Replacing Words with 'Ass'

 

I don't want to oversell this one. By that, I mean it's up there with the dumbest ideas I've had recently. Possibly ever. But here goes: I'm gonna take some album titles and change the last word to "Ass." 

If I'm gonna force myself into an optimistic take on this one: it's not actually dumb, it's cheeky. 

Pink Floyd- Dark Side of the Ass / The Piper at the Gates of Ass / Wish You Were Ass

Guns 'n' Roses- Appetite for Ass

Beck- One Foot in the Ass / Midnite Ass

I want to state a late disclaimer. I'm not trying to disrespect any of the great artists listed here, or cause indignation for anyone, for that matter. I'm not trying to make an anti-ass statement in my own art. The reality is that I just had a super dumb idea, and here's more of it. 

Weezer- Everything Will be Alright in the Ass

The White Stripes- Get Behind Me Ass / Icky Ass

The Clash- Give 'em Enough Ass

Radiohead- Hail to the Ass

For those of you with human decency, I'd like to give you the good news that we're almost done here. Only seven more to go. Enjoy, and then pray for me. Pray that I may see the error of my ways and come up with something better next time. Because Goddammit, I'm doing something pretty stupid here. 

Janet Jackson- The Velvet Ass

Modest Mouse- The Lonesome Crowded Ass

The Strokes- Is This Ass? / First Impressions of Ass

Beastie Boys- Check Your Ass / Hello Ass

Fiona Apple- When the pawn hits the conflicts he thinks like a king what he knows throws the blows when he goes to the fight and he'll win the whole thing 'fore he enters the ring there's nobody to batter when your mind is your might so when you go solo, you hold your own hand and remember that depth is the greatest of heights and if you know where you stand, then you know where to land and if you fall it won't matter, cuz you'll know that you're Ass. 

*Missing words: Moon, Dawn, Destruction, Grave, Vultures, End, Satan, Thump, Rope, Thief, Rope, West, It, Earth, Head, Nasty, Right.  

 

Frodos

 I have not been writing enough as of late, so I'm trying to do that now. This is the big "no more putting it off" moment. I sure hope it works, dammit. 

Some of my grouchy or aimless traits see more light of day when I'm in a dormant phase. My mind races a lot. Whether it's any good or not, there's usually content swirling around in my dome. Sometimes I show it to others. "What do you think of this space junk?" 

So here goes. I'll give this a half hour-ish and maybe it'll be worthwhile. 

A while back I watched a YouTube video about Nirvana. A musician from the Seattle scene who crossed paths with the band in the early '90s made a comparison between Nirvana and the Lord of the Rings. It hit home. 

He said that Kurt Cobain needed bassist Krist Novoselic in the same way that Frodo needed Sam. In order to accomplish that ultimate goal, whether it was becoming the best band on the planet for a year or 2 or taking the One Ring to destroy it in the volcano in Mordor, the special, chosen one required a best friend to believe in them. Kurt and Frodo were the prodigies, the gifted oddities who were like unicorns of humanity (or in Frodo's case, uh, hobbitanity?). But they were helpless without the dedication of their not-as-special best friends. A regular guy like Krist and an average Hobbit like Sam had no chance of becoming a rock music legend or saving Middle Earth on their own, but the same could be said of the unicorns, the chosen ones. They have pure hearts. They're sensitive. They can amplify a far-off whisper from God or the Devil so that the rest of us can hear it. They can change the world. They can also break like glass. 

Seeing this Frodo/ Sam dynamic in real life stuck with me for months, until I connected the dots to a relationship I was in that ultimately didn't work out. I am the one who wanted it to work out more, and I think that makes it hurt more. 

But another way to look at the breakup has occurred to me. Maybe it didn't work out because we were both Frodo types. Two Frodos (or two Sams) can't reach that ultimate goal together. The balance is essential. And it's just hard to find that balance between 2 people with extreme traits. (In my case, it is extreme awkwardness redeemed only by extreme blue eyes and beard.) 

