Saving Mel Brooks

By Max Brooks, Men’s Health

The legendary comedian's son, on giving his dad the lift of his life.

I see him in the corner of my eye, head back, eyes closed, mouth hanging open. When he starts snoring, I move in. "Okay, that's it," I say, turning off the TV. "Time for bed."

"What? Huh? No, no. I’m fine. I'm up!" His eyes are wide with protest.

“Look at the time,” I say, gesturing to the clock. "“Look at yourself!"

"I'm not tired!" he insists. His heels are dug in. "If I go to bed, I won't be able to sleep."

I sigh, and give in. "Three more dozes," I say. "On the third, you go to bed. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay, Dad."

Parenting a parent is a rite of passage few of us are ever truly prepared to face. Inevitably, it happens after one parent passes away. You can only hope you're smack dab in your 50s, your own kids off to college, your career winding down, your pockets full of life experience to help keep things in perspective.

But I was 33 when my mother died. My father was 79. My life was just beginning.

My career was picking up speed. I was barely 2 years into my marriage, and my baby boy wasn't even 2 months old. What did I know about being there for my dad, a man who'd never -- and I'm not kidding here -- been alone a night in his life? He'd gone from sharing a room with his three brothers, to the army, to his first marriage, to living with a friend, to his second marriage, with my mother. Their 44 years together fused them. When she left us, he was set adrift.

On the way back to Manhattan after her funeral, our driver headed toward the Lincoln Tunnel. "What the hell are you doing?" my father barked. "We don't take tunnels!"

The driver stammered. At this time of day, it was the quickest way, he explained.

"That doesn't matter," my dad roared. "We never take tunnels! We can't!"

I took his hand. "Dad, that was Mom who didn't like tunnels." He'd been her shield against those dark, closed spaces, and he wasn't putting down his guard yet.

A few nights later, my father was giving my son a bedtime bottle. I sat watching. His cellphone rang for what must have been the hundredth time that day, but he switched it off without looking, then glanced up at me. "No one knew her like we did," he said. "No one understands what we're going through but us." At that moment, I realized I was now my father's keeper.

It might have been a solo job, had it not been for my son. As it turns out, the parenting lessons I learned in the months following his birth applied equally well to my dad. For example . . .