Patty lumbered into the office hauling a huge, yellow plastic bag. She was a little late, but how the hell could she have had time to go shopping beforehand, I wondered.
"This is for you," she gestured toward the package.
For me? What on Earth for? I walked over to the knee-high bag. It read "Harry and David". Ahhh, the fruit people. Fruit?
It was a giant basket, beautifully wrapped in cellophane -- the really crinkly kind that I've always loved to hear unfurl itself in a wastebasket as if it had a life of its own. A white satin bow topped the production, which contained bags of mixed nuts, dried fruit, and yes, four very large, perfect pears.
But why? What are we celebrating? And, then, it hit me, like a slug to my stomach.
My dad's dead. This basket held their condolences. I'd won the Grand Prize for Grief, a beautiful, all expense-paid fruit basket.
I'm a terrible person for thinking that; I know. They mean well; they really do. But I didn't know what I was supposed to do. What's the protocol here? I didn't think that I should wear the white ribbon as a sash, but the absurdity of the situation made me feel like it.
People at the nursing home look at me differently now; they know my loss. They keep asking me how I'm doing. I function like a normal person in front of everyone. I continue to see Pam every day at the nursing home, and ignore the fact that there's a woman in the bed formerly occupied by my dad.
"I want to know what happened," Pam said.
"To what?"
"To that man who used to be in the room with me. I think I slept with him at night."
Just how many times does she have to grieve for the first time? If I tell her that Dad died, it's as though she never heard it before, because she doesn't remember. It's not fair to her. I change the subject, and she gets annoyed. She'll forget why she's annoyed, but not that she is. Still, it's better than the initial grief repeated and repeated. We sit close together and try to get through the moment. We'll do it again tomorrow.
So, anyway, I have a fruit basket. And a lot of sympathy cards are rolling in. I went to Hallmark and asked if there was such a thing as a death announcement card, as there would be lots of his friends across the country who would not know he died, and would never see the obituary.
They looked at me like I was crazy. There is no such thing, they said. So, I bought some note cards, and figure I'll respond to people as they write letters to Dad and Pam. What a lousy way to find out you've lost a friend.
On the up side, I guess I really am alright. I show up for work and do my job; I can still laugh and plan future vacations with Robert. Lots of times, when I am finally home and alone, I fall apart, really hard. But I suppose that's to be expected. I miss my dad terribly, but I can still function the next morning and go on, knowing he had his time and mine is still in progress.
And, I ate the pears.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Big, bulky thing
"There used to be a very large, bulky thing over there, but I can't for the life of me remember what it was," said Pam, pointing at the stark, empty bed across the room from her. "Now, I know my grandmother died, but I don't think that was it."
That, mercifully, is what she remembers of my father's death at that given moment. Later, in a few minutes, she would remember it was Dad, and weep softly, saying she must have done something terribly wrong, because it wasn't supposed to happen this way.
I try to comfort her, but I'm not much help at all. I'm usually dry-eyed around her, but I am also horrified at the sight across the room. No photos on the wall. The drape around his bed open, baring the emptiness that's in both of us left behind. My arm's around her, and I say something about her hair, and thankfully, that gets her off into another direction of conversation entirely.
I'd stayed at his side pretty late Friday night, but finally went home to try to get a couple of hours sleep. Sure enough, I got the call around 3:45 a.m. on Saturday. Mechanically, I jumped out of bed and headed for the bathroom to brush my teeth. That's when the shaking started. Aim; aim, dammit! I could hardly keep the brush in my mouth. I remember that the first thing I wanted to do, was to call my dad to tell him. Tell him something tragic had happened, but then, he already knew.
So, instead, I called Bruce. He said he'd be down there later. I left the house in the pouring rain and about halfway to the nursing home, it was raining inside the car, too, but not for long. I had to face the music.
They'd already called the mortuary. There was something slightly resembling my dad, a very large bulky thing, on the bed. I knew they expected me to look at him, to do something like pray over him -- something out of character for both of us.
"Look, he's still warm," Nurse Debbie said, trying to be comforting. I looked across the room, and Pam was sleeping soundly, partially because she'd had a painkiller earlier.