And that's another mental trick I'm trying to realize to feel more at peace. She needs a Sam, not another Frodo. And I will no doubt overthink it and make it weird the next time I meet a Samantha.   

Learning

Losing a loved one has taught me that if I can get through this, I can get through anything. Every other struggle I've faced or will ever face is easier by comparison. It takes strength to endure grief and not let it stop me from getting shit done. I can laugh at all the trivial challenges that are nothing compared to trying to feed my dad a pain pill he wouldn't take because it turns out his heartbeat and breathing had stopped. I've been fighting past that successfully for the last 8 months, so you can bring on another rejection notice and one more night alone. These little problems won't be death by a thousand papercuts for me. Now I know I can survive worse than that. I survived something like a dagger and I'm still here, mf'ers. 

At the same time, death is permanent in a way that the other struggles are not. Feeling crushed by mental illness, losing a job with no clue what to do next, loving someone and getting dumped in a text--these have been impermanent problems. Death doesn't merely last a long time, it's forever. All the other problems seem temporary by comparison. I could try to solve the other problems by scheduling an appointment with the doctor or search for a new job I might even like more or ask another girl if she'll go out with me. I can try again if those answers fail. But I'll never have another dad. I'll never see him or watch a ballgame with him or hug him on Christmas Day ever again. Nothing can be done about the permanence of death. No amount of hard work, talent, patience, or belief can solve the rather large problem. 

Seeing both sides, it's like anything else at the core--it's a choice. I know there is truth in both perspectives. In order for me to be at my best, I need to focus more on the positive outlook. 

Dreams about Dad

In the first dream I had about dad, I was a teenager throwing a party with my folks out of town. My parents came home early. I watched the car pull into the garage. I slammed the door to the garage in a fit of panic. My friends scattered and bolted out of there, leaving their bottles behind. I retreated to the farthest end of the room, about to get busted.

My mom stayed in the garage. Dad entered with a forlorn look on his face. He was wearing a hairpiece that made me cringe. It looked so phony, with mismatched colors—a black nest atop a silver crown. It was the sort of thing he’d refuse to wear when he was alive.

We both knew this scene was all wrong. I was in my late 30s and he was gone. He didn’t bother scolding me. What’s the point?

Sometimes we could laugh about the dark side, but not this time. I woke up with what felt like a stomp to the chest. In the morning gloom I was painfully alone. It was a cosmic FU to a grieving son.

At the dinner after dad’s funeral, my friend Jim had told me I could contact him anytime I wanted to discuss this new wound in my heart. He’s taught me that the burden of grief is a little less when we share it. Jim has lost a few loved ones, going back many years. I described that dream to him in a message.

“I see a connection to my own dreams,” he said. “We are always back at our shared childhood home or somewhere familiar like grandma’s. But we’re all our current or final ages. You are seeing your dad in a different way now. And you are like.. Whoa! Dream-related emotional unpacking is fucked.”

“The hardest part,” I replied, “Is having no control over it.”

“Yeah, the dreams can be the worst,” he responded. “When you dream that everything is back to normal and everyone is happy. Then you wake up, realize it was a dream, and the nightmare begins. I call them reverse nightmares.”

In the second dream, dad gathered the family in the living room. We knew he was sick and getting worse, but he tried to show us he still had some strength. Beside the window, he opened the blinds with a tug of the rope. Light poured in after his dubious proof of strength.

“See?” he said with a thin sarcastic smile.

The sequel was an upgrade over the original. My dreams about dad improved from hopeless to underwhelming. I got more guidance from Jim.

“The dreams are your brain’s way of dealing with complex emotions,“ he said. “The way I look at it now is that in my dreams I’m able to hang around with people I miss, even if it’s in a wonky environment or situation. They’re bittersweet. I used to feel like my dreams were haunted. But now I think of them as a blessing.”

This was a more uplifting message than the one about reverse nightmares. I wanted to feel that blessing in my intangible mind. I wanted to see my dad the only way I could.

In my sleep, dad materialized and told me he was browsing online for a new car. I sighed and reminded him that, under the circumstances, there was no need for him to do that.

