The Aerie
He wasn't perfect. Who is? But he was my father.
He died at 8:00 p.m. yesterday, the day after Christmas. All of us had
just been to see him at 5:00, and while his condition had deteriorated
since the prior day, the nurse did not believe we needed to keep vigil
quite yet. She was sweet and well intentioned and apparently quite
competent: I think that no one could grasp how rapidly this cancer was
destroying him. My aunt, a retired career oncology nurse who worked in
terminal care wards her entire life, had never seen a case progress so
rapidly. [dad.jpg]
So believing he had at least another day, we left.
He was alone when he died, which I will always regret.
But he was, also, long gone by then. His death was the mere shutting
down of an abandoned machine. Even his suffering was over by that
time.
He taught me card games when I was a child. Big Casino, Little Casino,
Rummy.
When I was eleven some boys beat me up and I hid all day in a phone
booth in the school. When the gym teacher found me he yelled at me,
and my parents were called to take me home. My father always worked
from home when he could, so he was available. He came, and walked me
home, and didn't say anything about the trouble that I'd had. And that
was good, that was what I needed.
When I was fourteen some friends proposed going camping overnight down
by the river. My mother told me to ask my father, certain that he
would say no. He said yes.
There are other memories, some good, some bad. He was not a perfect
man, but who is?
But he was married for 45 years to the same woman, and he raised three
kids who went on to be healthy and successful. As the three of us
stood briefly over his body tonight, I realized that we were his
legacy. He left behind little else. No great testimonials, no
particular possessions, not a lot to indicate what he had
accomplished.
He was born the tenth child of immigrant parents in New York city, the
son of a minor Mafioso-wannabe and a simple Polish girl. He never
finished high school. He lied about his age to get into the Navy,
where he had a brief career distinguished by fights and long stints in
the brig. But here we were fifty years later, three children together,
healthy, reasonably sane, and with half a dozen grandchildren in our
care.
I know of people who accomplished much less with a lot more.
Rest in peace, Dad. I love you, and I'll miss you.
You did all right.
[1]Last
He was asleep when I arrived.
Remembering my other visits, I did not wake him. When awakened, he
cries.
I had no gift for him, just my presence. Was that enough? I took his
hand. It was burning hot. Did he know I was there? I touched his face,
his forehead, but they were cool. What did it mean? I don't know.
After a time a very nice attendant came in and told me how he was
doing. That he is no longer eating or drinking. That he sleeps now
almost all the time. That he is restless in his sleep, so they've put
his bed in the corner so that he won't fall out. That the hospice
people will come to visit on Thursday and offer some kind of comfort:
backrubs, or whatever it is that they do.
As we spoke aloud he did not react. His roommate's incessant
television blared midafternoon inanities at 100 decibels, but did not
rouse him.
After a while they came to turn him and change his mattress. Something
to make him more comfortable. I left then, wishing to retain at least
a shred of dignity around my memories of him.
And I'd rather remember him at peace the way I left him. Not crying
with tearless pain. Just asleep. Resting, and at peace.
[1]Last
So I get this letter the other day.
(By the way, I'm taking a day off from the ongoing grieving process
surrounding the decline and fall of my father. Nothing new, or good,
there. Let's just say that Saturday was our family Christmas
celebration and it was... hard.)
The letter, dated November 27th (but not received until December 15th)
reads,
In an ongoing effort to maximize the efficiencies of our systems and
provide the services that our customers value most, we are removing
unused services from customer accounts. While going over our records
recently, we noticed you are not using your AT&T Wireless
PocketNet(TM) Basic Service. As a result, we will be removing this
feature from your account effective December 31, 2002.
Should you wish to retain this data service, simply complete, sign and
return the reply card attached below in the postage-paid envelope by
December 31, 2002.
Now, from my latest AT&T bill, PocketNet section:
166.188.230.240 3896.7K
Thats nearly four megabytes of data. Over a 19,800 baud link. Through
a Mitsubishi T-250 cell phone. With a screen about the size of a
matchbook cover.
That's like drinking an entire bathtub of gin through a swizzlestick,
and then having some idiot tell you you're not an alcoholic.
I'm not using my account?
So I phone up AT&T. Go through the usual rigamarole of "Press five if
you cannot understand this instruction," etc. Get hung up on once. Go
round again. Finally a human.
The human informs me that, in an effort to catch up with its
innovative competitors, AT&T has decided to jettison a good portion of
its existing consumer base in order to create "mMode", their asinine,
meaningless marketing label for their services to third-generation
(3G) mobile phones. By alienating their existing users, so the logic
seems to go, a whole slew of pierced, twentysomething
skateboard-riding consumers will rush in to fill the vacuum.
So AT&T is eliminating services to the phone I bought in the summer of
2000 specifically to use those services.
Now, you know, I can understand that, in a sort of "let's take the hit
now and reap the benefits later" kind of way. Wrongheaded, sure, but
almost understandable.
What I don't like is being lied to and played for a fool. I mean, I
don't even want to know how much time it must take to suck 3.8 Meg of
Internet gin through a 19.9K swizzlestick connection, I just know it
means I'm a serious netaholic. And some wiener named Sam Hall, V.P. of
mMode, is going to take that away from me as a favor? You may as well
try to pull the gin bottle out from under the wino you see in the
gutter!
Some kind of terse, pithy letter from me to Mr. Hall will undoubtedly
follow, as will the utter lack of any response to that letter. Mr.
Hall, if he exists at all, will never see the letter. Yet it still
must be written.
Meanwhile I have exactly one week for my business reply envelope to
reach AT&T and be properly processed before my net-fix is terminated
in the name of "progress."
