I am not without blame, but I imagined that I could get away with it. I cannot. I let my hatred for Hoffman surface and tried to hurt him. I imagined that I had volunteered to be the hospice caregiver. That was impossible because the patient was dying but would not admit it. He’d looked for a miracle from a psychic surgeon in Sao Paulo suburb, a terrible mistake that landed him in what remained of the Jewish Mount Zion Hospital in San Francisco. He then underwent a painful resection of his liver in hopes that world class oncologists could do the work where Doctor Fritz had failed.
He was refusing to reconcile with the most important people in his life. He spurned his son and his wife was of course completely absent. He would die like a dog.
I remember that there was a lot of fuss about making the booking and ordering the food. It was all done in advance. There was some concern about catering to the Kosher needs of some of the doctors and, more importantly, one of their wives--how could you go to Tommy Toy and not include the seafood bisque?
But Hoffman already had the piqued look of a terminal cancer patient. If the pain of having half his liver cut out had not diminished, he was determined to make a show of being on the path to remission. He could blame his discomfort on the rich foods.
At some point in the evening’s strained conversation, I think that he asked each of the doctors to tell a joke. Or perhaps it might have been one of the doctors who initiated the contest. Hoffman sat at the end of the table and would have the last laugh.
I encouraged Hoffman to tell a joke that he’d told me, the tailor’s diagnosis. After some hesitation, he agreed and launched in.
Marty Finkelstein, let's call him, was feeling poorly. He had headaches, devastating mind-blinding bouts of insomnia, dizzy spells when he could barely see straight. Something had to be done. He went to the trusted family doctor. After a full work up, careful examination, the doctor had a recommendation. He knew it would be hard to stomach but he was sure it would cure what ailed Marty: castration.
It was such a shocking treatment that of course Marty hesitated, for weeks, and eventually months, but the symptoms persisted and, well to make long story short, finally he decided to undergo the procedure. He lost his nuts. The original symptoms disappeared but Marty couldn’t shake a persistent depression. The family doc had a treatment for that too, see your tailor and get a sexy new suit.
So off Marty went to the habasher. A new suit. He went in and began to buy some nifty duds. He told the tailor that he was a size 42. The tailor looked surprised and said, politely but firmly, you’re a 43. Indeed a 43 suit jacket fit perfectly. Marty thought well, OK, but as for a shirt, give him a 16 and half neck with a 32 inch sleeve. Again the tailor looked skeptical and said, but I’m sure you’d feel much better in a 17 inch neck. And on it went from the inseam to the length of the cuff.
Finally they got the waist size and underwear, the tailor was exasperated with Marty’s insistence that he was a 34 inch waist. He was a “36.” It was clear, and the results of trying to squeeze into 34 underwear were very terrible: headaches, devastating mind-blinding bouts of insomnia, dizzy spells when you could barely see straight.
A terrible joke. Nervous laughter. My stint as Hoffman’s caregiver was over. I might have lasted a few more weeks--actually at the time I couldn’t see the writing on the wall. I was far too angry to do him the service of caring for his last weeks, days and moments.