A week later I was rushing back from the fridge to hand him a beer as he sat on the couch. I was eager to please, but he looked at the can nonplussed. He told me he likes a different brand.

“Which one?” I asked.

“Well, Nick… It doesn’t matter,” he said. And you know why.

These were not the deep connections my heart wanted. My subconscious was acting like a punk. But I had to sleep every night. It was easy to keep trying to see him in a way that felt special. Not cheap. I knew he had the power to use his love like a form of magic, even now. Maybe especially now.

In the last dream I had about dad, I was driving home from work. It was the same route I took to get home from my old job at the call center in Neenah. I had to pull over because, farther down Tayco Street, the road was flooded. A trail of cars was stopped before the glimmering pool of water. With no way to bypass the flooded road, I parked in the lot outside a bar to figure out my next move. I went inside to get a beer to help me unwind.

My friend David sat at the bar. I took the stool next to him. As it happens, David lost his dad several years ago. When I asked him about the flood down the road, he shrugged his shoulders and stared at me with comic exaggeration. Cosmic mystery, he said without speaking. He too had no clue about the flood. So we sipped our beers and cracked each other up, talking nonsense as we do.

Then I heard a voice let out a high-pitched call: “Aaaahhhhaaaahhhh.” It sounded silly yet triumphant. I knew it to be the sound made when the pearly gates open in heaven, as it does in a movie or cartoon.

That was how dad made me turn my head. He grinned to reveal his front teeth and the dimples in his cheeks. His blue eyes squinted and shined beneath his Brewers hat. He strolled over to me with swagger and sweetness. Baggy gray sweatshirt, loose blue jeans, white New Balance shoes. In an instant, elation ran through my body. This wasn’t a knockoff or cruel parody. This was Bill! I felt the pure joy of the man’s authenticity.

In response to his heavenly sound effect, I said, “I bet you’re making that noise a lot these days.”

He leaned in and hugged me. I was happy to hug him back. (I learned later that I had wrapped my arms around a pillow and squeeeeeezed.)

“How are you?” he said.

Tears began to stream.

“I’m OK, dad,” I said. That was partially a lie, as it always is. A moment later, I added, “I miss you so much.” That was all true.

“Ohh… I miss you too, son,” he said.

We cried for joy and melancholy and held on to each other a few more seconds. I woke up with a blink feeling replenished and clean. It was 5:30 in the morning and I’d never started a day so perfectly. I stopped squeezing my pillow and started raining tears on it. I grabbed my phone right away and wrote a note to sum it up.

Dad was unable to speak on his last day. The pain the cancer brought got so all-consuming that he could moan in agony and nothing more. I said “I love you” enough times to embarrass the man, but I didn’t care. It hurt that he couldn’t say it back.

The most convincing case for the existence of heaven came to me in my last dream about dad. It was a feeling that I could never put into words, and I’m at peace with that. It might sound corny or cliched, but I don’t care.

My dad said goodbye to me the only way he could.

Socks

Going to Fleet Farm today 

reminded me of the way

my dad used to buy me socks

when he saw they were on sale there.  

And apparently 

socks were on sale at Fleet 

constantly. 

So, I built a ridiculous surplus of socks

thanks to Bill. 

My dresser drawer is very

very well-stocked with socks. 

I never had the heart to say,

“Dude, enough with the socks!” 

Looking back

I think “I got you socks” 

was code for 

“I love you.”

…

I got you socks too, dad.

First Date

 

Bill parked his car outside the duplex she rented. His yellow Ford Torino beamed in the summer sun. He double and triple checked the address she had scribbled on the napkin. This was the place.

Doubt crept in. What if it’s a phony address? But he had to take that chance.

He took a deep breath, checked himself in the rearview mirror. He flicked the part in his thick brown hair, fussed with the collar of his shirt. Ready as he’d ever be, he got out of his car. On the walkway to her front door, his chest heaved with great effort.

He needed a moment to straighten his posture. He spread his shoulders as best he could. He dwelled on words of wisdom for a boost.

If you want to hit a home run, you've got to swing the bat.