As Lily Tomlin's "Ernestine the Operator" used to say, "We don't care;
we're the Phone Company, we don't have to."
[1]Last
Well, that wasn't the best idea in the world
I started my Christmas shopping tonight (really) by taking the kids
out to shop for their mother, and for each other.
They're obsessed with Yu-Gi-Oh cards, which I've [1]discussed before.
So I had to take them to Shinders -- not merely because of their
obsession, but because last weekend I'd promised them a trip in
exchange for good behavior.
Stupid, stupid, stupid kid-flim-flam that it is, they were focussed on
get-get-get to the complete distraction of give-give-give. Eventually
I figured out what I needed to do. I asked each of them to pick out
the ten cards they liked, then I had them exchange them round-robin so
that each of them had someone else's ten cards. Then they each bought
the cards, and will give them to each other for Christmas.
Even then my youngest didn't grasp the situation and was having
trouble with the idea of spending his own money -- because they were
going to spend their own money to buy these things for themselves --
in order to buy someone else the cards.
In the end it worked out. Then I took them to McDonald's Play Place.
The twins, at 11, are starting to gather that they are too big for
that place, but they seemed to enjoy it. My youngest was of course in
his prime, bouncing energetically off of all surfaces. But, no, I'm
not one of those buffoon parents who lets their kids run roughshod
over the tots for whom the place was intended. Fortunately that never
became an issue, they were all very well-behaved, even if energetic,
and my daughter entertained the little ones by playing monster with
them.
Of course, we arrive at McDonald's and what do they have? Yu-Gi-Oh
cards. In the "Big Kids Meals" I was not intending to buy "Big Kids
Meals", but when I compared prices to what I was going to buy (one
large drink, three $1 burgers and three $1 fries) the price was almost
the same, so what the hell.
With their "meals" the got two YGO cards and a CD-ROM.
Gads I'm an old duffer -- the idea of a CD-ROM as a promotional toy
still boggles me.
After a relatively painless dinner (my hard-earned immunity to
PlayPlace screeching is still intact) I took the kids to visit
grandpa.
They moved my father from the hospice to a nursing home because, of
course, the stupid freaking insurance company wouldn't pay for the
hospice anymore. Okay, okay, so he no longer can perceive the comforts
of the hospice, I understand. I'm simply just as pissed off at the
healthcare industry as every other sane, compassionate person is
(which clearly explains why Congress puts up with it).
Okay, so anyway the insurance boots my dad into the nursing home.
Fine. I try to prepare the kids as best I can: behave; no shouting,
fighting or running; it will smell like urine and chemicals; smile at
the old people.
The room (on the upper floor, which always means "bad") is as I expect
it: sterile, odorous, and shared. My father's roommate has the TV
blaring at full volume, but is watching us with a froggy eye as we
enter and makes no response at all to the "Hi" I toss his way. He's
not particularly old, but I can tell that while the lights are on, few
of the rooms are in use.
Anyway we come in and look at my father. He is sitting peacefully in
bed, as much at peace as I've seen him. But he's wasting. Papery skin
hangs from his forearms and jowls. His fingers appear bluish. His left
hand is shaking slightly. He doesn't appear to be asleep, just
waiting, so I venture a "Hi Dad."
His eyes open, his face twists into a rictus, and he raises a palsied
hand to paw at the left side of his head, keening a high, moaning cry.
I'm terrified for the kids. I look at the kids, and I can see they're
terrified for themselves.
My first impulse was to run like the wind before this experience scars
them for life. But it's too late now, best to try to deal with it.
I approach my father and touch his unmoving right arm. No response,
just the continuation of the moaning. I try talking to him, no
response. I switch sides of the bed as if that's going to make a
difference. Nothing.
Finally I shoo the kids out into the hall for a moment. I get real
close to him, stroking his hair and speaking quietly but firmly into
his ear.
"Dad? Dad? It's okay, it's me, Bobby."
Nothing.
His eyes are still open, fixed on the far wall. I slowly move my hand
back and forth, side to side in front of them. Nothing. Towards, away.
No blink.
He is blind.
I stand there a moment, helplessly. If the roommate only has a couple
of rooms occupied, my father's house is completely vacant. There's
nobody there. He's not deaf, he responds to sound, but only with his
keening cry.
Three weeks ago I stood next to the man at Thanksgiving and talked
about how good the turkey was.
Two weeks ago I followed a rambling monologue about tomatoes.
On Monday we briefly discussed my daughter's health.
Today, Friday, as far as I can tell my father is dead. Gone. All
that's left is a shell and a set of autonomic reflexes.
Then I did flee. When I realized that there was no one there I told
him I was going, and then I took the kids out of that place. They
won't be going back.
I'll go again. I can always hope he has a good day sometime when I
visit. Maybe enough will resurface to hear a word or a phrase or two
more. But that's all I can hope for.
My father was a loud, judgemental man. He had a lot of flaws. We had a
lot of unresolved stuff between us.
And, realistically, I never expected to resolve it. But I had hoped
that I could at least forge my own character against his, grow my
compassion to the point where I could encompass his parental
button-pushing and his behaviors in order to have some kind of
relationship with him. Come to a place where I understood him enough
to see past the arguments and the noise.
I'm not going to get that chance. This still hasn't sunk in yet. I'm
still too emotionally stunned to feel anything, really. I'm just
slogging through this experience and trying to remain oriented and
somewhat sane.
Next week is Christmas. I don't know what I want.
Next: AT&T knows I don't use the Internet, and other fallacies
[2]Last
Now Moldy's brain cancer is back.
Really, this is getting stupid. I'm an atheist, but if I die and it
turns out that I was wrong, I'm going to have some harsh words for
whoever is supposedly in charge.
