I'm off again home in a day and a half. Back to Tennessee, where my heart will always be, but where I'll probably never live again.
It's where I come from, and to some degree, the place that defines me most. It certainly shaped my values: we take care of our own up there.
Still, I've made my life elsewhere. When I was home last month, I realized acutely that I was just a visitor, a tourist revisiting his old stomping grounds.
I live in Austin now, and that is where my life is and will remain.
Still, part of me will always be there.
Daddy's death has brought up strange conversations between my mother and me. Maybe strange isn't the best word. "Unusual." How's that?
When I talked to her over the weekend, we talked about a life insurance policy that she and Daddy had maintained since I was about 18. They bought one for each of us three kids--just enough to get us buried and then a little bit more. She can't really afford to maintain it, and I was already planning to increase my insurance. The price is good, so I'm going to take it over.
That led to a conversation about funerals and final arrangements. I told her I wanted to be cremated. I had expected her to not like that idea, but her response was "Well, it's definitely cheaper."
Yes, it is.
She was surprised that I also want a small memorial in the little country cemetary where a lot of my family is buried in Medina, TN. Just a small stone with an urn that can hold half of my ashes. The other half will go to Shannon.
For whatever reason, having part of my incinerated husk at Hopewell seems more important than ever. I'll be close to Daddy and Grandma and Douglas (my little brother) and Carol (my cousin) and even Granddaddy Morgan (he's over on the other side of cemetary where Grandma can't see him--don't ask). Mama will be there before or after. And part of me will be back where I grew up in the place that helped make me who I am.
Part of me will stay with Shannon, too, to do what he wants with. He can keep what's left, toss it in the ocean or leave it in Bastrop State Park (site of some of the loveliest pines you'll ever see).
Going home makes me think too much. And that is just one more reason God made Xanax. In times like this, it's almost like Holy Communion.
13 August 2007
11 August 2007
The Last Word
It all started at 11:45 on a Thursday. I was trying to decide what to do for lunch when I got a call.
“Jeff, you need to call home.”
It was Shannon.
“It’s your father. He’s in the hospital.”
He almost started crying when he told me.
I dragged my boss out of a Board of Directors meeting and told her I was going home and didn’t know when I’d be back. And not home, 2 blocks away, but home 2 states away.
That’s how it started. The rest is a blur.
The 15 hour trip with my sister and her 4 dogs in my very small car. Visiting Mama in the hospital waiting room at about midnight on our way in. Getting in at 4:30 in the morning and turning around and going back to Memphis the next day.
And the next day driving and sitting in a waiting room. Waiting for the short time they allotted for visits. Walking constantly. I’m not good at waiting, so I walk.
And the next and next a repeat of the one before.
Waiting and watching my mother. Her heart was breaking right in front of me. Nothing to do but say “Everything’s going to be all right”, when I didn’t even have that conviction.
She’s never looked so sad or old.
Nothing I said could make it right or even better.
Mama and Daddy were married for almost 45 years. Mama was 15 ½ when she went on her first date with him. That makes almost 50 years.
The blur included a deathbed scene when the lines on the monitors flattened out. The nurse was kind enough to turn off the sound and lead us in a couple of songs.
What happened in between, I’m still not sure. People were there from the funeral home to collect Daddy’s body, and I needed to get all our stuff out of the ICU waiting room before they turned out the lights for the night. I didn’t want them to have to be disturbed because they were likely going through the same thing I was. They needed their sleep, and I knew I wasn’t going to get any.
Everything that came before that runs together in my mind like a watercolor bleeding color into color.
I remember the phone call, the tremble in Shannon’s voice and the death bed.
I also remember the night of talking to Daddy before he left. He was still there. It wasn’t the final visit I wanted, but it’s one I’ll always have and cherish and that no one can ever take away.
“Jeff, you need to call home.”
It was Shannon.
“It’s your father. He’s in the hospital.”
He almost started crying when he told me.
I dragged my boss out of a Board of Directors meeting and told her I was going home and didn’t know when I’d be back. And not home, 2 blocks away, but home 2 states away.
