The season finale of Law & Order last night was so good. So. Good.

The bad guy (Ludacris) won in the court room, but lost in life, and the good guys (all the detectives and their chief and the assistant district attorney) are about to lose their jobs because they lost the trial and because Ludacris exposed all kinds of police misconduct.

If they get rid of the A.D.A., I will be pissed. She’s awesome.

They did that same cliffhanger thing last year, only they just went ahead and killed the A.D.A. and had our favorite lawyer, Jack McCoy, use all kinds of illegal tactics to catch the bad guys. At the end of the episode, they were starting the paperwork to disbar Jack.

No. Way.

At the hospital the next morning, I alerted my father of the crisis. It must have been first Monday, because my brother was there, and we were still in the first hospital room. He moved four times during the Eleven Days Of Dying.

“Daddy, they’re going to disbar Jack. Daddy, did you hear me? The season finale of Law & Order was so seriously last night; they murdered the A.D.A with the long dark hair and they’re going to disbar Jack. Daddy? Daddy, they’re going to disbar Jack.”

He kept sleeping.

When they stop waking up all the time, that’s bad. But I already knew.

When he did wake up, he jumped a little.

“Hey kids.” It took him awhile to say that.

“Daddy, did you hear me? They’re going to disbar Jack McCoy. What are we going to do?”

Law & Order was our favorite show. When I moved to the east coast, I had the upper hand, because it came on an hour earlier here than it did back home. So I would call him at the end of an episode, just as he was watching the opening credits, and I would say, “Daddy, want me to tell you how it ends?”

He would tell me to call back on the commercial and hang up.

“Daddy, if they disbar Jack McCoy, I’m never watching again.”

He looked at me with wide eyes and nodded his head. He agreed we could never watch Law & Order again if they disbarred Jack McCoy.

That was First Monday. I think. That also must have been the day of the Morphine Incident. I remember my brother in the OR now. He didn’t know my dad was allergic to morphine. I think that’s why I remember being alone. But I do remember him tag-teaming the surgeon with me once I brought it up.

It was nice to see my dad tell the entire OR to go to hell for that. That was his old self.

It was nice to see his old self. Old Self had been absent the week before, because of the pain medication. It was really bad. Hallucinations and whatnot. Dr. Gordon ordered a CAT scan, to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind. Actually, it was to make sure there wasn’t a brain tumor, but he didn’t tell us that until after.

We hated that part.

That was the part where I thought, this is the worst it can get.  He is losing his mind. My dad’s body was never healthy; not after he had Polio in 1952. But he was probably the most well-read man on the planet. In college, we used to call him before history exams and ask him to debrief us on things like the latter half of the 19th century. And he did, in great detail.

I thought, this is the worst it can get. He’s losing his mind, and he’s going to live. He’s going to live that way.

During that time, they had to ask him what  his name was and what year it was and stuff like that. I think the day he got it wrong must have been Last Tuesday. Because I was definitely by myself. It was before 8 a.m., and I was definitely by myself.

One of the doctors came in, but it wasn’t Dr. Gordon, it was somebody else.

“Can you tell us what her name is?” They pointed to me.

He choked it out. Swollen tongue, dry mouth. He choked it out. “Mel.”

“Right on, Dad.”

“Can you tell us what her name is?”

“He did. He said M-.”

“No, wait. We want to hear him say it.”

“He did. He said Mel. That’s what he calls me.”

“Oh, ok. We didn’t hear him.”

That’s when I became my dad’s voice. His mouth was so swollen and dry, no one could understand him. But I could.

“What year is it, Mr. Lane?”

“1969.”

“What did he say?” They looked at me.

“He said 2006. Daddy, what year is it?”

“1969.”

They looked at me. “We heard him say 1969.”

“Well, that’s the year he got married and finished his master’s degree, so it must have been a good year.”

I knew I should leave it alone. He was on pain meds, and tired, and I knew I should leave it alone.

“Daddy, do you know who I am?”

“Mel.”

“I’m your daughter, right? So what year is it?”

“I said 1969.”

“Daddy. I’m your daughter. What year was I born?”

I was born in 1976. I was trying to reason with him.

“Mel, why are you asking me this? Did I get it wrong?”

I started to drizzle tears. I nodded. He was visibly very upset.

“Goddamnit, Mel. I am really struggling with this stuff.”

He was very, very frustrated, and very, very angry. He took his cancer personally. When he was diagnosed the first time, he shook his fist at God and said, “You hit a kid with Polio and you leave him alone.” He was very frustrated and very, very defeated. That was the worst part.

“It’s ok, Daddy. You’re gonna be fine. Fuck whatever year it is anyway.”

And the little girl held her Daddy’s hand and tried very hard not to cry.

And that was very hard.

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