Yesterday I was in good spirits, despite the gloomy weather. We have
several clients, we have proposals and prospects out there, we have a
couple of dollars in the bank, and I can actually afford to get some
presents for the kids. I had just finished a tour of my clients,
arriving at my favorite client site where there are always leftovers
in the kitchen.
Yes, I thought to myself (completely forgetting Alberti's Corollary to
Murphy's Law, "Things only get better so that they can get that much
worse later on,"), this is finally getting fun again.
I was in the lunchroom, staring at a large slab of sheet cake with
chocolate whipped-cream frosting, trying to give myself permission to
take a piece, when my phone rang.
It was Moldy, and he sounded upset. My stomach started sliding towards
my ankles. The latest tests were back: the brain cancer had recurred.
That was grim, but not hopeless: the treatment regimen seemed rather
effective so far, with four out of four nodes killed by chemo and
radiation. Then he continued.
The cancer had spread to his liver.
He was upset. I was upset. Everything was upset. I was so upset I
wanted to throw up.
We exchanged a few words that were braver than we were and got off the
phone.
I wanted to smash something. This is rarely advisable at a client
site, even if your friend of 27 years has just given you very grim
news. I sat and tried to get my breath, and when I had composed myself
I got up to leave, catching site of the sheet cake as I did so.
A few minutes later Karen raised her eyebrows as I passed her. "Two
pieces of cake?" she asked.
I looked at her and said quietly, "My oldest friend and my father are
both dying of brain cancer at the same time. I'm going to eat all the
cake I want." That was rude, I know.
Despite my rudeness she was very sympathetic. After a sad exchange I
excused myself to go to my desk. She was kind, and made no comment
about the tears.
[1]Last
[Warning: some descriptions in this review, particularly the one about
Treebeard, constitute 'mental poisoning' and can detract from your
enjoyment of the film. Read at your own risk.]
Welp, went to see 'The Two Towers' last night! Midnight show.
My friend Joe picked me up and we headed out to Oakdale on the
outskirts of the Twin Cities, stopping along the way to grab snacks
for the duration.
The movie was showing on ten screens in a new multiplex. I loaded my
snacks into my jacket pockets and headed in. Right inside the doors a
young lady greeted us and said "Would you please empty your pockets,
we need to confirm that you're not carrying any weapons, recording
equipment, or outside food and beverages."
I flew out of JFK on September 20th, 2001, with less security
screening than this.
So I went back to the car, doffed my jacket (which would have been too
warm anyway, since I was wearing a sweater), and transferred three
packages of Planters Hot Peanuts, one chocolate marshmallow Rice
Krispie bar, one small package of peppered jerky and a 16-ounce bottle
of Minute Maid Orange Juice into my socks. The Flaming Hot Cheetos had
to remain behind in the car.
Walking with slow, somewhat crackly steps, I ran the gauntlet of
underpaid teens. Joe's sister and her fiance were late, so Joe waited
by the doors to give them their tickets while I checked out the lobby.
Slowly, and with crinkly paces.
The theater snacks were even more absurdly overpriced than I was
accustomed to in theaters. I don't recall exact prices, but I had the
distinct impression that they had been set by military contractors. A
small video arcade had a few interesting games, but at nothing less
than one dollar -- excuse me, four tokens -- per game. The whole place
was designed to simply suck money from the suburban teen population.
And they were there in force, a motley collection of suburban white
kids.
There was a young Comic-Book-Guy in training (who sat in front of my
initial location, forcing me to choose between moving or killing him
-- I moved). A guy in a 12-inch green stovepipe hat that was
apparently supposed to be an Ent costume (and which wasn't searched
despite being capable of holding a 2-liter bottle of Coke). There was
a girl in a too-tight white "Arwen" gown who apparently got mad at her
date and slumped down to sit pouting by herself nearby as the movie
began. Another fellow attempted to get in wearing black tights, a
black turtleneck, and a black scarf for a mask, with a whip wrapped
around his neck and shoulders like a scarf, and a black baton that
seemed to be a painted cardboard tube. He was turned away for some
reason.
But they let in the guy with the cardboard cutout simulation of
Sauron's helmet from the first movie. I saw him ordering popcorn. I
never knew Sauron liked popcorn. [Deep Sauron voice, with echo]"Give
me the grease which is like unto butter... and spare not the
salt!"[/voice]
We had a lot of time to inspect these characters during the 75 minute
wait for the movie to begin.
The movie itself was... okay. Better than that, better than "not bad",
actually well into "good," but not quite "quite good." (I think I see
why Siskel and Ebert went for thumbs). It lacked the astonishment
factor that the first movie carried with it: I didn't find myself
saying (as I did during the first film) "Holy smokes, they're actually
doing this right! They may just pull it off!" Ah how quickly we become
jaded.
But it was a good flick. It lacked the "oomph" of the first one, and
it had some flaws, but overall it was okay.
They really played up the Temptation of Aragorn by Arwen, which I
don't remember as being a factor in the books. However the sex scene
between Vigo Mortenson and Liv Tyler was hot hot hot! Sorry, just
checking to see if you are still awake. Actually I did find myself
getting a little lost at times as to exactly what Arwen was doing and
what her timeframe was in the picture, which is pretty interesting
since I don't know if Arwen is even mentioned in the second book. And
of course the constant question, "Damn, how can Liv Tyler kiss that
grimy, bristly face?" I guess a couple million dollars provides
incentive.
Gollum and the Ents were at about 99%. They just needed a little bit
more and you might have been able to forget you were watching a movie.
I don't know if you've ever seen 'The Neverending Story', but
Treebeard kept reminding me of the Rock-Biter.
