Dad Rehab

"I am."

He's in. I am surprised to find that I have broken into a slight sweat. I am aware of my thumping heart.

The next part is easy. A series of clicks. I am with purpose, a fine-tuned machine, a humming factory. Swing the chair's feet around. Click. Lift his legs into the feet. Fasten his seat belt. Click. Get the padded armrest out of the closet and slide it onto the chair. Click. Adjust his paralyzed arm on the armrest. Unlock the brakes with a swift flip of my foot. Click. Click. Out we go into the corridor.

The hallway floor is lined with navy-and-burgundy carpet, richly printed in a mock Persian pattern. It's the first thing you notice. The place is nice. Beige-and-blue floral wallpaper. Gold sconces lining the walls. Not my family's taste, but pleasing enough. What the heck. The facility is by far the best we could find.

A month earlier, my sister and I had checked out six long-term rehabilitation facilities all over the city. A whole morning in and out of the car with my 6-year-old daughter in the back seat, holding a pink purse full of crayons. We found rooms packed with people in wheelchairs, their heads sagging to their chests, parked in front of the Cartoon Network blaring from TVs.

The dementia element bothered us, but right away we knew we were up against a force far more menacing than nursing home cliches: the female problem.

These places are operated by women and, mostly, stocked with women. We were overwhelmed by doilies, potpourri, stuffed bunnies and bears with bows, caged finches, church services, vases of paper poppies, beauty parlors featuring "manicure afternoons." I was reminded of my son's experiences with elementary schools, also organized and run by women, where teachers ask 7-year-old boys to sit at desks all day and read books about ponies. My sister and I consulted each place's activity calendar. Where was poker night? Movie night featuring "Saving Private Ryan" or "Master and Commander"?

Where was the bar?

In an earlier, acute, short-term rehab place, my dad entered the rehab room cluttered with exercise bikes, parallel bars, walkers -- an arsenal of tools to battle stroke-induced paralysis and brittle, broken hips. He looked around. "All women."

I nodded. "The men are all dead, Dad. You're the Omega Man. Charleton Heston." I added, "Someone needs to open a national chain of men-only rehab places."

He added, "They could hang up posters of beautiful women in the rehab room. Now, that would be motivating."

One of my friends heard about this idea of men-only rehab and said, "You could call it He-hab."