Open your heart

"We have to go pick up Frank at the hospital," Luis said as I arrived at BWI train station Saturday afternoon.

"I thought he was going into rehab," I said.

"Me, too," Luis said, "but I got a call from my sister that he's been discharged and they're just waiting for me."

On Friday Frank wasn't recovering so well, and his doctor recommended he go to rehab. On Saturday he was miraculously well enough to go home. I suddenly felt maybe it wasn't a good time for me to visit, but then there really was never a good time to visit Luis's family. I hadn't been down to see them since early last year. Luis had stopped going to his mother's since the summer because he was tired of hearing her and his stepfather's right-wing views. Now everyone was preoccupied with the dizzying seesaw of Frank's health after his open-heart surgery.

Luis sped to Union Memorial Hospital, located in a depressed section of Baltimore. I'd spent a lot of time in Baltimore when I lived in the DC area. The first of the three Harrys I dated lived there in the early 1990s. For about 6 months I spent every weekend at his mother's house and got to know the city well. Baltimore was undergoing a renaissance, and property was dirt cheap. I briefly considered moving there, until the relationship ended.

But as we drove up Calvert Street in the dark, from Inner Harbor, past the gay area, into the largely poor, black sections, the city seemed depressing and scary. We sailed past block after block of boarded-up, burnt-out buildings, a flashback to 1980s New York.

Frank and Carmen were sitting in the hospital room when we arrived. "Tanya [the floor attendant] says she's going to fine us $10 for being late," Carmen said. I didn't know whether she was kidding. Luis had found out right before he met me at the station that he had to pick up Frank. Luis looked tired from a combination of not sleeping, schlepping everyone around everywhere, and anxiety. Frank, on the other hand, looked healthy and not at all as near death as I'd imagined.

"I have to clutch this pillow and use it to lift myself with my legs," Frank said, instructively rather than informationally.

"He can't use his arms at all," Carmen said.

My interaction with Frank is often forced. He is overly formal with just about everyone, so it's not personal. His Britishness is so stereotypical it's funny. He refers to himself in third person impersonal: "One hopes that one doesn't cause further damage to oneself." His Christmas card to Luis, who has been his stepson for more than 20 years, read, "To Luis. From Frank. Merry Christmas."

While we were waiting in the hospital corridor for Carmen and Frank to check out, Luis rolled his eyes and said, "I've seen more of Frank than anyone should ever see. He asked me to help him off with his underpants." I grimaced. "It's not pretty down there. Even my mother turned up her nose."

"The best," said Luis, "was when Frank got his heart rate checked by a cheery black Hispanic aide, and she said, 'Are you an uptight person or something? You gotta smile!'"

"Who told you that?" I asked.

"Frank," he said. "He was shocked that someone would say that."

On the ride home Frank sat up front, and Carmen and I sat in back. Frank was clutching his pillow, which was heart-shaped, so that he would remember to use his legs. It's important that the sternum remain stable so that the incisions don't reopen. No lifting, no pushing, no strain of any kind on the breastbone is allowed.

We were only about a third of the way back to Carmen and Frank's house when Frank began preparing us for his re-entry into civilization, which sounded like a Goebbels war plan. "Now," said Frank, "it's critical that one stays warm. So, Carmen, you and Kieran will get out of the car and quickly close the car doors. Carmen, you should have the key ready to open the front door, and then Luis will get out of the car and close his door. Then Luis will open the front door and we'll hurry inside and shut the door. Did anyone fire up the wood-burning stove?"

"Yes," said Carmen. "It's lit." For 20 years, Carmen and Frank have lived in an 18th-century Quaker farmhouse off a busy road in Sandy Spring, MD. The house has 10 rooms and sits on 13 acres, including a horse pasture, in-ground swimming pool, and two-story barn. The grounds are impeccably manicured, and several acres remain wooded. Deer, raccoons, and other fauna roam the property. It's very Currier and Ives.

Carmen and I began talking about the medications Frank had to take and how he should be moved if he needed help. I was curious about all of this, but more important, it was a way to keep conversation going. Talking to Luis's family is an exercise in creativity, because there's a level of formality absent in my family. My family talks almost about nothing but death and disease.

We'd gotten on to the subject of bleeding from Frank's incisions (which didn't faze me) when Luis announced that he was going to pass out.

"Can we change the subject?" Frank said. Silence the rest of the way home.

At the house, we followed Frank's re-entry plan with Swiss precision. No heat escaped, and Frank was saved from insidious hypothermia. Clutching his pillow, he shuffled into the house, with Luis and I behind him in case he fell. He made it up the stairs with no problem and eased into his bed, which is about 2 feet off the ground.

I hung out in the TV room while Carmen made Frank comfortable. A few minutes later I saw Carmen run up to their room with a glass bell, presumably for Frank to use if he needed something.

Luis came into the TV room to sit down. Five minutes later he heard ringing.

"What's that?" he said.

"It's your nerves," I said "That's the bell your mother gave Frank."

Luis ran up to Frank's room. "I've been ringing for some time," Frank said.

"Well, I just found out about the bell." Luis was annoyed that Frank had been so hateful to his mother. "You know, Frank, maybe you should just be thankful for the people that are around you."

"You're absolutely right," Frank said.

Yesterday Frank walked around for short periods, and the color in his face had returned. I didn't see him while he was sick, but he didn't look like someone who'd just endured a life-and-death rollercoaster. His spirits had also improved, and Carmen seemed slightly less hysterical than she had been.

Later, Luis told me that Frank had thanked him for staying an extra few days and helping out. "That's the first time he's ever done that," he said. We never heard the bell ring again.