The battle scenes were terrific. I am going to have to buy a large
screen digital TV to do the movie justice when it gets to DVD. I found
myself squinting for details on the big screen, such as Legolas'
acrobatic flip onto horseback during the battle with the wargs. It was
just a blur on the big screen. Likewise the details of individual
soldiers during the big battles are interesting, but easily lost in
the action. Definite frame-by-frame stuff. There was one scene which
has been in the TV commercials where Legolas descends a flight of
stairs by sliding down on a shield which is a kind of disruptive and
obvious nod to the skateboard crowd.
Overall the movie was lots of fun, with many of the great New Zealand
panoramic shots that make their Board of Tourism smile, and exciting
action and battle scenes. Some of the Eowyn/Arwen rivalry was a little
overplayed, and I DON'T remember a hair-pulling catfight in the book,
but maybe I need to go back and reread it again.
So it was good, but not as good as the first. Standard sequel stuff.
Go see it. Or better yet, buy me a large-screen flat panel TV and I'll
invite everyone over to watch it with me. I'll even provide popcorn
for free so that you don't have to carry snacks in your socks.
[1]Last
Dad Update. Latest fixated notion: bok choy, or "chinese celery". I
have no idea on the particulars because I wasn't there, but apparently
he's been talking about it for two days. Go figure.
We meant to go visit him yesterday but then my daughter got the
stomach flu. Nervous after the recent outbreak of Norwalk virus
elsewhere in Minnesota, I decided that we'd better not go anywhere
near terminally ill people for a while. Last thing I need to make this
season bright is to courier stomach flu into a cancer hospice and
compound the misery of others.
Also, apparently the pain has gotten bad enough that he's now on a
patch with some kind of anesthetic.
Meanwhile, my friend Keith lost his grandfather on Sunday. And our
mutual friend Dave Arneson (yeah, that Dave Arneson) is busy getting a
pacemaker and some bypasses put in.
All in all, this is not shaping up as the Best Christmas Ever.
On the upside we continue having unseasonably warm temperatures and
dry conditions while the East and South are plagued with Jack London
snowstorms. So while things are pretty grim around here, at least
there's something to laugh at.
But overall, it's the kind of season that has me counting down the
hours and minutes until I get to go see the midnight premiere of 'The
Two Towers.' No, I'm not a nerdly Tolkein fan. Really! I went through
that phase at age fifteen, which is when it's appropriate. No, it's
just that, things being what they are, a three-hour diversion from
reality is more than welcome.
[1]Last
They lied about the pain.
I guess it only makes sense. As Tatiana, the Russian nurse, so plainly
put it, "It's trying to grow, but there is no room inside the skull."
I thought I was tough, but that was a difficult mental image to
handle. Too many Wes Craven movies I guess. Okay, and I lied, I never
thought I was tough.
We visited with the kids on Wednesday night. I thought it was a good
idea at the time. When I'd seen him Sunday and Monday (or was it
Tuesday, I'm losing track) he had seemed okay. Terminally ill,
confused, and bedridden, but basically okay. He talked, he sang, he
laughed. I guess part of me had decided, "Well, if he's gotta go, this
isn't so bad.
On Wednesday night he was crying.
When we arrived he was peaceful enough. We announced ourselves and the
kids, and he kind of cracked one eye open for a moment, but there was
no recognition there. It's strange the rituals that are just coded
into the brain: we'd say "Hi," he'd say "Hi." Automatic. No actual
sign of recognition, just a call-and-response.
But shortly after we arrived he became agitated. I took the kids to
the family lounge down the hall, and shortly thereafter he started
crying.
My mother was there as well, and we tried to distance ourselves from
his pain by analyzing it, talking about how he could be in pain, or it
could be that he was fixated on a painful idea or image. He seems to
become fixated on certain scenes: when I was there Sunday it was
tomatoes, Moldy, and certain ideas about groups. My mother told me
that, during the period when his symptoms were growing and changing
and we didn't know why, he had become very upset at a news story about
three young boys who drowned in a backyard pond. Seeing as his both
his children and his grandchildren come in sets of three, I can see
why that would be upsetting.
Maybe, we hoped, that's what's behind this.
But then he started throwing an arm across his eyes (the room was
quite dim) and pawing at the side of his head, and we knew it was a
headache.
So we called Tatiyana and she inspected him and looked at her watch
and said it had been 2:30 hours since his 2:00 hour morphine shot.
So now he's on morphine, I thought, watching his bier sail past
another milestone on the river upstream of the falls.
It took a while for Tatiyana to fetch the morphine. During that time
my mother and I took turns stroking his hair, which seemed to distract
him a little from the pain, and trying to speak to him in order to
further distract him.
I don't know which ripped me up worse: watching my father cry like a
baby, watching my mother watch my father cry like a baby, or standing
there, stroking his hair as if he were my child instead of I his.
I said before that brain cancer strips away the shell. It does that to
relationships, too. Something that would have been difficult to
conceptualize three weeks ago was needful now. He was in pain, he
needed care. The role-reversal was nothing. Our past differences are
just so much dry history. I who always sought more than I got found
myself unable to give what was needed.
A week after the hospitalization the emotions are still out at a
distance. I can deal with these issues because I don't feel anything.
I suspect that is part of the design. I suspect that when he is dead
and has been buried that it will be safe to feel. I'm sort of scared
of that time. But right now there's too much to do.
I've always been a theoretical advocate of freedom in dying. But of
course I had nothing against which to measure my beliefs. Now,
however, I'm even more of the opinion that we need to permit these
things. My father is mostly gone. He's only still there a little bit.
