Mister Bear is missing.

For as long as I have known her and for longer still, I think as far back as her childhood, Ebony has had a teddy bear. She told me about him, perhaps concerned I might tease her, but I first became aware of him when I moved in with Ebony.

On nights when we were apart – if I was in Newport visiting Mom on one of those weekends that she was flying – she would come home and snuggle up on the couch with Mister Bear and watch television. When I returned, Mister Bear would hang out on the sofa watching over Ebony and keeping an eye on me.

Whenever she was sick, maybe with the flu or just run down and tired from work, she would take her medicine, cradle Mister Bear in her arms and go to sleep.

I have heard from her best friend, Mariska Hargitay, that Mister Bear was popular with her pit bull Q, and often ended up in the Q’s kennel being licked to death. Then Mister Bear would get the full Whirlpool treatment in the washer and dryer. He has been through so much over so many years that whatever features he was once adorned with have faded and now the best way to describe him would be “beige.”

Nevertheless, Mister Bear is a member of the family and since Ebony’s illness, has been with her almost constantly. When we tuck her in at night we make certain that Mister Bear is with her. Ebony reaches out instinctively for him and hugs him to her chest where he remains until morning.

When we traveled to Newport for Thanksgiving, Mister Bear rode with us, sat in traffic with us and hung out at my Mother’s with us. He’s been there before: when Ebony first started at jetBlue, she was being trained out of Boston and Ebony came up to stay and brought Mister Bear. So he knows Newport.

This time around, for Christmas, Mister Bear made the trip with us; and Ebony kept him close even when she was in her wheelchair. She seemed to want him near and if she wasn’t holding him, sat him next to her while we watched “Love Actually,” “Die Hard” “Donnie Brasco” and “Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.” Mister Bear was also present for my non-credit lecture series: Why “Die Hard” is a Christmas movie; Al Pacino should play Columbo; and the next Star Trek series should be not about a starship and crew, but about Khan and his crew from when they are first exiled until STII.

On December 27, the day we left Newport, Mister Bear was with Ebony while I was packing the car. However, my Mother put Mister Bear on the couch while she and Ebony’s Mother Sundai, put on her coat, hat and scarf. It was only when we got back to the apartment that we realized Mister Bear was still in Newport.

I called my Mother the next morning and she went to the Post Office to send Mister Bear overnight. She sent him Priority Express and told us he’d arrive by Noon on Friday. Mister Bear would be taking an unscheduled trip but certainly it would be an adventure he could share with Ebony when they’re alone.

The thing is, Ebony had her cancer treatment on Friday and we were out of the apartment all day. Naturally, we expected to come back and find Mister Bear in his new box, waiting for us. But that was not to be: the United States Post Office does not leave Priority Express packages in New York City. So we returned to a little notice advising us how to schedule a redelivery. So I did.

Today, Saturday, we waited all day for Mister Bear to arrive. I told Ebony he would be coming today and she lit up and even gave me a Billy Idol smirk.

But Mister Bear never arrived. Sundai worked for the Post Office for 30 years and told me it’s unlikely that they’ll deliver on Sunday, New Year’s Eve and that we may not see Mister Bear until Tuesday.

Ebony seemed to take this in her stride, perhaps knowing that Mister Bear was on a adventure worthy of a children’s book, but I was pissed. I feel like Liam Neeson in “Taken” and want to call the Post Office and say, “I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let Mister Bear go now, that’ll be the end of it.”

I doubt anyone there would care. But if I find out Mister Bear is in Paris, I’m going.

Meantime, Ebony is sleeping peacefully and we are patiently awaiting the safe return of Mister Bear.

An Explosive Day

So, on Saturday afternoon I got hit by a van. I would have been actively engaging about it but there was no WiFi once I got into Emergency.

I was discharged from Queens General at 5 a.m. The whole ordeal was nightmarish.