He rolled his eyes. Good enough.

In a quick movement, he balled his fist and knocked on her door. He heard stirring. Ruth was home.

A nervous impulse made him clear his throat loudly. He surprised himself with the noise. Oh God, he hoped she didn’t hear that. He sounded like Bigfoot choking on sandpaper.

The door swung open. Ruth appeared. Petite and pixie-haired, she tilted her head gazing at him—uncertain but then pleased a second later.

“Hi,” Bill said.

“Oh, hi Bill!”

Ruth grinned. She was ready to go on a date. But not with this guy.

###

In the summer of 1973, my mom was 19 and waitressing at Petrie’s Restaurant. A hub on Main Street in Fond du Lac, the place was thriving that July. Aside from a reprieve on Mondays, Petrie’s never closed. They served the locals breakfast, lunch, supper, and drinks at the bar. There was a banquet hall in the basement. Aromas and noises rose up through the floorboards, adding to the stew of human activity.

Mom could stay upbeat in the face of rude customers, or return kindness with the best of them. She mastered how to balance a large tray filled with sizzling prime rib and gravy while getting quizzed on the menu. She floated through the commotion with a resilient smile.

At 22, my dad was a rookie police officer who worked the overnight shift. His slim build got him the nickname Barney Fife. He didn’t let the teasing get the best of him. He was quiet and observant, but tough and poised. He would endure a line of work that’s as stressful and tense as they come for over 30 years.

Brave as he was, there were certain things that made him a little afraid.

Like asking Ruth out--yikes.

The Fond du Lac police station was a few blocks away from Petrie’s. Officers were known to stop by on their lunch breaks, and sometimes they felt inclined to chat with the servers. Or at least work up the courage to chat with one of them… the next time.

The first time Bill spoke at length to Ruth, he was off-duty. On a Saturday night, he and two cop friends went to Petrie’s to down a few rounds of beer. The men found a booth. Bill searched for her, trying to seem aloof. His heart thumped when she emerged from the kitchen, balancing a tray.

He had noticed her a month earlier. The anticipation had been building. Maybe his swagger needed a boost though.

Chats with his pals began and ended, patrons came and went, the jukebox cycled from Elton John to Diana Ross to Grand Funk Railroad and so on, and three glasses of beer were drained in front of him—and Bill still hadn’t introduced himself. She’d go floating by from time to time. He’d turn his head slightly with a quick glance, but that was all.

"The Brewers sure got whooped today," Bill said, trying to ignore the subject at the center of his mind.

"Yeah, but Baltimore had Jim Palmer on the mound," his cop friend replied optimistically. "We'll get the win tomorrow. Dave May's having a heck of a season."

Bill rolled his eyes. This amateur with his head in the clouds.

"Dave May is no Hank Aaron," he said conclusively, content that his favorite team was going to lose.

An hour later, his pals said goodnight and headed home. Beer cupped in both hands, perhaps overthinking what he wanted to say and how to say it, Bill sat in the booth alone.

Thankfully, he got an assist. Ruth was friends with an older waitress named Corky, who was something of a mentor. Corky was kind and helpful to Ruth when she was new on the job, whereas other servers and staff had snubbed her and been rude anytime she had a question in the early days of her employment.

Corky was keen to the glances of the thin man at the bar. Ruth was about to take her final break of the night. She took a seat in a booth across the room, in view of Bill. Corky gave her a nudge.

“I think he likes you,” she said, pointing to him.

Ruth inspected the young man as if she’d never even noticed him before. Bill’s baby blue peepers got wide. He straightened his spine, managed a thin smile, and froze. Ruth got his attention with a simple question. 

“Do you like me?” 

It took him a second to unfreeze. He gulped.  

Fastball down the middle, he thought.

“Yes,” he said. 

“Well,” Ruth said. “Then why are you sitting all the way over there?”

It was a valid point, he soon realized. He stood up, grabbed his mug, and took the seat beside her. She lit a Pall Mall and they got to talking. He took a long drag on her cig when she offered. By the end of her break, he got her number and address. Bill closed his tab and left a generous tip of a buck-twenty-five.