My mother reports exchanges with him that have some content, some
familiar ring. So I wouldn't say "now". But from what I'm reading
there's a longish period between the last exchange, the last
interaction, and the last moments of life.
And as far as I can tell that period is going to involve the slow
torture of the sufferer and his family.
At some point -- not yet, but sometime -- it will become cruel and
needless to prolong life. If it's a life of confusion and pain without
hope of redemption or improvement, what's the point?
I only hope that time will be brief, for all concerned.
And I've really had quite enough brain cancer for now, thanks.
I'm an atheist. But if I die and it turns out I was wrong, I'm going
to have words with whoever is in charge...
[1]Last
One of the things brain cancer does, I guess, is strip away the shell.
It's been weird. Going to see my dad, everybody is all glum and...
he's cheerful. He's merry.
Everything is stripped away. None of his anger and rage are present.
He's in a pleasant kind of waiting room with nowhere to go and nothing
to do and no pressure of any kind. And so he laughs. He sings. He
tells jokes. He plays with the children and flirts with the girls.
But he's not awake. His eyes rarely open, and when they do they don't
seem to see much. But he's very relaxed, at least when I was there on
Sunday. He's a little agitated, shifting around like he's trying to
find a comfortable position, but he's not in any pain. Someone told me
that the two kinds of cancer to get are liver and brain, because you
don't feel anything.
I went to visit him today only to find his hospital bed empty. Of
course I was concerned that I'd arrived to find him already dead,
though how that could have happened so quickly I did not know, but the
desk nurse reassured me that he'd been moved down to the hospice wing
only an hour earlier.
The hospice room, when I found it, was very nice. A private room, with
a comfortable couch and some comfortable chairs arranged around his
bed. They'd taken the big mittens off of him and he wore only an IV in
his left arm. He'd been shaved and dressed in a decent shirt, and
looked much more like the man I knew than the one I'd failed to
recognize in the E/R.
He lay in the bed, breathing softly through is mouth, apparently
asleep. I didn't want to disturb him, so I sat quietly for a few
minutes, but hallway noises roused his attention. "What?" he said,
distinctly.
I told him I was there. At first he didn't recognize my name, "Bobby?
Bobby who?", but later he started slightly and said "Bobby, what are
you doing here?"
But that was as lucid as it got. He began to talk about many strange
things: cherry tomatoes, and my friend Moldy.
He spoke very much like someone talking in their sleep. His eyes were
closed, his voice was usually quiet and slurred, and his thoughts
rambled. I put it down to the painkillers and sedatives. Then the
nurse came in. She showed me around the hospice, pointed out its
various comfortable features. Then she answered my question about what
medication he was on: none.
The room swam for a moment. None. The only thing they had him on was
something to prevent seizures.
The man muttering drowsing in the bed was not sedated. He was not
numbed. He was it, he was the real deal. The man sleeping 24 hours a
day and mumbling and chuckling and singing and laughing in his
sleep...
...that was all there was remaining.
The significant thing about his mention of my friend Moldy is that
Moldy has brain cancer, too. As a medical transcriptionist, my father
would periodically see Moldy's medical records on one of his
transcription assignments, so he was aware of Moldy's condition.
At some point I decided to try to transcribe my dialogue with my
father. Everything that follows is by him unless it begins with "Me:"
I'm not that type, I'll take a little help along the way
But, y'know...
There are a lot of people that ARE choosy and they have the right to be choosy.
I'm not one of those.
I should shuffle on downstairs and see...
A lot of those people don't have the opportunity to be choosy
I'm of the ilk that doesn't find a lot of people to mix with.
Then there's one group, I don't really know the, I don't really know...
alot of people actually, but um, they can't be choosers because they don't
have people to count on.
Take what you can get.
They uh, they take what they can get, and a lot of them they aren't able
to get on
Moldy would like to be in that category, he'd like to be in the know, but he
doesn't have a lot of people.
I think I'm going to shuffle off, there isn't a whole lot going on.
I guess you can call it, uh, you're in the group.
I don't know who they are exactly.
What group are you in?
I don't really care what group I'm in, the groups are important but I can't say
who they are.
Shuffle off to Buffalo.
The only people who really annoy me as a group are the ones who, uh, how d'you
put it? They're in-the-know. People want to hang around with them. I guess
it's alright to be in the know, though.
Moldy, he's a nice guy, he's got a lot of brains, and he's a pretty intelligent
fellow.
So I'm going to shuffle off to Buffalo, what are you going to do?
Me: I'm going to work in my office.
I'm of the opinion that you should hang out with anybody at all that you
should hang out with.
Me: You want any water?
No, I don't need any right now, but I was wondering where you're getting it?
'Cause there's a hose in the yard if you really need it.
Me: No, I'm not getting it from the hose, Dad.
Well, I'm going to shuffle off, and uh, you let me know if you find anything
good. And if you find anything good, you uh give me a jingle. And uh, I'll
jingle you back.
I like Moldy a lot but he doesn't seem to swing with my crowd, you know what
I mean?
No, I like to hang out with people. What about you?
Me: No, I don't hang out with too many people.
You take what you can get huh?
I want to give my mother a call, if you want to hang out here that's fine,
but I'm going to shuffle off.
I figure we can hang out and shoot the breeze or whatever.
You know the other day, yesterday I think it was, I was looking around and I
kind of saw the cherry tomato guy.
You don't know where he went, right?
Me: No, where'd he go?
He hung around here.
See?
Why don't you walk over to your sister's and say 'hello'
Me: I could do that
And if she doesn't want to hang out, that's okay.
I gotta pick up some .... some
Who knew I would spend so much time looking for tomatoes today.