Ebony’s friend Kim was in town and wanted to visit so when Kim came over, I went out to do some errands because I wanted to cook for Ebony and her mother and invited Kim to join us. I leave the apartment and I’m talking to my Mom on my cell with the hands-free headphones and crossing with the light across Queens Blvd to go to the ATM. I wanted to stop at the drug-front vegetable store and then go to the bakery and was considering a bottle of wine. It had been snowing all day and it was cold out so I was bundled up and had my hoodie up over my hat. I was telling my Mom that the morning was explosive – a lot of noise outside with garbage trucks and snowplows and the usual yelling – and that’s when I got hit. The truck hit me in the back, on my right side and I went a couple of feet forward, sort of on my right shoulder and hands forward, which helped break my fall. The earphones flew out of my ears but I didn’t hit my head. I turned and saw these two Latin guys running towards me, and more people coming from across the street. I couldn’t breathe – the impact knocked the wind out of me – but the whole time I was self-assessing: I can see, I can hear, I can think, I can feel my toes.

So I start to turn around and people start yelling at me to stay down, don’t move. I’m like, “Are you fucking kidding me? It’s freezing out and I’m laying in the middle of a wet road. Cars are now starting to just drive around me – because the Queens motto is “Go fuck yourself!” – and I don’t want to get hit again. So I tell these two black guys, who ran over to help, that I think I can stand and ask their help. So I’m standing up in the middle of Queens Boulevard just watching cars go around me and there’s like 8 people standing there with me, including the two of them who hit me. So I point to the median and we all walk over and then the cops came and then the firemen and then the EMTs. I called Ebony’s mother to tell her what happened and would call her later.

So the police get my info, they start grilling the drivers, the crowd leaves and the EMTs check me out. My knees were banged up but I could stand, everything seemed fine, except I had a little pain in my lower right back. These two EMTs were from Queens General – Maggie and I forget the guy’s name – were super nice and encouraged me to go with them but also understood when I told them what Ebony is going through and I just didn’t want to spend my one night off at the hospital. Maggie told me that I might be having an adrenaline high and if there is pain later, to go in.

So that was it. The police took a report and left, and the EMTs helped me out of the ambulance and I just got on with my errands. I called my Mom back, who of course started freaking out and badgering me to go to the hospital but I was like, “It’s fine. I only got hit by a van, Mom, it’s no big deal. I got shit to do.”

I did buy two Lottery tickets because it occurred to me that maybe this was my lucky day: after all, the van hit me but didn’t kill me. I guess we’ll see what happens. If I win millions of dollars I’m buying a three-bedroom condo in a doorman building on the UWS and getting Ebony long-term care and we will spend our days and nights together. I will cook and we will drink fine wine and watch movies on one of those 90-inch flat screens. And everyone can come over and visit and stay in the guest room.

Anyway, I get home but am moving slowly. My back is starting to bother me a little and I immediately started thinking about Stiv Bator, the singer of the Dead Boys and Lords of the New Church. He was hit by a car in Paris and walked away from the accident, not going to the hospital. He died later from internal injuries or internal bleeding. So this is on my mind when I get back.

Sundai already guessed I wouldn’t be cooking and made dinner; Kim had left and I missed her by about 5 minutes, so I decided to take a nice hot shower, change and pop some Advil, which I picked up at the pharmacy. I do this but am not feeling any relief an hour or so later and Mom calls and is driving me nuts and I tell her I’ll go in the morning. I called Chris, my boss, who is himself a caregiver and has been extremely supportive and helpful throughout Ebony’s condition in the last five months, and he covered me for Sunday night. So yay. I’ll sleep in, take it easy and see how it goes.

Except that when I went to sit down with Ebony, I had this excruciating shooting pain in my back and I finally had to admit to myself that maybe going to the hospital is a good idea. After we put Ebony to bed, I kissed her goodnight and headed out.

