Wednesday, June 25, 2008
A Journey of Closure Begins (Update 1)
As many of you know, my father is gravely ill. He has what can only be described as "multiple lung and heart disorders." I have set out to see him for what will no doubt be the last time.
I have decided to take a pause from the campaign news and analysis to chronicle this trip. It seems like a good forum to work through this time and to keep anyone interested plugged in.
TUESDAY, JUNE 24, 2008
As I write this, I am sitting at John Wayne Airport in Orange County with what I fear might be a nearly worthless stand-by ticket in my jacket pocket attempting to board a flight to Oklahoma City where my father is as close to death as he has ever been. He’s been in the hospital for nearly six weeks with various lung and heart ailments; all of which can be directly attributed to a lifetime of at least a pack a day smoking.
His condition seems to have been deteriorating since the day that he checked in to the VA hospital. No matter the procedure or medicine administered, he has slipped backward as if he were scaling a muddy hill in a driving rain.
Certainly this day in time comes as no surprise to anyone who knows my dad, or any life-long smoker for that matter. The clichés of how cigarettes take a minute or three off your life suddenly seem significant and profound. Indeed, my father has not had a meaningful minute of life in more than a month, as most of his time in the hospital has been unconscious and incoherent; oblivious to the world around him and his condition.
The idea of my dad not living beyond this visit is one that I cannot for probably many reasons wrap my mind around. Though always vulnerable and fragile from a health standpoint, our parents just seem invincible to us. The natural cycle of our parents dying ahead of us is certainly honored, but it just doesn’t feel right either.
My life has in a sense flashed before my eyes in sharp, fleeting visions of my past. Moments and memories with my father; times where he endeared himself to the positive corners of my life slip into my mind’s eye as if to say, “remember this?”
For all of his faults and imperfections, I have almost no bad memories of my dad. While there certainly were times and events I would rather forget, most of what is flooding my memory banks as I sit in this sterile place is fond and positive. Even if I try to recall times where I wanted to strangle him out of frustration, my brain – or perhaps my heart steers me back to sweeter times. I am thankful for this.
It has to be said that my dad has been one of the most agitating and aggravating people in the life of nearly everyone who has ever known him. He is stubborn and opinionated and takes joy in pushing the buttons of those who have buttons to push. He loves to argue and usually takes not only an opposing position, but a radically opposing position. This bothers me less than it does some of my family members. I recognized long ago that the best way to defuse this game of his is to not allow yourself to get worked up. He gave up on getting me worked up years back.
It is this image of him that makes the idea of him so close to death unimaginable. As an aging, sick man my dad is still metaphorically a scrappy kid in the school yard who takes on fights with guys much bigger and tougher. This is fitting since this is essentially who he was in his younger days. While most of those fights were harmless and for sport, some of those fights cost him dearly it seems. The fight in which he is currently engaged is certainly one of those.
I have a feeling that if heaven is a real place (I hope it is) that our idea of what it is actually like is way off. I frequently wonder which version of ‘us’ is inducted in or welcomed in, or whatever happens. Is it us at our physical best? Is it the ‘us’ that God intended had we avoided stress, alcohol and drive-thru windows? Did my grandfather go into heaven as a young, healthy twenty-three your-old guy or the grandfather with a belly and white, balding hair that I prefer? When I see him in heaven, I want that version – the 1981 version, complete with that grandpa smell, dentures and hair coming from his ears.
So which version of my dad will slip into the afterlife? I’ve spent a lot of time on this question. It is this that dominates my questions of God over the last few days. I’m not even sure which version I would choose. He seems to have lived a life never completely unencumbered by some sort of stress or dilemma. Trouble seemed to follow my father, and when it wasn’t, he was tempting it and taunting it like that pesky undersized kid in the schoolyard, itching for a fight.
My father’s high moments in his life always seemed to be followed by a fall. He would seemingly find momentary peace and satisfaction only to slip on a banana peel he never saw coming. Though I never thought of him as a classic optimist, he sadly always seemed to buy into the longevity of the fortune he occasionally found.
I dwell here, on his struggles because it bogs me down in settling in on the version of my dad that would go into heaven. If we go in at our best, I would assume that would be around the time he married my mother in 1967. But if I were to settle on my favorite version of my father, I’m not sure what era of his life I would choose. A composite of all of his happy times seems to be a reasonable compromise.
My dad was happiest and most at home in the dugout of a baseball field. He was at home and in his element managing a baseball team of young men not quite good enough to make it big, but not quite ready to call it quits. In a sad sense, this describes my father. He is a brilliant man with an amazing capacity for history and numbers. He understands probability and ratio, statistics and trends.
He has a boyish charm to him. He connects with young men as well as older men. He morphed between coach and father figure and student and son. Though it rarely appeared clear, he was respectful of age and experience. He deferred to his elders and often nodded in agreement no matter how inane their points.