You'll have to lead the way since I'm not that familiar with the way.
I'm going to go find Moldy and buy some tomatoes.
I don't quite know what it means. But it's one of the last
conversations I'll ever have with my father.
[1]Last
The whiteboard at the nursing station in the Emergency Room bore his
name in the entry for stall ten. But when I looked in the stall the
wrong man was in there.
"Excuse me," I asked politely, aware that courtesy is the only way to
accomplish anything in an E/R, "where is Mr. Alberti?"
The nurse looked at the whiteboard, and then at stall ten, "Isn't he
in there?"
I looked back in. The man in stall ten was sleeping fitfully, one hand
pawing at the side of his head. He was pale, with white hair and a
white scraggly beard. His face looked soft.
My father's hair was gray, not white, wasn't it?
"That's not my father..." I began, but less certainly.
I walked into the stall. He lay breathing heavily, his skin so pale,
so cold beneath the thin hospital sheet.
I looked back at the nurse's station in confusion, seeking guidance,
but my misapprehension was as nothing to the hardened veterans of a
million crises.
What was wrong with me that I couldn't recognize my own father? I
still don't know. Maybe it was denial so profound that the mind
refused to believe the eyes.
My father is not soft. Not pale. He does not sleep quietly, he does
nothing quietly. He is loud. He is opinionated. He yells.
But six weeks ago when my mother told him that he was yelling all the
time, he stopped. Even as his confusion mounted, and his short term
memory failed, and his coordination slipped away, he kept the notion
in his head: "Must not yell: hurts wife's feelings." Oh he still
yelled, but only when appropriate.
To not yell would have been frighteningly out of character. Like now.
Lying soft and pale and fragile in a gurney in E/R, his clothes cut
from his body, covered only by an impersonal, professional coarse
sheet that has covered gangbangers and grandmothers and softball
players and drunk drivers offering no more comfort than the veteran
nurses at the station.
Tonight he sleeps and breathes still, but I do not know if he remains
my father, or if I will ever again recognize the man in the bed.
[1]Last
Of course, sometimes my productivity flags for reasons that are less
than entertaining.
The last three days have been exceptionally productive, so I really
was about due for a backlash. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday went like
clockwork, despite meetings in a variety of diverse places and the
need to bill as much time as possible following and preceding the
Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. One downside to consulting: no
paid vacations. Well, not till we have employees :-).
Anyway I was about due for trouble when I left the house, and there it
was waiting at my car. A flat. Well, not quite a flat, more like a bad
sag. My left rear tire has been experiencing auto-da-flate ever since
September, and two weeks ago I spent $20 I didn't possess to have the
clowns at Tires Plus fix it. Now I knew going in there it was a
gamble: I've had work done at that place about four times now, and it
has never been successful, from the manifold pipe break to the brakes
seizing, I've wasted my money time and again with those idiots, only
to pay less to have the work redone right at the Midas at 6th and
Lake. And this time was no exception
TITLE:having had the valve stem replaced, the tire has resumed
flattening out.
Why do I go back to Tires Plus instead of Midas? Tires Plus is close
enough that I can walk home after dropping off the car, rather than
taking the 20 bus home through the worst sections of south Minneapolis
(and I've encountered violence on that route in the past so my fears
are not without some justification). But laziness is a bad reason, and
of course, now Tires Plus is on my "Never again" list (along with
genocide and celebrity boxing) and I'll never go back there again.
Until I get stupid and think, "Well, maybe this time..."
So anyway I drive over to the Super America and avail myself of one of
the remaining free services left in all of Creation: free air. I
imagine that the Free Air will be terminated about the time that the
government gets around to taxing the stuff presently floating loose.
They'll tie an elastic belt with a counter around every citizen's
chest, and the counter will issue a wireless report every month that
will show up as a breathing tax. About that time the free pressurized
air at Super America will end, forced out of existence by corporate
executives and other welfare cheats sticking the hoses down their
tracheas and absorbing oxygen without using their diaphragms.
Having aired up the tire, I head over to Clark's for my 10:00 a.m.
meeting. I realize as I'm going that I need to call one of my clients,
and reach for my cell phone. Ah, I haven't recharged it. Well, no
matter, I'll plug it into the car recharger... which isn't lit.
There's no red light. The car recharger isn't working!
By the time I reach Clark's I've concluded my cell phone will be of no
use to me today. I knock on Clark's door, and he greets me in
confusion, reminding me our meeting wasn't until 1:00. Despite this
hint, I fail to realize that the reason I think I have a meeting at
10:00 a.m. is because I have a meeting at 10:00 a.m.. I just don't
have it here.
So I spend a cheerful few minutes chatting with Clark, and head off
for my lunch meeting. But where is it? The person we're meeting with
described the Green Mill as being "way out there." Now where was that
again, something and Lexington? Then I remembered having once been to
a meeting "way out there" at a Green Mill at 35W and Lexington. I have
now convinced myself that this must be the intended meeting place.
But on my way I figure I'll stop by Kevin's house and see if he
needs/wants to carpool. I try to call him, but the phone dies on low
battery before the line starts to ring, and of course the recharger is
not working. But I'm early, so I'll just jump off the freeway for a
moment and see if he's home.
Now, in a city of stupid ramps, the exit from 35W northbound to
Johnson Street is only moderately stupid. It's not, say, as stupid as
the exits from Larpenteur and Como avenues onto Highway 280, but then
I can't recall if all, half, or none of Highway 280 is in Minneapolis,
or if it's in St. Paul. And the ramps on Highway 100 are doozies too,
except that they ARE rebuilding those. So while Johnson Street north
doesn't measure up to the capo de tutti capi of stupid freeway ramps
the -- one-lane Eastbound Crosstown to 35W North interchange which
regularly sports two miles of stopped vehicles -- still the Johnson
Street exit is pretty stupid.
