This is my father. He was born May 11, 1926. He died December 17, 2012. He was buried December 21, 2012, the day the world was supposed to end according to the Mayan calendar. In the photograph, he is on a fishing trip in the Quetico in Canada. He is telling a story about the fish he almost reeled in that got away.
My father was a storyteller, and a good one at that. As such, I managed to follow in his footsteps in that regard. What occurs below is a story of sorts, told not so much for the pleasure of the telling but to put it in perspective for myself. I have taken awhile to put it together because the last five months of my father's life are still a blur, like a bad dream I had while sleeping through the worst disaster in the world. Or something as mythic, poetic, and ultimately pretentious as that. Here we go ...
THEN AND NOW
This is me on July 22, 2012. As you can see, I am smiling. I just lost my day job three days earlier, but I also received word that my novel Pitch had won first place in the Balboa Press Fiction Writing Contest and was going to be published.
My father was going into surgery the following Wednesday, but he felt confident, as did the surgeon (who I still believe would say anything for a quick commission voucher).
On this day, I held this vision of the future, of my wife and I visiting my parents the following autumn and Dad taking us all out to dinner to celebrate the publication of Pitch.
That was what Dad liked to do when good things happened to his children.
This is me on December 21, 2012, exactly five months (minus one day) from the date of the color photo above. I do not know if I look older, but I certainly do not look happier.
On this day, we buried my father. It was Friday. Dad had died on Monday, December 17.
On Tuesday, December 18, I began compiling a video montage of photos and clips of Dad set to music, to be shown at his funeral.
I began at 4:00 p.m. Tuesday afternoon and worked until 6:00 a.m. Wednesday morning, December 19. Then my wife and I got in the car and drove 1330 miles to Kansas for Dad's funeral.
It took us 23 hours because of the ice and snow.
That is part of the reason I looked this way on Friday.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
This video depicts what Hermosa Beach looked like on July 22, three days before Dad's surgery. The photo of me smiling above was taken in Sharkeez, what used to be my favorite spot on Pier Avenue. I was happy in the photo because I had spent the day on the beach with my wife, and then we had gone to Sharkeez for lunch. Baseball was on the television, the Dodgers were still in first place, I believe, and if memory serves, they were winning that day.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
One week later, my wife and I went to Hermosa Beach again with my friend Greg Yoder and his family. I had a good time playing with my Action Movie Effects app on my iPod Touch, as you can see in the video above. It was a beautiful day, and I was happy, and all was well. Mom was trying to text me, but without wi-fi, I did not get the text. It read: Call me! Your father is in critical condition!
It just so happened that July 29, 2012, was my parents anniversary. They had been married 62 years. I was going to call them later, assuming Dad was recovering from his surgery just fine since he was always a tough old bear. I had no idea that Mom was trying to text me.
At about 2:30 that afternoon, I was laying down on a towel in our cabana (featured in video above, right). I was using my back-pack as a pillow. As I lay there, I heard something buzzing in the back-pack--my cell phone. I dug it out to answer it. It was my brother, Shane. He told me that there had been a major leakage from Dad's surgery, resulting in septic shock. Dad was in cardiac arrest and having kidney failure. Shane and Mom had made the call to have Dad shipped to a Wichita Hospital, where doctors would fight to save him, although the prognosis was grim.
My wife and I left the beach, feeling helpless. We went to Sharkeez to try and eat, but as we were looking at the menu, we decided that it would be better if we left the beach, went home, packed our suitcases, and drove to Kansas to be with the family. We headed to the back exit of Sharkeez, which opened to the parking lot where we were parked. One of the kids working there at Sharkeez stood in our way. He told us that we could not go out the back, that we would have to go out the front and walk all the way around the building.
I walked down Pier Avenue shouting and cursing this kid, and Sharkeez, and humanity. It was the only thing I could do to keep myself from breaking into tears. It should be noted that I have never gone back to Sharkeez since that day.