That’s how it started. The rest is a blur.
The 15 hour trip with my sister and her 4 dogs in my very small car. Visiting Mama in the hospital waiting room at about midnight on our way in. Getting in at 4:30 in the morning and turning around and going back to Memphis the next day.
And the next day driving and sitting in a waiting room. Waiting for the short time they allotted for visits. Walking constantly. I’m not good at waiting, so I walk.
And the next and next a repeat of the one before.
Waiting and watching my mother. Her heart was breaking right in front of me. Nothing to do but say “Everything’s going to be all right”, when I didn’t even have that conviction.
She’s never looked so sad or old.
Nothing I said could make it right or even better.
Mama and Daddy were married for almost 45 years. Mama was 15 ½ when she went on her first date with him. That makes almost 50 years.
The blur included a deathbed scene when the lines on the monitors flattened out. The nurse was kind enough to turn off the sound and lead us in a couple of songs.
What happened in between, I’m still not sure. People were there from the funeral home to collect Daddy’s body, and I needed to get all our stuff out of the ICU waiting room before they turned out the lights for the night. I didn’t want them to have to be disturbed because they were likely going through the same thing I was. They needed their sleep, and I knew I wasn’t going to get any.
Everything that came before that runs together in my mind like a watercolor bleeding color into color.
I remember the phone call, the tremble in Shannon’s voice and the death bed.
I also remember the night of talking to Daddy before he left. He was still there. It wasn’t the final visit I wanted, but it’s one I’ll always have and cherish and that no one can ever take away.
03 August 2007
After the Fact
There’s no such thing as an easy death, not for the family or for the dying. But some are easier than others. Some leave a closure and completion and peace that many others do not.
I was lucky when Daddy died. He fought hard. But his body was shutting down. The cascading blackout went through just about every important system in his body. He wanted to give up, but promised me he would fight, if just for my sake. He tried, but that battle was not for him to win.
I have a strange sense of peace about the whole matter, one that I’m not sure I’ll ever understand. I’m sad, but at peace. Maybe it’s because he died surrounded by his family who helped ease him on into the next life. Maybe it’s that I loved him too much to see him suffering any more. And maybe it’s because withdrawing life support was the right thing to do on a level I don’t fully understand but have a glimpse of.
Right now, I’m still digesting it all. Some of it is real and some isn’t. Part of me wants to call him up and tell him what good gas mileage I’m getting with my new car. Another part realizes that I can’t.
It’s all so new, not having him around. I guess I’ll get used to it one day, but I’m not sure when.
When my mother and I were talking privately about the possibility of withdrawing life support, I told her two things: “You’ll know when it’s time, and it’ll be the hardest and the easiest thing you’ve ever done. Hard, because you don’t want to let him go. Easy, because you love him.”
I was speaking from my own experience of withdrawing life support from my first partner, Rich. It hurt like hell to say those words--"unplug everything"-- but it was the right thing to do and the right time to do it. It was my final act of love.
If I haven’t already said it, Daddy was a great man who led a simple life of quiet dignity.
He was able to die as he lived: with dignity.
For that, I am eternally grateful.
I did not want to let him go, but the choice was not mine.
He was a good man. A great man, even. But he was not ours to keep.
And when I said my final goodbye at the funeral home, I didn’t say “goodbye.” I said “I’ll see you later. Meet you on the other side.”
I was lucky when Daddy died. He fought hard. But his body was shutting down. The cascading blackout went through just about every important system in his body. He wanted to give up, but promised me he would fight, if just for my sake. He tried, but that battle was not for him to win.
I have a strange sense of peace about the whole matter, one that I’m not sure I’ll ever understand. I’m sad, but at peace. Maybe it’s because he died surrounded by his family who helped ease him on into the next life. Maybe it’s that I loved him too much to see him suffering any more. And maybe it’s because withdrawing life support was the right thing to do on a level I don’t fully understand but have a glimpse of.