[hd.gif] The ramp exits right off the freeway, meanders past a hill
that was supposed to be an entrance ramp but failed to sprout tar. For
a brief time the exit parallels another exit ramp, separated only by
two white stripes of paint. Yes, a prior exit ramp, with an even
longer meander, passes Johnson Street and empties onto Stinson. You
could easily cross from one to the other, but as Minnesotans we're
raised to pretend it isn't possible, and act like we don't even see
each other on the two roads.
Unfortunately the effect of having someone in your peripheral vision
driving in parallel with you tends to persuade each driver to maintain
freeway speeds. That's a bad practice, because the Johnson Street exit
ramp ducks left under the freeway, around a blind curve, and directly
up to a stoplight. The light serves to control traffic coming out of a
Home Depot whose driveway empties onto the freeway off-ramp. Beyond
the light is about 50 yards more of off-ramp, and another light
controlling access to the a city streets.
So you either make the lights, in which case you find yourself doing
60 MPH on a one lane bidirectional street designed for horse traffic,
or you DON'T make one of the lights, and you round the blind curve off
the exit ramp at 60 MPH and have to slam on the brakes.
Of course, there's another option, which is to round the curve, make
the light, but have someone exiting from the Home Depot parking lot
pull out and cross directly in front of you attempting to reach the
left-turn position at the second light, and that's exactly what
happened to me.
Now, the driving purists among you would probably point out that there
was yet ANOTHER option
TITLE:that of driving the legal and safe speed so as to leave plenty
of time to react to whatever might be on the other side of the
underpass. But to you I say "Ha!", and again "Ha!", with great scorn
and derision. And I do so because you're right and that annoys me no
end.
So anyway, I burst from the underpass like a bat out of hell, and
suddenly old idiot boy leaving Home Depot decides to pull across in
front of me.
Now my years of intense Jedi training took over. Because, you see,
I've developed the ability to predict when a driver may do something
stupid. I spent the 80's getting into accidents -- taking down
telephone poles while going backwards, and spinning around backwards
on I-94 in St. Paul, so that I could learn the skills necessary to
survive driving a Geo Metro at unsafe speeds in the year 2002.
I assume every car around me is about to do the stupidest thing they
could possibly do.
99.99% of the time I'm wrong. 99.99% of the time they do something
less stupid. But my ceaseless paranoid appraisal really pays off that
00.01% of the time when I'm right.
So it was that I found myself parked diagonally across the 35W exit
ramp at Johnson street beside an idiot from Home Depot, my view of the
other driver blocked by the cloud of blue tire smoke hanging in the
narrow gap between our cars, wondering how much closer together our
cars might have ended up if my rear tire were still low or had decided
to use the recent intense-braking-and-slaloming experience as an
excuse to blow completely apart. I consider flipping off the other
driver, but am unable to detach my hands from the indentations that
they have made in the steering wheel.
So the other driver continued driving nonchalantly on his way,
diagonally across the road, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I'd
nearly dropped an aluminum three-cylinder engine in his lap. That's
the whole Minnesota Nice thing happening. Since there was no polite
response to a near-death experience, he just pretended he didn't
notice the smoke and the blaring horn. Okay, so a Metro doesn't have a
blaring horn, it has something that sounds like a clock radio alarm or
smoke detector. Nonetheless, he ignored it.
Having avoided that disaster, I continued on to Kevin's place, but as
I reached his house, I saw that his car was gone.
"Maybe he's at our client site in St. Paul, I could swing by there
and..."
And then I remembered. The reason I thought I had a 10:00 meeting was
because I did have a 10:00 meeting -- at our client site in St. Paul.
Well, now I felt stupid. Which reassured me, because in a day full of
errors it was the only thing yet I'd gotten right.
So made my way up to the Green Mill at 35W and Lexington in a state of
great chagrin, arriving quite early for our 11:30 meeting. I set up to
wait at a table, and got to work on a proposal for another potential
client.
I didn't notice the time until 11:45. Suspicious that BOTH of the
people I was waiting to meet were late, it finally occurred to me to
check my e-mail. And that's when I discovered that the meeting was at
the Green Mill at Lexington and Highway 694. Not at Lexington and 35W.
There aren't so many Green Mills in the Twin Cities that it even
crossed my mind that there could possibly be two of them about four
miles apart on the same road.
At this point I began to wonder if I'd accidentally swallowed a bottle
of Stupid Pills.
So I called the other Green Mill, zoomed recklessly back down 35W and
over to 694 (don't even ask me about the woman on 694 driving 40 MPH
in the left lane, just don't). And finally arrived only half an hour
late to the second meeting I was supposed to have that day with my
partner.
The look he gave me would have reversed the state of water between
boiling and frozen, depending on which one it started at.
The meeting at the Green Mill went well enough, considering I'd kept
them waiting half an hour. I ordered the first thing on the menu, and
got a roast beef sandwich and a cup of soup, both absolutely terrible.
The soup was typical Bad Minnesota Soup: a cup of congealed fatty
white glop, more like a salty potato pudding than anything worthy of
the description 'soup'. The sandwich was worse: a product of some
twisted "focus group" experience held too close to a halfway house for
the criminally insane. It featured two nearly-hemispherical slabs of
bread, either one of which was too large for a human mouth. Between
these leavened pillows a clot of greasy brown salted shoe leather had
been disguised in a congealed orange coating of salted tire sealant.