He walked to his Torino, his steps bouncing. She had given him the OK to visit sometime. Beyond that, he had no plan other than to come up with a plan. Driving home after midnight, he had Ruth and her info printed on a napkin. He rested his elbow out the window and breathed in the summer air. His hopes were soaring.

What Bill didn’t know was that earlier that night, Ruth spoke to a different man. Another bachelor. Cliff. 

Some might say Cliff had a stronger approach. While Bill was a transplant from the village of Mount Calvary, Cliff was from my mom’s neighborhood, and he’d gained the approval of her parents. When the blond biker realized he liked my mom, he visited Petrie’s once or twice to dine and chat with her. He kept it casual until he calmly and decisively asked her out. His blond hair tightly groomed, clad in a black leather jacket, this was how he offered a date:

“Ruthie, have you ever been on a motorcycle?” 

“No! I can’t say that I have.”

“OK, what about a plane ride?”

“Nope,” she laughed. “You got me there too.”

“Well, this Saturday, how ‘bout I pick you up on my bike, then we ride out to the Fondy airport? My brother’s a pilot. He can fly us over Lake Winnebago in his puddle jumper. You’ve got to see the view! Then I’ll have you back home by sundown. What do you say?”

She said yes. That Saturday she won the attention of two suitors. It was an accident, but someone was getting set up for a letdown.

###

Almost 50 summers later, I’m hearing the story of my parents’ first date on the back patio at my mom and dad’s house. Only, Dad is gone now. My mom sips on her Brandy Old-Fashioned and shrugs her shoulders to express, It was an accident.

I’m enthralled. I tap the side of my can of Pabst and give my two cents.

“You know, I got nothing against the miracle of flight. So, the pilot-brother is OK. But with this Cliff guy, ugh, I can’t stand motorcycles.”

“I was looking forward to the motorcycle ride,” she says, shrugging again.

“Nah, they’re overrated,” I tell her. “Totally obnoxious. Instant headache.”

“Well, your father never really liked those things either.”

“Yeah, he was smart. So! Dad’s looking overmatched here. And he had no clue he was such an underdog.” 

“I guess not.”

“Well, I kind of know how the story ends. But in the long run, why did you choose him?”

“I don’t know. Something about him was just so…” she searched for the perfect word and finally found it with a sad smile. “Sweet.”

###

When Bill arrived at her door that Saturday afternoon, Ruth thought it was Cliff showing up 20 minutes early. In the bathroom, the knocking startled her and she had nearly dotted her forehead with eyeliner. She put the makeup away, checked herself in the mirror, and hurried to the entryway.  

She studied him and they both said hi, as we know. 

Bill had a week to craft that plan to sweep Ruth off her feet. Sure, he wasn’t going to offer the thrill of a motorcycle or the awe of aviation or an instant vote of confidence from her parents, but I knew him pretty well, and he had a few tricks up his sleeve. How did this man who would become a father of four to this woman make his big move?

He cleared his throat, casually this time. You've got to swing the bat.

“Can I go get you some McDonald’s?”

How was I even born?

Ruth was put on the spot. She had to choose between Bill and McDonald’s food or the James Dean-biker and his flyboy connections. It was no easy choice.

Actually… it was.

“Well, why don’t I just go with you?”

“To McDonald’s?”

“Yes.”

“Well, yeah!” he smiled. (I am tearing up imagining that smile.) “Let’s go there together.”

Ruth hurried back inside to get her purse. She returned to the porch. As she locked the door they both let out a quick, quiet laugh. No words were required, only the mutual buzz of beginning a first date.

Bill opened the door of his Torino. Ruth nodded at his gesture and took a seat. He got behind the wheel, feeling good as his heartbeat slowed and he no longer felt the threat of cardiac arrest. They drove to the McDonald’s Restaurant on Military Road. 