Right now, I’m still digesting it all. Some of it is real and some isn’t. Part of me wants to call him up and tell him what good gas mileage I’m getting with my new car. Another part realizes that I can’t.
It’s all so new, not having him around. I guess I’ll get used to it one day, but I’m not sure when.
When my mother and I were talking privately about the possibility of withdrawing life support, I told her two things: “You’ll know when it’s time, and it’ll be the hardest and the easiest thing you’ve ever done. Hard, because you don’t want to let him go. Easy, because you love him.”
I was speaking from my own experience of withdrawing life support from my first partner, Rich. It hurt like hell to say those words--"unplug everything"-- but it was the right thing to do and the right time to do it. It was my final act of love.
If I haven’t already said it, Daddy was a great man who led a simple life of quiet dignity.
He was able to die as he lived: with dignity.
For that, I am eternally grateful.
I did not want to let him go, but the choice was not mine.
He was a good man. A great man, even. But he was not ours to keep.
And when I said my final goodbye at the funeral home, I didn’t say “goodbye.” I said “I’ll see you later. Meet you on the other side.”
01 August 2007
7/24/07 4:30 a.m.
Note: This is one of a series of pieces that I'll be posting which were written out in longhand as events were occurring.
When I was a teenager and young man, Daddy and me had one thing in common: insomnia. Coutless nights we sat up in the living room--often in the dark--talking or not, somtimes reading, others staring at the TV screen.
And sometimes it wasn't insomnia so much as storms: if one woke us up, we were up for the duration. I either chattered on nervously or paced the floor, while he, always the force for calm, remained unshakened.
I was scared. He was just awake.
Now I'm sitting up with Daddy again, only this time it's me trying to help him by be being a reassuring voice. Through all the tubes and sensors and dings, dongs and beeps, I know that, somewhere, somehow, he hears me.
So I remind him of how this is almost like old times. Almost. Then again, not at all.
I'm not sure who's providing comfort to whom. I know I'm certainly more at peace sitting by his hospital bed that I would be downstairs in the waiting room. It's just me and him tonight.
Some of my fondest, most cherished memories are of me and him, late at night or early in the morning, just the two of us. As men, we were always out-numbered in the family. When the women-folk were asleep, we weren't. It was our own little world for just a little while.
I don't know if this will be our last night sitting up or not. Regardless, I'm excactly where I want to be: in that little world that only Daddy and I can make.
Maybe it's more like old times than I thought.
Postscript:
That was our last night sitting up together. At one point, I grabbed onto his hand and told him that I knew that somewhere, somehow he could hear me. He squeezed my hand ever so gently. That was his last communication with anyone. He died later that day. Insomnia served me well that time.
When I was a teenager and young man, Daddy and me had one thing in common: insomnia. Coutless nights we sat up in the living room--often in the dark--talking or not, somtimes reading, others staring at the TV screen.
And sometimes it wasn't insomnia so much as storms: if one woke us up, we were up for the duration. I either chattered on nervously or paced the floor, while he, always the force for calm, remained unshakened.
I was scared. He was just awake.
Now I'm sitting up with Daddy again, only this time it's me trying to help him by be being a reassuring voice. Through all the tubes and sensors and dings, dongs and beeps, I know that, somewhere, somehow, he hears me.
So I remind him of how this is almost like old times. Almost. Then again, not at all.
I'm not sure who's providing comfort to whom. I know I'm certainly more at peace sitting by his hospital bed that I would be downstairs in the waiting room. It's just me and him tonight.
Some of my fondest, most cherished memories are of me and him, late at night or early in the morning, just the two of us. As men, we were always out-numbered in the family. When the women-folk were asleep, we weren't. It was our own little world for just a little while.
I don't know if this will be our last night sitting up or not. Regardless, I'm excactly where I want to be: in that little world that only Daddy and I can make.
Maybe it's more like old times than I thought.
Postscript:
That was our last night sitting up together. At one point, I grabbed onto his hand and told him that I knew that somewhere, somehow he could hear me. He squeezed my hand ever so gently. That was his last communication with anyone. He died later that day. Insomnia served me well that time.
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