I touched his shoulder and said, "Goodbye, Dad," but he wasn't there at all, and we both knew it. This was just what was expected of me. She asked about his wedding ring and told me I should take it and his watch.
Great; now I'm taking jewelry off a dead man. I very gently tugged at the ring, which has been getting so loose over the past months, we've had to put a pound of tape around it. Now, his finger is swollen, and it doesn't want to come off. I had to tell myself it wouldn't hurt him; I could pull harder, and it would be alright. Feeling like a grave robber, I looked at the inscription: "Bill and Pam forever." No wonder, I thought as I shoved it into my pocket with his watch.
Grabbing my fifteenth cup of coffee since the previous evening, I sat in a chair next to Pam and waited for them to come and get Dad. It was supposed to be within the hour, but it was closer to two. Pam snored, and I was glad. I clicked the mute button on the TV and operated the remote like a professional; I don't have cable, so whenever I get around it, I can't settle on anything. Flip, flip, flip. All I could do, was wait and hope Pam didn't wake up. I marched back and forth from the coffee station.
This will be over; it won't last forever; I can get through this.
Finally, a guy just past his teens showed up at the front, wearing a black suit and looking solemn. He said a few words to the nurse, and then headed towards me, hand outstretched. Mr. Death comes in a younger package than I'd suspected, I thought.
They wrestled behind the closed curtain around Dad's bed like fighting puppets, and finally I heard the zip of a body bag. So did Pam, and she woke up.
I held her while they finished and wheeled him out. She knew what had happened, and cried quietly. I asked Debbie to give her "something for her arthritis," and thankfully, she did. Pam soon fell asleep and I went home, stunned. I couldn't even tell my best friend, because he's gone now.
So, this is it. This is what happens: Your loved one gets zipped up and carried out, and then you stare at an empty bed for days until they put someone else in there to distract you.
I hope for Pam's sake, it's very, very soon.
That, mercifully, is what she remembers of my father's death at that given moment. Later, in a few minutes, she would remember it was Dad, and weep softly, saying she must have done something terribly wrong, because it wasn't supposed to happen this way.
I try to comfort her, but I'm not much help at all. I'm usually dry-eyed around her, but I am also horrified at the sight across the room. No photos on the wall. The drape around his bed open, baring the emptiness that's in both of us left behind. My arm's around her, and I say something about her hair, and thankfully, that gets her off into another direction of conversation entirely.
I'd stayed at his side pretty late Friday night, but finally went home to try to get a couple of hours sleep. Sure enough, I got the call around 3:45 a.m. on Saturday. Mechanically, I jumped out of bed and headed for the bathroom to brush my teeth. That's when the shaking started. Aim; aim, dammit! I could hardly keep the brush in my mouth. I remember that the first thing I wanted to do, was to call my dad to tell him. Tell him something tragic had happened, but then, he already knew.
So, instead, I called Bruce. He said he'd be down there later. I left the house in the pouring rain and about halfway to the nursing home, it was raining inside the car, too, but not for long. I had to face the music.
They'd already called the mortuary. There was something slightly resembling my dad, a very large bulky thing, on the bed. I knew they expected me to look at him, to do something like pray over him -- something out of character for both of us.
"Look, he's still warm," Nurse Debbie said, trying to be comforting. I looked across the room, and Pam was sleeping soundly, partially because she'd had a painkiller earlier.
I touched his shoulder and said, "Goodbye, Dad," but he wasn't there at all, and we both knew it. This was just what was expected of me. She asked about his wedding ring and told me I should take it and his watch.
Great; now I'm taking jewelry off a dead man. I very gently tugged at the ring, which has been getting so loose over the past months, we've had to put a pound of tape around it. Now, his finger is swollen, and it doesn't want to come off. I had to tell myself it wouldn't hurt him; I could pull harder, and it would be alright. Feeling like a grave robber, I looked at the inscription: "Bill and Pam forever." No wonder, I thought as I shoved it into my pocket with his watch.
Grabbing my fifteenth cup of coffee since the previous evening, I sat in a chair next to Pam and waited for them to come and get Dad. It was supposed to be within the hour, but it was closer to two. Pam snored, and I was glad. I clicked the mute button on the TV and operated the remote like a professional; I don't have cable, so whenever I get around it, I can't settle on anything. Flip, flip, flip. All I could do, was wait and hope Pam didn't wake up. I marched back and forth from the coffee station.
