Tag Archives: death

June 10, 2013 · 1:39 am

Keep breathing.

He’s lost about 35 pounds in the last month, but he’s essentially the same guy. Friendly but reserved, stoic, working the room, managing things. An IBM man.

I got here two weeks ago, a day before his first round of chemo. I stayed nearly a week and tried to find ways to be helpful.

Two days after flying home, I got a call indicating that I should come back.

All day long, the phone rings: family, members of his church, nurses, hospice, neighbors, friends — the man’s known and liked by many, many people.

We’ve sat and talked for a few hours here and there; I brought a mic along so we could record some anecdotes about himself and our family. My father’s a born storyteller, but even if I remove 75% of the embroidery, they’re still ripping yarns:

  • Many young men in the early sixties got involved in the civil rights movement because it was a fine way to meet girls.
  • If your boss at IBM asks you to make a collections call, try to ascertain whether the customer is mobbed up before you remind him of his contractual obligations.
  • My grandparents had a tremendous Meet Cute; she dropped her books, and he stopped to pick them up.

As ever, things shift from good to shit and back again in a flash. As I was helping him into bed from his wheelchair tonight, a TV presenter with bad hair and a nice suit explained that optimum health can be achieved if you maintain the right balance of micronutrients. Dad looked at me and rolled his eyes.

“Amazing how many names we have for snake oil,” I said. He laughed as he lowered himself carefully and tried to get comfortable.

Earlier, he’d fallen asleep in the living room while watching the local news (WOMAN INJURES ANKLE RUNNING FROM BEE SWARM). Everyone else had gone to bed, but he said he was more comfortable in the recliner than in bed, so he dozed while I ignored a loop of  crime-scene tape, police cars and shocked neighbors from various felonies and family tragedies. I just sat on the couch, watching his chest rise and fall for the better part of an hour.

Before I came out for the first visit, a friend told me:

Keep breathing, my friend. Stay in the present as much as possible. Hold/touch your dad if he’ll let you.

We hug hello/goodbye, and we aren’t afraid to say “I love you,” but that’s about it as far as the demonstrations go. Tonight, I knelt behind his chair and laid a hand on his shoulder; we stayed there like that for several minutes as he slept.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt closer to the man.

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February 24, 2011 · 10:28 pm

Goodbye, Hiram.

My father’s in town, so I stopped by his hotel after work for conversation and dinner. I don’t see him frequently, so it was good to share what he unironically calls “father-son time.”

Since I last saw my dad, a childhood friend whose parents are my godparents died suddenly. My father related the story of how Hiram Watkins drove his parents to the airport that morning — and about the call they received a few hours later from his devastated girlfriend.

I haven’t lost many people who were close to me, and only a couple have been cohorts. My friend Tom Cole was 43 when he passed away; Hiram was 41.  I’m 41.

Hiram and I saw each other infrequently; when we connected as adults, I often felt that we were in an unacknowledged competition. Women, career, even cooking  — a passion he and I shared — were ways in which we subtly seemed to go head-to-head. When I became aware of the dynamic, I did my best to put on the brakes.

It’s callous to view a childhood friend’s passing as a “teachable moment.” Hiram’s death is not a developmental task or a growth opportunity.  Don’t expect to start seeing photos in my social stream of me skydiving or running with bulls.

It is an occasion for reflection, so I remind myself not to view each day as another spin of the wheel of fortune and have started thinking more about the things I truly want to do – not “one day,” but now and tomorrow. I’m more determined to keep my friends close. I’m even considering a year-long gym membership, as opposed to month-to-month.

Positive change comes from within, so odds are low that these new ways of being mindful will persist.

I guess we’ll see.

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