Minutes later, Cliff rode up on his Ducati and parked in front of the duplex. He strode to the front door and knocked with vigor. No answer. He kept trying until he concluded no one was home. He had done nothing wrong but it wasn’t meant to be. Cliff would find his own beautiful bride someday, but on that day, my dad got the girl. And my mom was spared the unnecessary danger and splitting-headaches of a biker dude.

At the romantic hotspot of McDonald’s, the couple enjoyed burgers, fries, and Cokes. They sat at a booth in the corner and got to know each other better. Anxiety gave way to comfort, with hints of excitement. Bill even sprang for ice cream, the sly dog. 

On the stroll back to his car, Bill found the courage to hold her hand. It took him a bit longer to summon it, but then he never really let it go.

Don't Look Back

 

Taken on Christmas Eve, ^ this is the last picture I got of my dad. He was never a big fan of posing for pics, so I'm glad he obliged here. My niece and mom said "Cheese" with gusto while dad was quiet. The cancer was getting increasingly painful. I think he knew it might be his last Christmas. That worry was in the back of my mind as I captured this image. 

When we gathered for Christmas at my brother's house the next day, I didn't coax the family into a group pic, dad in front. I regret that... Dad handed out a $100 bill to his kids, grandchildren, and my sister-in-law's son and his girlfriend. With a diagnosis of what turned out to be terminal cancer, his energy depleting, he was generous to the end. He kept his tradition of giving, putting his family before himself on his final Christmas. 

I cry a few times a week thinking about him. The job I have now requires constant motion, so I can kind of use the grief as kinetic energy--but I still cry a good amount. 

If you've ever seen Breaking Bad or Better Call Saul, you know Mike Ehermantraut, the bald and stoic tough old man who fixes problems (sometimes violently) for the Gus Fring criminal empire. Mike does ruthless things, but his character is redeemed by his relationship with his granddaughter. Watching a lot of Saul on Netflix, every time he shares a moment with the little girl, reading her a book before bedtime or quizzing her on elementary math, I tear up. It shreds my chest cavity thinking that my dad's not around to cherish his 2 grandkids anymore. 

Today I slept in way too late. I found that my brother and niece were visiting my mom in my temporary home here. I was embarrassed by the time of day. I spotted a small baseball glove on the living room floor, with a softball inside. Wanting to make amends for wasting too many hours of sunlight on a sunny Sunday, I got my glove from the garage. My niece accepted my offer to play catch with me in the backyard.  

We tossed the ball back and forth, about 15 feet apart. I lofted the ball as soft as I could, aiming for her outstretched glove. She dropped more than she caught, but she's improving. Sometimes she wanted to switch up the routine by "fielding grinders." I laughed and told her it's "grounders." 

I got that shredded feeling in my chest cavity. A mental image came to me. Dad was behind me lounging on the patio, leaning back in a lawn chair, watching us. In my mind's eye, I saw him--wearing sunglasses and his Brewers hat. Relaxed in his upright posture, smiling his thin, understated, genuine smile. He was watching the 2 of us toss the ball back and forth. 

I became choked up saying something like "You don't have to be afraid of the ball. I know you can catch it, every time." 

In reality, the back patio was deserted. I didn't want to turn around. The image remained vivid. On the verge of tears, I was seeing 2 people/ 2 perspectives at once. 

I thought to myself: "Don't look back. Don't look back." 

The Opposite of Cancer

I'm going to spend a half hour writing here and post whatever comes out. It's been 2 and a half months since we lost my dad. No one else has made me feel the permanence of death like Bill has. I suppose I'm lucky to have avoided the power of this feeling until my late 30s. But damn, I've also got to live in the now, and it hurts. 

With breakdowns in my past, I decided the best way to dodge another one was to move back home to spend time with my mom and family. I'm not too sentimental about Fond du Lac, but I had no reason to stay in Appleton commuting to Neenah to work a job I despised. 

Sales support rep for a brand of bathtubs. If it wasn't telemarketing, I don't get how it was any different. I had to spam folks with voicemails about the bathtubs if they didn't answer the phone, for up to 18 days before giving up. If someone did answer, which happened about a fifth of the time, I had to sidestep the inevitable question: "About how much does this bathtub cost?" Holy shit, I dreaded hearing the words "ballpark price." Giving a price range was off limits. The aim was to set up a free in-home consultation. Setting up 100 appointments in a month led to a $100 bonus, which I never got. 

