Writing ain't that hard, son!

I just finished reading this book called Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson. A somewhat famous blogger and mental illness sufferer. Overall, it was an entertaining book but I'd also have to say it was nothing special. I mean that in the nicest way possible. I read it, I enjoyed it, but I don't know that I'd ever read it again.

But, here's what struck me. While it was entertaining, the writing is not that dissimilar from my own writing. So why does this lady have a book published? Two of 'em, actually! Why does this lady get to make a living off of doing cool shit and writing non-sensical short essays and calling them chapters? I can do that too. I can fucking do that!

The catch is, I guess, I don't have any diagnosed mental illnesses. Which seems like a really weird thing to be complaining about. But, because I'm not diagnosed with anything and I'm not on a million meds, I'm far less interesting. I also don't seem to rush to write down ever somewhat whimsical or quirky experience i have. Maybe I really should start doing that. The thing is, even when I'm doing this writing I look back and see how many times I write "I" and think, "Who the fuck gives a shit about me this much? Goddamn and I a narcissist or something?". Maybe to be a blogger you have to be to some extent.

You've also got to not give a fuck on sharing shit about people that might, potentially, read what you write. I don't really interact with enough strangers to have material to write about them, so the folks that would end up here are also my potential audience. Then I'd start to piss those folks off with my (now expressed) inner dialogue and lose readership. It'd be fine at first, but then once they all dwindled down there'd be nothing left and I'd be forced to make new friends to write about and shortly dwindle down to nothing only to have to start all over again and again and again like some weird vicious cycle.

My writing has a ways to go, I realize that. I'd argue the same for a lot of these bloggers that have published books though. We're, for now, ignoring the fact that I am certain I'm the only person that reads my blog, though, that is. Jesus, I guess that'd be a good start to getting somewhere with this thing first too... getting some actual readers. Sounds like a thought.

Not Ready to Say, "Goodbye" Part 3

So the days are started to meld together and, as bad as it sounds, it seemed like dad never was going to die. I mean, that's kind of what we were all waiting for and finally having some closure and at least attempting to get back to something that resembles real life seemed appealing. A guy can only take so many repeated days of depression and watching a loved one wither away in a row. I keep re-reading those first couple sentences and I know it sounds horrible, but can't think of how to rephrase it to more accurately describe it. I just wanted it over and, being honest with myself and by speaking with the nurses/doctors, I knew he wasn't going to come out of this and be his old self. I mean, shit, he was in hospice care. That's just our modern way of basically acknowledging someone is dying without having to say that exact phrase.

One night we (my mom and I) went out to eat at Olive Garden. It was pretty close to the VA and seemed a lot better than fast-food or cafeteria digs. Nothing was particularly stand out about the meal except until the end. One of us had some leftovers and the (fairly new) waitress brought a box and was boxing it up for us to take "home." Her hand slipped, or spasmed or something, and she dropped the food all over the floor and burst into tears. You could tell she was having a bad day, she was nervous, and then she goes and has a moment that could happen to anyone and it just got to her. It wasn't a big deal by any stretch of anyone's imagination and certainly not worth crying over. Neither my mom or I were that distraught over the mediocre leftovers from Olive Garden - but I remember us both telling her how it wasn't a big deal and to forget about it. Really consoling this girl over some spilt pasta that someone half-asses from a freezer. This sticks out to me because I remember in that moment trying to get this girl to calm down about something as stupid as spilled pasta meanwhile my dad was stuck in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling and dying. I wasn't pissed at the dropped food, but I was pissed that this was something someone was wasting so much emotion on and I had to sit here and act like I gave a shit. I wanted to scream at her, "You think this is bad? Wait until you have to watch someone you love wither away in a fucking hospital while you have to go out to shitty Olive Garden for dinner! This. Doesn't. Matter. Get. Yourself. Together."

In hindsight I realize she might have been dealing with something else at home. Or maybe something similar but still had to work and this was just the straw that broke the camel's back. I dunno.

Other than that, it was all the same day in and day out. I couldn't tell you how long we were there, but it seems like it was weeks when I'm looking back at it. Until the 17th of January. I still felt stupid, it never didn't feel stupid, but I was talking to dad. His eyes did seem to move and focus on whoever was talking to him, so I had this idea that he was in there somewhere. And, yes, I talked about all the stupid shit from that other post. Divorce Court, whatever was going on in the news at the time, my thoughts and feelings on adding additional countries to NATO, and anything else my feeble mind could grasp onto.