A hippopotamus could possibly have bitten this like a sandwich. I
ended up extracting bits of leather and a couple of things that could
have been sliced mushrooms or possibly leeches, and eating them with a
knife and fork.
As if my nerves weren't already on edge, our waiter had the annoying
habit of barreling up to our table from behind me, and starting to
speak as soon as he believed he was within earshot. Since he was
bellowing at the top of his lungs, earshot was apparently about three
feet behind me. I'd be saying something when suddenly a voice behind
me would say "How's everything taste?" and I'd nearly jump out of my
skin.
But I was kind. I did not abuse him or abjure him or tell him that the
food tasted like a donkey that had been killed by a flaming salt truck
and hurled into a tire-sealant factory. Okay, I did gripe to my
tablemates, so I wasn't perfect. But actually up to that point I'd
managed to not really become too stressed at my complete
brainlessness, and I maintained a veneer of equanimity even in the
face of such indignities as were heaped upon me by the poor underpaid
restaurant worker.
Leaving the Green Mill I plugged in my car recharger, and of course it
worked. I'd brought it into the Green Mill in my pocket under the
theory that the recent cold weather had somehow disabled it, and it
appeared my theory was correct. I hooked it up, donned my Geeky Hands
Free Cell Phone Thing, and headed onto the freeway.
By the time I got down the entrance ramp the recharger had cooled off
again and stopped working.
Things improved from there, however. When we reached Clark's for the
SCHEDULED meeting, it was Kevin -- not I -- who forgot the Very
Important Papers which were the reason for our meeting with Clark.
While I'm sure he only did it to salve my feelings, I appreciate him
saving me from Utter and Total Humiliation in the Face of his Quiet
Perfection.
Of course, when I drove off to Kinko's to print out the documents my
cell phone still wasn't working, so I missed his call to have me print
out two Additional Supplementary Important Documents. But at least I
tried to redeem myself which is more than I could say for some people
*cough*O.J.Simpson!*cough* (yes, I have greater moral authority than
OJ Simpson -- how 'bout that!)
Anyway I had spent all my cash and several of my parking quarters
printing off the Very Important Document (I won't bore you with the
chaos that reigned at Kinko's except that if I were not Wile E.
Coyote, Computer GEEEEN-YUS, I would still be there and the document
would never have gotten printed). So it was just as well I missed the
call. But when I left the meeting at Clark's, headed to a client in
downtown Minneapolis, the only way I could park was at a meter with
the two quarters remaining in my car.
Therefore I spent a hurried half-hour at the client, zooming through
the hour's work I had planned to accomplish. Probably not the
brightest move, but it was late enough that if I stopped for cash for
parking, there wouldn't have been an hour left in the working day
remaining for the task.
Anyway I wrapped up my work at the client successfully, if not very
impressively, and left with a promise to return on the morrow. Thus
completing a very unimpressive and not very productive day on the job.
And now you know why I'm so unproductive. And getting gray hair.
[1]Last
[1][PB280010.JPG] For an ordinary person, this would have been a nice
weekend. An ordinary person. But for an unreconstructed workaholic,
why it's just been one delay after another. First, of course, there
was Thanksgiving. A day of cleaning followed by a night of bingeing.
What an inconvenience! I spent hours enjoying myself on Thursday that
I could have used for work!
[2][PB290094.JPG] After a delicious Thanksgiving dinner, and a day of
rest (i.e. work!), the next day we took the kids to the Holidazzle
parade. Holidazzle is a small downtown parade, held every evening
between Thanksgiving and New Years in downtown Minneapolis. It's
sponsored by downtown businesses to promote local shopping, and at
first that set off my Crass-O-Meter(TM), but then I remembered. I
remembered that the family went to just such a parade in "[3]A
Christmas Story." So that makes it okay.
[4][PB290095.JPG] And of course, everytime I think I'm jaded, I
remember that Santa wears red and white because he's advertising Coca
Cola.
Yes, I've said that elsewhere. Actually I say that pretty much every
year. Maybe someday I'll get over it, but it was quite a shock. Almost
like having someone tell you Santa's not real (the liars!)
So only in Minnesota would a bunch of people gather outside in the
dark in the winter for a parade. Okay, okay, "get over yourselves" as
Simone told me in a completely different context last weekend: lots of
places have cold weather parades. Still, it seems kind of silly.
[5][PB290088.JPG] Saturday's parade wasn't the worst weather. Actually
it was pretty mild, except for the WIND. Oy, the wind was NUTS. But
other years, it's been below zero, or with a couple of inches of snow.
Not that we go every year!
This year one of the sponsors (Marshall Fields, a subsidiary of the
Target corporation as is the rest of Minnesota), introduced their
latest annual Santa Bear. Past years there have been the usual
variations: Christmas Santa Bear, Doctor Santa Bear, Policeman Santa
Bear, Mrs. Santa Bear, S&M Santa Bear, etc.
But this year it's the inevitable consequence of all these hot bears:
cubs. Cute "fraternal twin" cubs. The envy of everybody who has no
idea what twins are like.
[6][PC010005.JPG] Speaking as the father of fraternal twins, all I can
say is that the bears in the picture lack one essential element: deep
dark rings under their eyes. I love my twins, but they're much more
like climbing a mountain than strolling in the park: rewarding,
lovely, but tons of work!
Anyway, after last night's parade, today was the piano recital. The
three of them did a really good job. My eldest boy was particularly
good with the theme from Star Wars, and my youngest with something
called 'Sonatina', which he played with amazing speed and dexterity.
My daughter did well, too, but was scheduled to go first, so she
seemed to suffer from a little case of nerves.
As an unreconstructed workaholic, terribly frustrating. As a dad and a
real-live person, tons of fun!
[7]Last