It was mind-numbing repetition, an eight-hour tunnel of dread for me. The system wasted so much time by design, with an emphasis on quantity over quality. It was obnoxious and tone deaf. I struggled with self-loathing feeling like a nuisance. I felt like a prank caller with no sense of humor. I complained to my team leader (a great guy who had to do his job by defending the job itself) but I couldn't get transferred to another company. What I did for a living was so depressing. 

Then my dad found out he had cancer. They caught it late. The disease spread quickly, up and down from his lungs, got into his bones. He called me about his diagnosis 2 weeks before Christmas. He died on Groundhog Day. 

The day before the end, he insisted on going to the hospital. He was suffering and needed treatment. They had no beds available... Here I don't want to misreport. It doesn't change anything to dig into the facts from those who were with him that day. But I doubt he wanted to go home in the shape he was in. I know that he was driven home by family. He collapsed in the garage. Had to be helped onto a blanket set on the floor and dragged to his recliner. The blanket thing was Bill's idea. My mom, brother, and aunt dragged him across the kitchen floor. Got him propped up with great effort. 

The night of February 1st, they told me Dad had said in his withered voice, "I can't do this anymore."

So the family got him home hospice care. My sister called me the morning of February 2nd. She told me this might be the day we had to say goodbye. Be prepared for it.  

I was numb driving south to Fond du Lac. You know that feeling of needing to go somewhere you don't want to go at all, but having nowhere else to go? That was it. 

Dad couldn't communicate anymore. The time before when I visited, in mid-January, I got a croaky "love you" out of him. That helps. He couldn't even talk on Groundhog Day. He was stricken with pain. He embodied pain on his last day. He just kept fighting in agony until all 4 kids and 2 grandkids arrived to see him. He knew he was dying. His eyes blue eyes fluttered, knowing it was coming, not knowing what to make of it. He wanted the mercy. We all did. But not until he could see all of us, knowing this was it. 

A hospital bed was delivered to the house. It had controls to adjust the angles at the back and by the legs, to keep him as comfortable as possible. No IVs, no medical equipment, no nurses or doctors. Hospice workers helped us lift him from the couch to the bed set up in the living room. He was going to die in his living room and that was that. 

We had painkillers to feed him. Every few hours. The oxycodone could be smashed and ground into a powder, sucked into a little plastic eyedropper thing, and shot into his mouth. I did this a few times with trembling hands and a mind that was completely scattered. 

The morphine was different. No grinding it. He had to swallow those suckers, which was a problem. A choking hazard for a dying man. 

My brothers, sister, nephew, and niece left at about 7. I could barely function. I was drinking Coors Lights slowly to numb the pain of intense grief. Pre-grief? God, just bring him peace. Make the suffering end, I thought. 

My cousin called at a quarter to 8. Bill was her favorite uncle. Was he really close to the end? Could she visit us? 

I played Beach Boys for Bill. My mom spoke into his ear during "God Only Knows." A little after 8, three of us gathered around him. I told him I was going to feed him a painkiller. He'd have to gulp it down. I set the pill in his mouth. It stayed there. It dawned on me that he was totally silent and still. 

There was no heart monitor or machines to beep the sound of a flat-lined pulse. I placed my ear by his mouth, heard and felt no breath. I told my mom and cousin I think he might be gone. I checked his pulse. Nothing. Placed my ear against his chest. Heard no heartbeat. I felt a new level of dumb numbness, realizing I had to pronounce my father dead... 

This might go on for over a half hour! I'll keep going. I'm going to jump around to other things. 

If I could find something positive about losing a loved one, it's that now I can compare any adversity or heartbreak life gives me to watching my dad pass away. I can compare challenges that make me anxious or miserable to having a front-row seat to my dad's death. 

Grief can easily wreck the strongest of us and it will always be with me. Me and my depression, chemical imbalance, and loneliness. 

