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.