only. There were many of us there.
Physiotherapists,
occupational therapists and other nurses who had looked after our
tragically departed patient held back tears when the eulogy was read. I
became more and more angry when I realized that there was not one doctor
in the crowd.
When
I arrived home, I continued to drink, becoming more and more loud as
the booze began to flow easier and easier. I still had not slept and was
getting a second wind, just in time for the rooftop scene in Godfather
II.
During
a neighborhood fiesta, brilliantly directed by Francis Ford Coppola,
Vito follows the Black Hand as a rousing waltz is playing in the
streets. I stood up, glass of booze in one hand, fake conductor's wand
in the other and began screaming the waltz, note for note in what
sounded to me like perfect pitch. It was entirely euphoric! For the
first time in three days I felt good as Vito blasted the Black Hand in
the face and he fell to the ground. Then, in celebration, I pounded back
a few more drinks.
That
night, I still hadn't slept and I hardly remember Godfather III except
for one scene. In the end, Michael is sitting in a chair alone,
remembering all the women he loved. He remembers dancing with his
daughter, I have a daughter. He remembers dancing with his wife, I have a
wife. And then, to Carmine Coppola's brilliant and peaceful score, he
dies.
I
slept that night, after what seemed like a trip to Hell. My wife said I
kept waking up yelling gibberish, saying "I did the best I could" over
and over again. In the weeks that followed, I continued to drink, I was
still in pain, until one day my daughter said, "Daddy, you drink too
much." Then I quit.
I
am better now. I exercise and I try to look at the good things I have
and try like hell not to lose them: a wife, a kid, a house, a dog and
cat, and a few Volkswagens in my driveway.
I still have insomnia but, without fail, there is one set of films which always comfort me and help me to fall asleep.
In
some strange way, Francis Ford Coppola's Godfather films saved me and
comforted me when no one else could and for that, I am forever grateful
to one of the best filmmakers of all time.