So I was there for hours. I had no internet but was able to text and Meg McCoy reached out to me and texted with me for I think a couple of hours, just so I wouldn’t be lonely, which considering it was Saturday night in the Emergency Department of a Queens hospital filled with crazies, it was a little lonely.

They were thorough with me, though.They took my vitals, took X-Rays and took blood, gave me a heprin lock and finally, I got a CT scan. The X-rays came back and there were no fractures; vitals and blood work were good; and the CT scan – they shoot this junk into you and you feel it move through your body, as it works its way into your system and down to your toes. It is a weird feeling. Took the scan and then waited for the results. Bottom line: nothing broken, no organs pierced or damaged, no internal bleeding, nada. Just a lot of bruising.

The doctor – his name is Dr. Shwanner and he was unbelievably awesome – came back with a note for work and scripts for Percocet and Valium. Fucking Valium! I can’t even believe they still make that. I don’t like taking pills – they offered me Percocet in Emergency, but I opted for the lower impact Tylenol. But of course I am going to take the Valium because it’s just so crazy and 70s! I’m already thinking I’ll take one and listen to Dan Fogelberg. But basically, I will have to take them because the pain is pretty intense and Dr. Shwanner said it will get worse over the next two days before it tapers off.

This guy, Shwanner, by the way: after I was finished with the CT scan, he happened to be down there – it’s like three corridors away from the Emergency Department – he wheeled me back to my spot in the ED. A DOCTOR did this. The doctors at Weill Cornell are great and great to Ebony, but, and I have seen this, would not hand you a Kleenex if your nose was running. They’d wait for a nurse’s aid to do it. This guy – I heard him talking to every patient and I was blown away.

Anyway, it seems that it’s going to take more than getting hit by a moving vehicle to keep me down. I’ll be off my feet for a couple of days, but I gotta stay strong for Ebony, and, you know: I got shit to do.

I really hope I win the Lottery, though. Fingers crossed.

Some days

Some days are good. I always hope for those days.

Some days are bad; in fact, some days are so bad, I worry that I will get home, go to sleep and get up and she will be gone.

And I will hate myself for having been away from her.

Lately, this is all I think about. Because there are more bad days than good.

Ebony can no longer communicate verbally; she cannot initiate her needs; she cannot stand without assistance; her right side, leg and arm, are impaired – lame, if you prefer – and she cannot feed herself. She is incontinent and needs to be cleaned, changed and dressed. Every day she needs to be cleaned, bathed, dressed, fed and later, put to bed. It is physically and mentally -- and emotionally – taxing. In five months her condition has deteriorated and this is where we are. Nevertheless…

All of these things are inconsequential to me: I will do whatever I have to do to make her comfortable and take care of her. Sometimes I just say it or write it because this is my battle cry. I just have to say it out loud so I can keep on keeping on. It is not easy; in fact: it is difficult. Regardless, I keep on. Ebony is here and she is surrounded by love. Her mother does what she can and we keep on keepin’ on. Ebony is here, in the apartment. There are no roommates, no one screaming in the middle of the night (well, Queens, but no one, you know, in her room) and there are no strangers peeking in and poking around if she wakes up. It’s us and just us and this is how we do. I will go down in a hail of bullets before I put her into some fucking facility.

Doesn’t make me any less frightened, just defiant.

And it doesn’t make it any easier: not for me, not for her Mother. Not for Ebony.

And yet, here we are. I promised her I would not put her into one of those places a long time ago. We never really discussed it but that is where we’re at. I have kept my promise. It is not easy, 

But I keep trying. I keep trying. I keep trying and it is overwhelming at times. Today was one of those days.

Nothing good to report, just more whining and whinging on my part.

Trying to stay strong -- for Ebony – but sometimes I fail.

Tomorrow, I try again.

What else can I do?

ETA (Edited to Add): I heard a great joke tonight -- How many Irishmen does it take to change a lightbulb?

Go fuck yourself.

Ha.