This will be over; it won't last forever; I can get through this.
Finally, a guy just past his teens showed up at the front, wearing a black suit and looking solemn. He said a few words to the nurse, and then headed towards me, hand outstretched. Mr. Death comes in a younger package than I'd suspected, I thought.
They wrestled behind the closed curtain around Dad's bed like fighting puppets, and finally I heard the zip of a body bag. So did Pam, and she woke up.
I held her while they finished and wheeled him out. She knew what had happened, and cried quietly. I asked Debbie to give her "something for her arthritis," and thankfully, she did. Pam soon fell asleep and I went home, stunned. I couldn't even tell my best friend, because he's gone now.
So, this is it. This is what happens: Your loved one gets zipped up and carried out, and then you stare at an empty bed for days until they put someone else in there to distract you.
I hope for Pam's sake, it's very, very soon.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Disciplining from afar
It's hard not to think of the stupidest things when you're at the bedside of of someone who is dying. I suppose it's nothing new; probably some sort of protective mode my brain goes into as it shrinks in the face of disaster.
My dad's death is imminent; there's no escape. He's now on morphine and some other pain killer I can't remember, and he's on an electric bed to help with some bedsores. The head nurse told me today that she suspects his lung cancer has metastasized to his bones, because his pain seems so deep. She said she's got no basis to know this for sure, but I tend to agree with her. The cancer center stopped doing scans long ago. What would they do if they found out the cancer had spread, anyway? Operate? Take out his bones? Filet him?
He didn't wake up while I was there after work today. Not really, anyway. Just long enough to say "I love you" to each other. I was surprised he was able to even say that much. And then, Boof! Right back asleep.
If he could die that way, it'd be perfect.
"Your dad is going to have a good death," said Nurse Shawn.
"Interesting combination of words," I said. "Like an oxymoron."
"Not really. Not if you've seen a really bad death," she said.
Oh, yeah. I've seen one of those.
In any case, I stood there alongside his bed, trying to picture his face from when he was a healthy dad, not this dying version. I was studying his nose for quite a long time, thinking about how different it looked now, his nostrils much more pronounced. Or, was it that his nose had gotten so much thinner, along with his whole body? I felt his forehead. His skin seemed taut, stretched over his skull with no padding underneath. My eyes drifted back down to his nose. His head was tilted back, so there was quite a good view of the insides of his nostrils. His lips had a tiny crumb of something in the corner, and I brushed it off.
This is what happens. You lie in your deathbed and people stare up your nose. For Cryin' Out Loud, I told myself. Get a grip!
I can only imagine the Karma that will come with that kind of behavior. Forget about wondering about an afterlife. Maybe a more important question is: Can you get grounded from Heaven?
I can just hear him now.
"Just what the hell were you looking at there?"
"... I dunno. Your nose?"
"But why?"
"I dunno. It was really interesting?"
"Two weeks with no phone. That ought to make you think about your next nasal investigation."
I'm going to make a sign to be hung over my bed when my time comes. "No pointing and laughing. You can do either of them separately, but not together."
Damn good rule. I should try to follow it sometime.
My dad's death is imminent; there's no escape. He's now on morphine and some other pain killer I can't remember, and he's on an electric bed to help with some bedsores. The head nurse told me today that she suspects his lung cancer has metastasized to his bones, because his pain seems so deep. She said she's got no basis to know this for sure, but I tend to agree with her. The cancer center stopped doing scans long ago. What would they do if they found out the cancer had spread, anyway? Operate? Take out his bones? Filet him?
He didn't wake up while I was there after work today. Not really, anyway. Just long enough to say "I love you" to each other. I was surprised he was able to even say that much. And then, Boof! Right back asleep.
If he could die that way, it'd be perfect.
"Your dad is going to have a good death," said Nurse Shawn.
"Interesting combination of words," I said. "Like an oxymoron."
"Not really. Not if you've seen a really bad death," she said.
Oh, yeah. I've seen one of those.