After not making it on to the first flight, I got the last seat in the last row on the second flight. The inbound flight was about forty-five minutes late, delaying our departure for Denver. By the time we arrived, we were over an hour late. My connection to Oklahoma City was scheduled to depart at 9:26pm. As I stepped off the jetway in Denver, the clock on my cell phone read, ‘9:27pm’. Mentally prepared to spend the night in the concourse, I checked the monitor on my way to what would have been my gate. Flight 1202 to Oklahoma City showed a status of ‘flight delayed’. I got to the gate and gave my name and was issued my seat – in row one.
His condition seems to have been deteriorating since the day that he checked in to the VA hospital. No matter the procedure or medicine administered, he has slipped backward as if he were scaling a muddy hill in a driving rain.
Certainly this day in time comes as no surprise to anyone who knows my dad, or any life-long smoker for that matter. The clichés of how cigarettes take a minute or three off your life suddenly seem significant and profound. Indeed, my father has not had a meaningful minute of life in more than a month, as most of his time in the hospital has been unconscious and incoherent; oblivious to the world around him and his condition.
The idea of my dad not living beyond this visit is one that I cannot for probably many reasons wrap my mind around. Though always vulnerable and fragile from a health standpoint, our parents just seem invincible to us. The natural cycle of our parents dying ahead of us is certainly honored, but it just doesn’t feel right either.
My life has in a sense flashed before my eyes in sharp, fleeting visions of my past. Moments and memories with my father; times where he endeared himself to the positive corners of my life slip into my mind’s eye as if to say, “remember this?”
For all of his faults and imperfections, I have almost no bad memories of my dad. While there certainly were times and events I would rather forget, most of what is flooding my memory banks as I sit in this sterile place is fond and positive. Even if I try to recall times where I wanted to strangle him out of frustration, my brain – or perhaps my heart steers me back to sweeter times. I am thankful for this.
It has to be said that my dad has been one of the most agitating and aggravating people in the life of nearly everyone who has ever known him. He is stubborn and opinionated and takes joy in pushing the buttons of those who have buttons to push. He loves to argue and usually takes not only an opposing position, but a radically opposing position. This bothers me less than it does some of my family members. I recognized long ago that the best way to defuse this game of his is to not allow yourself to get worked up. He gave up on getting me worked up years back.
It is this image of him that makes the idea of him so close to death unimaginable. As an aging, sick man my dad is still metaphorically a scrappy kid in the school yard who takes on fights with guys much bigger and tougher. This is fitting since this is essentially who he was in his younger days. While most of those fights were harmless and for sport, some of those fights cost him dearly it seems. The fight in which he is currently engaged is certainly one of those.
I have a feeling that if heaven is a real place (I hope it is) that our idea of what it is actually like is way off. I frequently wonder which version of ‘us’ is inducted in or welcomed in, or whatever happens. Is it us at our physical best? Is it the ‘us’ that God intended had we avoided stress, alcohol and drive-thru windows? Did my grandfather go into heaven as a young, healthy twenty-three your-old guy or the grandfather with a belly and white, balding hair that I prefer? When I see him in heaven, I want that version – the 1981 version, complete with that grandpa smell, dentures and hair coming from his ears.
So which version of my dad will slip into the afterlife? I’ve spent a lot of time on this question. It is this that dominates my questions of God over the last few days. I’m not even sure which version I would choose. He seems to have lived a life never completely unencumbered by some sort of stress or dilemma. Trouble seemed to follow my father, and when it wasn’t, he was tempting it and taunting it like that pesky undersized kid in the schoolyard, itching for a fight.
My father’s high moments in his life always seemed to be followed by a fall. He would seemingly find momentary peace and satisfaction only to slip on a banana peel he never saw coming. Though I never thought of him as a classic optimist, he sadly always seemed to buy into the longevity of the fortune he occasionally found.
I dwell here, on his struggles because it bogs me down in settling in on the version of my dad that would go into heaven. If we go in at our best, I would assume that would be around the time he married my mother in 1967. But if I were to settle on my favorite version of my father, I’m not sure what era of his life I would choose. A composite of all of his happy times seems to be a reasonable compromise.
My dad was happiest and most at home in the dugout of a baseball field. He was at home and in his element managing a baseball team of young men not quite good enough to make it big, but not quite ready to call it quits. In a sad sense, this describes my father. He is a brilliant man with an amazing capacity for history and numbers. He understands probability and ratio, statistics and trends.
He has a boyish charm to him. He connects with young men as well as older men. He morphed between coach and father figure and student and son. Though it rarely appeared clear, he was respectful of age and experience. He deferred to his elders and often nodded in agreement no matter how inane their points.
After not making it on to the first flight, I got the last seat in the last row on the second flight. The inbound flight was about forty-five minutes late, delaying our departure for Denver. By the time we arrived, we were over an hour late. My connection to Oklahoma City was scheduled to depart at 9:26pm. As I stepped off the jetway in Denver, the clock on my cell phone read, ‘9:27pm’. Mentally prepared to spend the night in the concourse, I checked the monitor on my way to what would have been my gate. Flight 1202 to Oklahoma City showed a status of ‘flight delayed’. I got to the gate and gave my name and was issued my seat – in row one.
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