At about 2:30 that afternoon, I was laying down on a towel in our cabana (featured in video above, right). I was using my back-pack as a pillow. As I lay there, I heard something buzzing in the back-pack--my cell phone. I dug it out to answer it. It was my brother, Shane. He told me that there had been a major leakage from Dad's surgery, resulting in septic shock. Dad was in cardiac arrest and having kidney failure. Shane and Mom had made the call to have Dad shipped to a Wichita Hospital, where doctors would fight to save him, although the prognosis was grim.
My wife and I left the beach, feeling helpless. We went to Sharkeez to try and eat, but as we were looking at the menu, we decided that it would be better if we left the beach, went home, packed our suitcases, and drove to Kansas to be with the family. We headed to the back exit of Sharkeez, which opened to the parking lot where we were parked. One of the kids working there at Sharkeez stood in our way. He told us that we could not go out the back, that we would have to go out the front and walk all the way around the building.
I walked down Pier Avenue shouting and cursing this kid, and Sharkeez, and humanity. It was the only thing I could do to keep myself from breaking into tears. It should be noted that I have never gone back to Sharkeez since that day.
February 5, 2013
I am big on dates, on numbers, on marking the passage of time. For example, 22 years ago today, I got sober the first time, crawling into an AA meeting with a court-appointed counselor threatened to pull me out of graduate school and put me into mandatory treatment. It only lasted two years, then another year of outdoor practice brought me back into recovery for good.
Much time has passed since I began this chronicle of the last five months of my father's life. I think when I get to that moment, sitting in Sharkeez, wondering what to do--a moment punctuated by a rude employee refusing to let me go out the back way to get to my car--I find that I vapor-lock.
It was July 29, 2013, my parents 62nd anniversary, and from that day until Dad's funeral on December 21, 2012, everything is a whirlwind, a pastiche of awful moments chronicled only in photos.
The view from the 6th Floor of St. Francis in Wichita, Kansas, taken from the elevator wells while heading back to the parking lot after another long day with Dad. Beautiful sunset, gazing out at my old stomping grounds, wishing I was anywhere but here.
The view from my seat in Dad's hospital room, gazing back out into the hall towards the nurse's station. Not sure why I took this photo. I think I was in awe of the ugliness of the moment and didn't think I would later believe it real if I did not document it.
The parking lot in Susan B. Allen Memorial in El Dorado as I waited for the transport, which was bringing Dad from Wichita back to his hometown, where he would later die.
Moving Dad into SBA. All of us were telling ourselves that this was a good thing, and I guess to have him closer made it so, but no one truly believed this was the start of some miraculous recovery.
On 12/12/12 at exactly 12:12, I did this screen capture of the face of my iPod, using my own image as the wallpaper. I was hoping there would be some sort of positive mojo in the numbers (12 disciples of Christ, 12 Steps of AA, etc.)
Five days later, my father died.
This is the wallpaper I have on my phone today. I just now took the screen shot. Notice the time ... I did not plan that. I am told that when you see the recurrence of 11:11, the Universe is trying to tell you something.
Storyteller
I told you my father was a storyteller. I told you that he is a reason I am a storyteller too. Below is one of my favorite photos of the two of us. As you can see, Dad is telling a story, and I am listening, clearly enjoying it. My Mom is sitting in the shotgun side of the car. When my wife snapped this picture, I don't think any of us had any idea of how important it would become for us.
Epilogue
Back in the 1950s, when my father was refereeing high school basketball games in Western Kansas, someone turned this ring in to the lost and found. Nobody claimed it. Weeks later, at the end of the season, when the lost and found was being cleared out, someone gave it to Dad, and he put it in his jewelry box and forgot about it.
In 1994, when I got sober, Dad found this ring, polished it up, and gave it to me. I used to half-jokingly refer to it as my "Spirit guide."
It's not a joke anymore.
Peace.
In 1994, when I got sober, Dad found this ring, polished it up, and gave it to me. I used to half-jokingly refer to it as my "Spirit guide."
It's not a joke anymore.
Peace.
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