In any case, I stood there alongside his bed, trying to picture his face from when he was a healthy dad, not this dying version. I was studying his nose for quite a long time, thinking about how different it looked now, his nostrils much more pronounced. Or, was it that his nose had gotten so much thinner, along with his whole body? I felt his forehead. His skin seemed taut, stretched over his skull with no padding underneath. My eyes drifted back down to his nose. His head was tilted back, so there was quite a good view of the insides of his nostrils. His lips had a tiny crumb of something in the corner, and I brushed it off.
This is what happens. You lie in your deathbed and people stare up your nose. For Cryin' Out Loud, I told myself. Get a grip!
I can only imagine the Karma that will come with that kind of behavior. Forget about wondering about an afterlife. Maybe a more important question is: Can you get grounded from Heaven?
I can just hear him now.
"Just what the hell were you looking at there?"
"... I dunno. Your nose?"
"But why?"
"I dunno. It was really interesting?"
"Two weeks with no phone. That ought to make you think about your next nasal investigation."
I'm going to make a sign to be hung over my bed when my time comes. "No pointing and laughing. You can do either of them separately, but not together."
Damn good rule. I should try to follow it sometime.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Cruisin' for a bruisin
"Excuse me, Ma'am. Ma'am!"
I turned from my grocery cart toward the clomping of determined shoes coming my way.
"Ma'am. Could I please have one dollar? Just one stinking dollar, please?"
She was practically three inches from my face, which was turning back and forth in a "no" signal. Her heavily-frosted hair was haphazardly tied in a knot on top of her head. She was dressed in what appeared to be early '80s Madonna cast-offs, complete with leg-warmers. To my dismay I noticed some on sale at Walmart recently. This means that the resurrected bell-bottom styles I used to wear in my teens are already out of style again, but I digress. In her left hand was a grocery bag full of (what I assumed was already-purchased) food. In her right, was a jug of milk, its propriety uncertain.
Anyway, as I retreated, she followed, now practically shouting at me. No, not practically, she was definitely shouting.
"Just one dollar! Would that kill you?"
"Absolutely not," I replied. "but I'm not going to give you one."
"Oh, just fine!" she said, "I'm butt nekkid. Completely butt nekkid and the president of the United States."
"I can see that," I lied. "And, I'm sure you are, but I'm still not giving you any money."
Madame President was pissed off, alright, and began winding her way around the produce section, muttering the whole way about being butt nekkid. If that was true, it would probably have gotten her kicked out of the store; I'm pretty sure they don't allow you to shop without clothing at Vons. However, shy of that, nobody seemed inclined to ask her to leave. The produce guy was standing a few yards from this exchange with his eyes downcast, busily stacking the bananas that he had just arranged a minute ago.
"She's pretty aggressive," I said to the banana fiddler. Sometimes, I like to demonstrate my talent for stating the obvious. He nodded in agreement but wasn't going to move a muscle if he didn't have to. Leave it to management; that's their department.
What does this woman know about me, I wondered angrily. She didn't care one bit about my own situation. I could be as broke as her -- broker, even! After all, she was the one with the purchases in the bag. I only had prospective purchases. Where does she get off yelling at me; being so self-righteous while begging?
Evidently, I forgot that she said she was a politician.
I could hear her pounce upon some other innocent shoppers, and heard one of them comment that she must have been smoking something. And, there's another thing: How do beggars afford to smoke? I could get on a real rant here. Readying myself for another confrontation as I rounded each isle, I resolved to kick her ass if she started anything with me. I wasn't in the mood; I've got problems, too, for chrissake.
Okay, I've never kicked anyone's ass, even a naked president. But I was looking for an excuse to get really mad at someone, and there's always a first time. If Hillary Goddamn Clinton showed up right then, she'd be in big trouble.
And, I wouldn't give her any money, either.
I turned from my grocery cart toward the clomping of determined shoes coming my way.
"Ma'am. Could I please have one dollar? Just one stinking dollar, please?"
She was practically three inches from my face, which was turning back and forth in a "no" signal. Her heavily-frosted hair was haphazardly tied in a knot on top of her head. She was dressed in what appeared to be early '80s Madonna cast-offs, complete with leg-warmers. To my dismay I noticed some on sale at Walmart recently. This means that the resurrected bell-bottom styles I used to wear in my teens are already out of style again, but I digress. In her left hand was a grocery bag full of (what I assumed was already-purchased) food. In her right, was a jug of milk, its propriety uncertain.