I don't think there was ever a day that I didn't tell my dad I loved him while he was in the hospital. While I was blabbing on about stuff, I knew I had to stop and tell him just that. It seemed important right in the middle of a sentence, so I did. Then a crazy thing happened - he said it back. It was barely there, his voice was raspy and he could barely squeeze the words out, but it was there and this was the only time I can remember him saying anything the entire time we were visiting him. I still knew that things weren't going to get better, but it was a real indicator that he was there and aware of the things around him. That's also extremely depressing to think about, actually. It instantly brought tears to my eyes and it still does when I think about it.

I took the chance to talk to him more, and this is something I'll probably always feel on the fence about. I knew he was listening, so I told him everything I was feeling and how difficult it was to watch him suffer like I knew he had to be. I told him how much all the time he had ever spent with me meant to me and how there will always be certain things that make me think of him (thank Gandhi a lot of them are super cool things like the movie Pulp Fiction). The last thing I remember telling him was that if he was hanging on for me, not to. I told him it would suck, but I'd go on, I'd have to eventually any way... he couldn't be with me forever even if he didn't have cancer.

I already know the majority of people will at least say that was an honorable, or right, or brave, or difficult, or whatever thing to do. It was. I still don't know that it was right. I can't, for sure, say it was wrong either. I don't think any amount of discussion with anyone, or logical reasoning within my own head will convince me either way.

I hesitate to say something as sinister sounds as "it worked", but I don't know how else to say it. Because that was the day, 17th of January in 2005, that my dad passed away later that night. Maybe he "gave up" knowing that I was willing to march on without him. Maybe something else kicked in or took over and finally put him at rest. There's about a gazillion things that could be attributed to it - but I'll always have in the back of my fucked up mind, in some way, that I'm at least partly responsible for his death. And, yes, I know that's fucked and doesn't make sense - but neither does that damn Puff the Magic Dragon cartoon and I think about that a lot more often than I'd also care to admit.

The thing is, I said that, but I wasn't ready for it anyway. Hence the title of all these posts. But, I don't think anyone ever can be ready for something like that. Even when you know it's coming and on the horizon. I mean, Christ, he was in hospice so we knew it was coming. He was unresponsive and the doc himself said he wasn't sure how long he'd have... his eventual death was something that I had PLENTY of time to prepare for - but you just can't. I can't imagine any type of advice I could give anyone for losing someone as loved as I did my dad because there isn't any way to be ready for it. You never truly will be.

That's about all I care to share about this whole ordeal. There are, of course, a lot more details I've glossed over or ignored entirely but I think you get the general gist of the scenario. Even though I probably should have been addressing these issues a hell of a lot sooner, and not 11 years later, it has definitely helped me in some odd sense as well. I'll take this time to again thank everyone that took the time to read this and hope, maybe, it'll help someone dealing with similar issues.  As for me, I'll keep plugging along... doing the damn thing. I don't have much choice, I promised my dad I would.

Not Ready to Say, "Goodbye" Part 2

I feel obligated to start with a word of thanks to everyone that has told me, in some form or another, that they've read the previous post. And yet another thank you to those who have told me they'll be continuing to read. I think it goes without saying (even though I'm 99% sure I did in the previous post) that something like this is really difficult to write.  It truly dredges up a series of emotions that, previously, I don't even think I properly acknowledged and, frankly, are still uncomfortable to face. Particularly when my preferred writing spot is in the middle of a local coffee shop. Let me tell you, if I thought it was emasculating to order a drink with no whip, you can imagine what it feels like staring at your computer screen with tears streaming down your face and seeing people notice you but pretend not to.

Anyway, thank you to all those people for their words of encouragement with the story. Thank you for those that have acknowledged the arduous task I've set myself on. Thank you for the kind words on my writing - even though I think it's still got a ways to go. There haven't been a ton of people, and I wouldn't expect that because I think, to some extent, discussing these types of things are a bit taboo (not in a kinky way, mind you). But, because of you I've decided that I need to continue and I'm hoping that maybe some good will come of it - in true egomaniacal sense, even if it's only to benefit me. A part of me thinks that someone else out there might read this and realize that the things they're dealing with aren't that uncommon, or weird, or wrong, or whatever and if it does that, well, that's pretty damn dope too. Lastly, even if you did not take the time to acknowledge to me in any sense that you read, or are reading it, but you did, well, I think that deserves some thanks too. I really, truly, appreciate it.