But I know that was the hardest thing I've ever been through--and I'm surviving it. And all the hardships since losing Dad have been trivial in comparison. Why would I fear a first date or feel embarrassed about being a custodian again to make money for a new chapter? What kind of chickenshit pranks does life have in store for me that are going to be harder to face than the death of my hero right before my very eyes? 

I've also seen the reality of terminal cancer... It's a remorseless thing. My dad was a proud man with a high threshold for pain. Cancer hit him like an onslaught of wrecking balls. I saw cancer take my dad's life with frightening focus and speed. It had no compassion, no soul. The evil thing had a job to do and it worked with stunning efficiency. It was brought to life for no reason other than to kill. Not a moment to waste on mercy. 

I'll end this rant by stating what I've learned from that remorseless killer. 

Humans can't be like that. We need to be the opposite of cancer. Unlike that evil thing, remorseless in nature, we have a choice. We can have compassion and mercy. We can help each other get through the suffering. And if we act like cancer, if we accept or even promote the uncaring destruction of humanity, then we don't have a fucking chance. On top of all the other mounting problems??? Yeah, then we're doomed and we don't have a prayer. 

I can't say I blame someone who has seen cancer take their loved one for giving in to the bitterness, for shutting compassion down because it leads to love, which only leads to pain, so why bother with this weakness of caring? (Shit, it kind of freaks me out that now I totally get that mindset.) But it takes more courage to strive to be the opposite of cancer. It's harder to be selfless when our survival is a selfish deal, when you think about it. But I'd rather be the opposite of that killer no matter what--even if it's a losing battle.  

Speech for Dad

 

The most important thing I want to say about my dad is that I grew up in a home with six unique personalities—and his bottom line was unconditional love. He made us feel supported and loved no matter what. He was never preachy about that; he just quietly walked the walk of a true family man. He was an excellent dad, then an excellent grandpa—and I don’t think I ever heard him brag.

He was wise and made smart choices, and he was always humble, never arrogant. He was helpful and so kind, but also tough and determined. He took care of himself and had the drive to help and protect others.

I have three stories to tell out of a million and three. We appreciate the local police department for which dad served, and we owe a debt of gratitude to his colleagues for being there for my family. As a funny twist though, when I went to my car the morning after dad passed in his home on 18th St., on my windshield I found a $30 fine for parking on the wrong side of the street. It gets better: On Saturday, I looked up the last text I ever got from dad, from late November: “Nick, park over on the right side of the driveway, winter ordinance is in effect.” He knew the rules. He was one step ahead.

My dad was in rough shape at the end, but as a reminder of his true heroic nature, especially for his beloved grandkids, I want to tell you that I got a T-ball set for my nephew when he was two years old. That summer we introduced Kaden to baseball in my mom and dad’s backyard. One sunny afternoon, dad put on a show and had himself a homerun derby, lofting the plastic ball in the air, quickly composing his batting stance, and clobbering that ball over the house onto the front yard in a high-arcing shot. He was in his 60s, still hitting dingers.

Finally, we all got to say goodbye on his last day. Knowing it was a matter of time, my brothers and sister went back to their homes in Fond du Lac. Visiting from Appleton, I stayed the night. We played some music for dad: The Beach Boys. “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” “Good Vibrations”... “God Only Knows” played, and my mom spoke to my dad, me in the other room. He was gone in less than a half hour.

The next day, Tim and Winnie visited. I told my niece that papa was in heaven now. She smiled and agreed. I told her we played music for him. Immediately, my eight-year-old niece said “The Beach Boys?” At about the same time Wednesday night, far across town, they had decided to honor Bill with the same music.

God only knows what we’d be without you, dad. Thank you for 70 years of greatness. We love you so much.

2/7/22

^I have pics posted on the wall of my work cube to cheer me up. This is dad and me a few years back on my birthday, celebrating in the Olig family dining room. With the mini typewriter, I cycle through a number of quotes. I just realized it was all set up so that dad is pointing at the Serenity Prayer.