Anyway, as I retreated, she followed, now practically shouting at me. No, not practically, she was definitely shouting.
"Just one dollar! Would that kill you?"
"Absolutely not," I replied. "but I'm not going to give you one."
"Oh, just fine!" she said, "I'm butt nekkid. Completely butt nekkid and the president of the United States."
"I can see that," I lied. "And, I'm sure you are, but I'm still not giving you any money."
Madame President was pissed off, alright, and began winding her way around the produce section, muttering the whole way about being butt nekkid. If that was true, it would probably have gotten her kicked out of the store; I'm pretty sure they don't allow you to shop without clothing at Vons. However, shy of that, nobody seemed inclined to ask her to leave. The produce guy was standing a few yards from this exchange with his eyes downcast, busily stacking the bananas that he had just arranged a minute ago.
"She's pretty aggressive," I said to the banana fiddler. Sometimes, I like to demonstrate my talent for stating the obvious. He nodded in agreement but wasn't going to move a muscle if he didn't have to. Leave it to management; that's their department.
What does this woman know about me, I wondered angrily. She didn't care one bit about my own situation. I could be as broke as her -- broker, even! After all, she was the one with the purchases in the bag. I only had prospective purchases. Where does she get off yelling at me; being so self-righteous while begging?
Evidently, I forgot that she said she was a politician.
I could hear her pounce upon some other innocent shoppers, and heard one of them comment that she must have been smoking something. And, there's another thing: How do beggars afford to smoke? I could get on a real rant here. Readying myself for another confrontation as I rounded each isle, I resolved to kick her ass if she started anything with me. I wasn't in the mood; I've got problems, too, for chrissake.
Okay, I've never kicked anyone's ass, even a naked president. But I was looking for an excuse to get really mad at someone, and there's always a first time. If Hillary Goddamn Clinton showed up right then, she'd be in big trouble.
And, I wouldn't give her any money, either.
Can you smell that smell?
There's a scent of shit in the house, but I can't find the source. Maybe I just don't want to look hard enough. I awoke to my dog's whining and let him out, but not before pleading with him through my closed bedroom door to please let me sleep. Let me sleep through this entire day.
It's not just New Year's Day. It's The Bad Anniversary; the day my 48 year-old brother died in 1997 from cancer. A friend suggested that perhaps I took it so hard because I was pissed off at him for getting sick and leaving me. It's an interesting theory, but it's only partially correct.
I was pissed off at the insidious disease that stole my brother from us at an age that's just insanely young to go. Angry that my parents had to lose their child; incensed that a supposedly merciful God could let something like this happen -- to a guy who had everything going for him. I was amazed and horrified at the way his wife treated us during his last moments and immediately after he died.
I have almost come to a tiny (I can't be too generous here) understanding of her now. She probably hated these interlopers who came from the West Coast to be with Steve while he took his last, labored breaths. After all, it was she who had to deal with him on a day-to-day basis. We were only there to witness the final part. Not the months of surgeries and treatments, not the refusal to eat, the weight and hair loss, the ability to take care of his own bodily functions. That might have had something to do with the way she acted; I dunno. It was unforgivable at the time: We weren't distant cousins; we were his immediate family and we all loved each other very much. But, we weren't there. She was, every day. I still don't think it was reason enough to treat us like hell, but she apparently did. I was definitely pissed off at that. She married almost immediately after Steve died. I can't even fathom what was really going on in that house before he passed away, but I wasn't thrilled with her behaviors in any case.
The God problem ... well, it did do one thing for me: It made me realize that, as much as it irked me, I still believed in God. Enough to hate him, anyway. I was completely comfortable as the atheist I'd believed I was until then. However, you can't be pissed off at God if you don't believe he exists. I'm still dealing with this one, and nothing can irk me more than when someone tells me that these types of things are "part of God's plan". If they truly are, then I want him to leave me the hell out of it.