I think I was at the point where I was driving home and I had just left my mom a voicemail. I don't remember any of the drive home other than I drove in silence with only the sounds of a what I'm sure looked like a blubbering lunatic to anyone that passed me and looked in the window to see the moron that was driving so goddamn slow. I don't remember getting to my mom's house, I don't remember if we went straight to the hospital that night (although it seems unlikely because it must have been fairly late into the evening), I don't remember a lot about anything following that drive. The next spot in my memory picks up when I was walking into my dad's room in the Saginaw VA.

Just picturing it I had to stop a few minutes and force myself to go on. To continue writing. I kinda thought he looked like he was dead already. There, on the bed that he would always be sitting on, happy to see me when I'd visit during the weekend, was the shell of a man I once knew. His hair somehow neatly combed like it always was (which I never understood. I'd say to him, "Dad, you're sure as hell not going anywhere. Why bother?". But it was just his way). His eyes were open and stared ahead blankly. His mouth was slightly agape. My dad was not a skinny man by any means, but he seemed lesser somehow. I remember his legs sticking out of the bottom of his hospital gown and they looked like chicken legs - just all skinny and frail. I couldn't imagine them holding anything up, not even a shitty IKEA bedside table. It had probably only been a few days into the week, meaning I had practically just left from seeing him, but everything about him had changed. Well, everything but his hair.

I was scared to walk up to him, but didn't hesitate. It felt like being in the shittiest dream you've ever had. I guess people call those nightmares. I was scared to approach him but something pulled me to him. I think I saw his eyes look in my direction - I don't know how but I know he knew I was there. It seems like a lot of people say that about people in comas, or unresponsive, or whatever and I always thought it sounded like bullshit. People wanting to attach that idea to a fucked up situation because it brought them some kind of comfort to think that their effort or time isn't being wasted or because they think it makes it more meaningful somehow. I guess I could be doing the same thing. But I'd still say that he knew I was there.

Surrounded by the sterile environment of the hospital, in a moment I'm sure I'll remember forever, everything seemed so impersonal. I couldn't focus on any one thing. I could hear the beeping of whatever medical equipment was hooked up to my dad, I could hear someone groaning down the hall way, I heard the "DING" of someone pressing the nurse call button, I could feel the world simultaneously slip away and be omnipresent at the same time. Taking everything in seemed to go on for ages, but it must have only been a short while because the nurse was still there. I remember her saying something like, "We think he's aware of everything. They like it when you talk to them - it seems to help. Go ahead." I remember thinking that it seemed dreadfully impersonal that she referred to people in a state like my dad's as "they." My dad wasn't a "they" or a "them". He was a somebody, well, I mean he was a nobody, but he was a somebody to me. I know the nurse didn't mean anything by it, but it still sticks out to me this day.

Kinda like writing that letter - it seemed stupid to talk to him. Not that I had anyone to impress anyway since it seemed that everything else dropped away, but I just really had difficulty finding the things to say. What do you say to someone who can't do a damn thing but lay there and stare at the ceiling and maybe move their eyes a little bit? He couldn't even wet his own lips, they were all chapped to hell and I remember periodically applying water to them to try and ease some discomfort. I mean, I guess, when cancer's eating your body up the last thing you want is chapped lips. Makes a lot of fucking sense to me. But, really, what do you say to someone in that state? I'm sure when you can't do a damn thing but stare ahead you'd love to hear all about how classes are going, or what happened yesterday on Divorce Court, or how I think I might have a chance with this sorority girl. It just seemed like a teardrop in the ocean. Fucking pointless.

On the opposite hand, it seemed even more idiotic to talk about the things that probably were going through his mind. And, frankly, what kind of moron would do that? "So, dad, it looks like this is curtains for you. Well, you had a good run I mean, hey, you are, what?, 78 now? I know a lot of people that died a lot sooner! You got it good! Count your blessings, you're headed to a better place." I mean, really, get off it. What the fuck could I talk about?

All I felt like I could do was stare at him and wait. And all he could do was stare at the ceiling.

The next thing I knew, visiting hours were over. I don't remember either myself or my mom having to ask - the staff said we could stay. We could stay overnight, we could stay until. A little bit down the hall there was a small waiting room of sorts. For what, I dunno, but it looked like one of those small observation rooms they put kids in in the movies with a bunch of toys to see how they play with shit. There were a couple of couches with the vinyl cushions that look like the benches in pickups, and a few of those weird chairs with the same cushion material that are wide enough for two people from 'My 600 Pound Life' to sit comfortably next to each other (if you call those cushions comfortable). They gave us some, presumably, clean sheets and let us set up camp.