The disease, well, of course, I was pissed off about that, but it certainly wasn't Steve's fault he left us. He'd have stayed if he could -- God knows he tried every way possible to stick around, even though the methods themselves were as cruel to the human body as could be.
I am a little bit perturbed about having to be the oldest child now. Well, there's John, my step-brother, but mostly, he's absent. It's hard for him to deal with everything that's going on; I understand that part. If you weren't raised by my dad, and able to forgive his shortcomings, it'd be hard to take as a step-anything, especially one who had to help pick up the financial pieces after my dad fell apart. I can understand that.
Anyway, I'm not happy about being the oldest now; it wasn't supposed to be my yob -- it was supposed to be Steve's. But, that's not his fault, either. Although there were probably parts of the gig he disliked, he did the responsible older brother thing with aplomb. I stumble through, like someone shoved into the job would do. I try to handle it like matter of management; it's the only way I can do it. Thank goodness, I handle it like it's someone else paying the wages; if I handled it like my house, we'd all be in deep Kim Chi.
So, anyway, there's this smell of shit in the house, and there's no escaping that kind of thing. I'm going to have to try to find it. As for the other crap in my life, I'll have to deal with all that, too. Either by stepping in it, or hauling it out to the trash, it'll get done somehow.
It's not just New Year's Day. It's The Bad Anniversary; the day my 48 year-old brother died in 1997 from cancer. A friend suggested that perhaps I took it so hard because I was pissed off at him for getting sick and leaving me. It's an interesting theory, but it's only partially correct.
I was pissed off at the insidious disease that stole my brother from us at an age that's just insanely young to go. Angry that my parents had to lose their child; incensed that a supposedly merciful God could let something like this happen -- to a guy who had everything going for him. I was amazed and horrified at the way his wife treated us during his last moments and immediately after he died.
I have almost come to a tiny (I can't be too generous here) understanding of her now. She probably hated these interlopers who came from the West Coast to be with Steve while he took his last, labored breaths. After all, it was she who had to deal with him on a day-to-day basis. We were only there to witness the final part. Not the months of surgeries and treatments, not the refusal to eat, the weight and hair loss, the ability to take care of his own bodily functions. That might have had something to do with the way she acted; I dunno. It was unforgivable at the time: We weren't distant cousins; we were his immediate family and we all loved each other very much. But, we weren't there. She was, every day. I still don't think it was reason enough to treat us like hell, but she apparently did. I was definitely pissed off at that. She married almost immediately after Steve died. I can't even fathom what was really going on in that house before he passed away, but I wasn't thrilled with her behaviors in any case.
The God problem ... well, it did do one thing for me: It made me realize that, as much as it irked me, I still believed in God. Enough to hate him, anyway. I was completely comfortable as the atheist I'd believed I was until then. However, you can't be pissed off at God if you don't believe he exists. I'm still dealing with this one, and nothing can irk me more than when someone tells me that these types of things are "part of God's plan". If they truly are, then I want him to leave me the hell out of it.
The disease, well, of course, I was pissed off about that, but it certainly wasn't Steve's fault he left us. He'd have stayed if he could -- God knows he tried every way possible to stick around, even though the methods themselves were as cruel to the human body as could be.
I am a little bit perturbed about having to be the oldest child now. Well, there's John, my step-brother, but mostly, he's absent. It's hard for him to deal with everything that's going on; I understand that part. If you weren't raised by my dad, and able to forgive his shortcomings, it'd be hard to take as a step-anything, especially one who had to help pick up the financial pieces after my dad fell apart. I can understand that.
Anyway, I'm not happy about being the oldest now; it wasn't supposed to be my yob -- it was supposed to be Steve's. But, that's not his fault, either. Although there were probably parts of the gig he disliked, he did the responsible older brother thing with aplomb. I stumble through, like someone shoved into the job would do. I try to handle it like matter of management; it's the only way I can do it. Thank goodness, I handle it like it's someone else paying the wages; if I handled it like my house, we'd all be in deep Kim Chi.
So, anyway, there's this smell of shit in the house, and there's no escaping that kind of thing. I'm going to have to try to find it. As for the other crap in my life, I'll have to deal with all that, too. Either by stepping in it, or hauling it out to the trash, it'll get done somehow.
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