The days all kind of melded together. It was all the same, over and over again. Like Groundhog's Day but without the cool ability to know what's coming or the romantic plot. The nurses would come in and check a few things here and there, change the sheets, wash him up once in a while, and be on their way. I remember staring at the "DNR" sign above his bed for hours thinking about its significance and what it meant (Do Not Resuscitate for the uninitiated. Or, "if this dude starts to die, let him.")

Somewhere during the first couple days I remember having gone to dad's house to get a tape player and some of his favorite tapes. Anne Murray's Greatest Hits (You Needed Me was his favorite), Reader's Digest World's 100 Most Beautiful Melodies, The Very Best of Perry Como (Magic Moments or Catch a Falling Star being his picks), and a homemade tape of Celine Dion singing Power of Love over and over again (a tape he made me make for him just because he liked that damn song that much. Seriously... what the fuck?). These tracks became, in essence, the soundtrack to my dad's death as weird as that seems. In odd ways, they don't affect me negatively though because these were the things he always had going in the tapedeck in whatever he was driving as far back as I can remember. Especially the Reader's Digest thing... to this day whenever i hear some of those classical pieces, I know every little nuance in them because I've heard them so goddamn much.

In retrospect, I think the tunes were more for us than they were him. It's a lot easier to think of the good times you've had with someone with a memory boost like the music that was playing in the background and thinking about those times were a lot cheerier than sitting in silence staring at the DNR sign in silence. Just waiting minute after minute, hour after hour, and day after day.

And, with that thought, I've reached my limit for the day. Thanks again to everyone if you've made it this far, I'll be back with more soon-ish.

Not Ready to Say, "Goodbye." Part 1 of... who the hell knows?

Before I get into it, I'd like to point out how, for some reason, emasculating it is to order a specialty latte with "no whip." I then feel obligated to point out that it's not because I'm on a diet or something, it's just because when I put the lid on it starts to ooze out the sides and the little pinhole thing at the top and, sometimes, when you peel the drinky/sippy part back the whipped cream shoots out right on me and gets all over my clothes and I'm just not down with that. I don't dig it. So, most of the time I just let them put the whipped cream on top and then I put the lid on and deal with the repercussions. I've tried licking/eating the whipped cream off first but it feels dangerously erotic in ways it shouldn't and I don't feel like that's something I should be doing in public. Not to mention the mess it creates by getting all over my face and then I just look really super childish. It's a fucking mess. Anyway, on to bigger things.

My therapist/counselor/whatever and I have been discussing whether or not I ever really achieved closure from my father's death. First off, I'd like to say she is, really and truly, only a counselor. But I have issues with that title. If I call her a therapist it makes it feel more official in my mind. More necessary. If I tell people I'm seeing a counselor, it sounds stupid, it sounds wimpy, it sounds like I don't have any direction in life. I guess I don't know if I do or not, but there's that. So, anyway, she's a counselor but I call her my therapist.

We're discussing closure. I couldn't say whether or not I've ever actually achieved it. I found ways to cope with it, but never actually confronted it head on. The ways I found to cope with it were, obviously, less than healthy and had caused some pretty disastrous results in my life after a while. As the saying goes, "You can run, but you can't hide." I can tell you, that shit's true, dude. Amy (my counselor) suggested I write a letter to my dad as a form of attempting to reach closure. Y'know, tell him all the shit about how his death has affected me, the things he's missed out on, and whatever the hell else I felt like was worthy of inclusion.

The thing is, I can't write this letter. It's like the thing of telling all the people the shit I wish I could. Only a little different. I can't write this letter because, well, he's dead. I don't write letters to dead people. What's the point? Who would read it? Why am I writing it all down anyway? I'm going to write it and I'm not going to read it. I'm going to write it and I'm going to immediately delete it, or throw it in the trash after tearing it up, or whatever. It's about as pointless as masturbation. Well,  I guess that's a bad analogy, masturbation is pointless but it has its purpose. Once you're done with it you are truly done, but sometimes it's just something that needs to be done. Shit. Maybe I should write this letter just to get that "release." Ah, fuck.

But, that was not my intention for this post and it's not what I'm going to do. I was going to write the story, from my recollection, of his death and the time leading up to it. I've really been slacking on writing in here and I need to get better. I still have some sliver of hope in my life thinking that somehow I might be able to make writing a source of income and happiness and be able to quit all these other bullshit jobs I've had through the years. So, here goes nothing. I can assure you that what follows, extremely few people have heard and my recollection may be a bit foggy at this point, but it's to the best of my ability. It will also be extremely difficult for me to write and you better believe, sure as you have a crack in your ass, that it's going to be long. Even though this post is already dreadfully lengthy.

My dad wasn't doing too well to begin with. He had colon cancer which they removed and thought it was successful. In a follow up visit they discovered it had come back and was inoperable. Basically, "Sorry, you're done for, Mr. Weaver. All we can really do is make sure you're comfortable up until however long it takes." I was a junior in college at GVSU at the time and was coming back to my hometown every weekend to spend time with dad and basically do anything he needed done that I could do for him. When we got this news, the talk of hospice came up. As a veteran of WWII, everything was covered for my dad through the VA. All we had to do was make the arrangements and do the damn thing. Through some tough conversations it was decided that I "wasn't dropping out of school"  (as he put it) to take care of my dad and hospice was the thing we were doing. I still would be up every weekend to visit him in the hospital (about an hour's drive away from our house) and take care of the house and things since nobody would be living there through the week. All the shit like utility bills, car payments, credit card bills, whatever else, were now my responsibility to take care of too. Mind you, dad was still providing the cash to cover them, but I was in charge of seeing that it gets paid. I know a lot of other kids have had it tougher than me growing up, but it seemed like a lot of crap on my plate between classes, keeping all these affairs in order, knowing in the back of my mind that my dad was dying, and coming up every weekend to take care of stuff. It was overwhelming at times.

A new semester had just started and that brought along some of its own stress. It must have been the first week yet because I remember looking over the syllabi for some classes the day before I got the call. A call that happened at something like 2am. I didn't answer it, I remember hearing my phone ring but not answering because it was a night that I had class the next day and I figured it was just drunk people calling. That happens a lot in college and it might happen even more when you're in a fraternity. I remember the phone ringing, reaching down and pressing the silence button, and sending the call to voicemail. I didn't listen to it until I was up and getting ready the next day. When I did, it was from one of the doctors overseeing my dad. This is the VA, so all the doctors are from some foreign land far away and their accents are thick as hell. But, I had no trouble understanding what the dude said, "Hello, Mr. Weaver, I'm calling about your father, Earl. He has recently become... uhhh... unresponsive and I'm afraid I don't think he has much time left - a few days at most. If you have any questions, please feel free to call back any time."

In hindsight, I was kind of stupid. I can't explain why, but I just went about my school day. In my fucked up reasoning, that was the thing to do. Nevermind the fact that my dad could die, probably any second, I've got to walk around this goddamn campus and pretend like nothing is going on. Maybe I thought that's what he would want. Maybe I just didn't want to deal with the reality that I had to face. Maybe I really just was a fucking idiot to think that if I ignored it, it would go away. Maybe I thought it was a joke. I don't know, but it was stupid. I still can't explain it to myself, but it's what I did. I made it most of the day as if nothing was actually going on. Just another day. I even remember stopping in the spot where all my friends hung out and chatting and goofing off like nothing was happening - I didn't even make any mention to anyone about the phone call I received. Nope. just another day.

I made it through most of the day like that. I dunno how, but I did. Another shining example of my ability to hold in emotions when they're SCREAMING to be let out. Luckily, I think I've got a hang on that bottling it up stuff. I was in one of my last classes for the day, it might have been second to last. I remember it was a writing class that was NEEDED for graduation at GVSU. I think it was WRT350 for some reason. Class started and I made it about 40 minutes into the three hour class. I calmly gathered all my things, got up and walked out. Once outside the door I started that hurried walk some people do when they are about to shit their pants but don't want to outright run and the bathroom is in sight. I did that all the way to my car... feeling tears on the verge of bursting through but never quite getting there. I wanted to cry but also didn't want to face the potential ridicule I might face if someone saw me (and of course they fucking would, it's a college campus, there's people everywhere).

I don't remember if I went home first to get clothes or what. But, I knew I wasn't coming back right away. The next thing I do remember is merging on to the freeway and calling my mom, the tears (finally) flowing freely. Of course voicemail picked up and I left what I can only assume was an almost unintelligible message that went something like, "I got a call from dad's doctors and I think he's dying, he's at least unresponsive. I'm coming home and I'll see you in a few hours."

And that's where we'll leave it until I feel like I can write more of this... But, man, I need a break right now. To be continued in part two of however many pieces it takes me to finish...