A Question For My Old Man
Maybe writing this will make space for writing something else
My recent three week stretch at home has been the longest since I left Spokane in late 2021. Between business travel, hikes, and, last year anyhow, helping my mom after my dad’s death, in two years I spent more than 600 days away. Only last month did I start feeling like I actually live somewhere.
Work events in January had me zipping around the nation between New York, Missouri, Ohio, and North Carolina. In the midst of it all I got word from a major client that they were cancelling all of our previously agreed upon 2024 business. Suddenly my only known income this year would be from January engagements. The strain of getting it done without issue weighed heavily on me.
Air travel often makes me ill, so every cough and sneeze I sustained increased my hypochondria. Surely I had Covid, or RSV, or the bug of the hour. I just knew something would sideline me and keep me from making the last bit of money before a major dry spell. Thankfully I knocked out my events in perfect health—but as soon as the whirlwind was over I came down with some kind of flu that leveled me for nearly my entire time off. The body knows when it’s OK to shut down, I guess.
When I finally came back to life, it was time to get packing for another trip to New York to close on my mom’s house. I’m writing this essay from her dining room, a few feet from where her and my dad’s matching orange recliners sat for so long that the wood floor is discolored. Their old house has a multitude of scars. And scars are stories.
As my dad’s health declined and the stairway to the master bedroom grew challenging, my folks traded their bed for the recliners. Was almost a year ago when one night they stayed up extra late researching dinner recipes. I was coming to town the next day and my dad wanted to cook up what he remembered as one of my favorites. Chili. His body wasn’t able to digest beans so well, so he searched for an alternative. “Chile no beans” is what he typed into his iPhone’s browser. Spelled just like that.
Satisfied with an option, my mom and dad stayed up later than usual that night chatting about this and that. They watched Jimmy Fallon’s monologue, but cut it off before the interviews with Kiefer Sutherland and Fall Out Boy. I can’t say I blame them.
They said goodnight as they always do, then hoisted their footrests and hit the light. Come morning, my mom woke up and my dad didn’t. In a panic my mom rang a friend and some neighbors, one of whom rushed over and administered CPR on my dad’s ice cold body. Someone called 911, and before long my phone buzzed, too. It was the attending EMT. His condolences sounded heartfelt. Twice he assured me my father had died peacefully. He passed the phone to my mom, and she breathlessly begged me to hurry up and get there. My flight was leaving in a couple hours.
I had time before I needed to leave for the airport, and I used it to give my four siblings the unexpected news. Making that first call to my older sister Lisa will always be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Telling the rest grew increasingly difficult with each call. I kept my composure, but barely, as I told them what the EMT had told me—dad died in his sleep without struggle. I then called Katie. She raced over while I collapsed on my couch. I don’t even remember her shuttling me to RDU.
My entire travel experience was surreal. I wept for the duration of my two legs while doing everything I could to remain inconspicuous. I wore sunglasses, listened to sad music on my AirPods, and did everything I could not to make eye contact with anyone. My Lyft driver from ROC was a Cuban immigrant about my age who didn’t speak much English. In broken Spanish I told him what was going on. When he arrived at my parent’s house, he got out of the vehicle and embraced me. He pressed my head to his chest and my tears left dark spots on his grey shirt. He told me to be strong for my family, but make sure I take care of myself, too.
I walked to the back door of the house with no idea what to expect. Birds sang in the yard and a UPS truck lumbered down the street, all while I stood motionless on the step, delaying my entry. Shit, I thought. My father was dead. What the hell? And how? What is even happening right now? My mom, his partner of 54 years, was inside, likely in shock. What do I do? What do I say? Is it too late to turn back? So much was happening that I didn’t want.
Inside, my mom sat on the edge of her chair, leaning forward as her friend’s three children colored pictures with markers. She smiled as she looked up. I said hi because what else was there to say. My dad’s recliner laid prone ands still. A hint of his shape indented the empty cushion.
I have written the details of that morning countless times since last March. It remains a default topic every time I sit down to write. This pisses me off because I want to write other things. But the only topic that wants out is a continuous and obsessive recap of the minutiae from the day my dad’s life ended. The body doesn’t lie. I assume mine is processing the feelings I was numb to that day.
Over the past year I’ve actively tried to give myself over to grief. I’ve had a couple lose my shit in the grocery store sorts of moments that always make me feel better. I’ve also carved out intentional space for whatever needs to happen. These times of healing, however, have been brief compared to the time I’ve spent managing what I’ve named the business of death. And the business of death requires immediate diligence. Had I not passively inquired that day about a shiny folder left behind by the mortician, my mom would have missed a crucial appointment that she, understandably, has zero memory setting. Death demands attention. It isn’t concerned with feelings.
I am back in New York this week to finalize the last major checklist items to ensure my mom’s future comfort. Closing on her house is the big one, but there’s plenty more on the list besides that. Dare I say that the biggest stuff is behind us. Now, with some breathing room before the buyer’s final walk-through, I am taking some time to reflect on all that’s happened over the past twelve months. Goddamn, it’s sure been a lot.
I’ve spent most of today putting lipstick on a pig: scrubbing poorly painted walls pocked with nail holes, sweeping a musty basement that somehow is always covered in a layer of white dust, vacuuming carpets that are probably half my age (or older), shining up crusty mirrors and windows as if the buyer isn’t going to replace them all, and so much more. This degree of cleaning isn’t necessary for the transaction, but I’m doing it anyhow. It makes me feel useful. And this past year, if it’s done nothing else, has given me an extreme sense of purpose. I’ve loved and hated the responsibility that happenstance placed on my shoulders. I’ve also loved and hated the people who’ve helped and not helped manage this burdensome business.
In November my mom moved into an independent living community. She’s thriving there, which is a big time win. Meanwhile, I’ve been taking up space in her old place, prepping it to sell. Many times I’ve caught myself wishing for something paranormal to happen. There’s really nothing left within to get nudged off a shelf or fly across the room. Still, I yearn for a message from beyond. I want to somehow communicate with my dead father. I didn’t at first, not one bit. But now I do.
As I’ve emptied every nook of this 1945 Cape Cod, I’ve set aside various totems when I should have just trashed them. My hope was that their energies might concoct an inexplicable whisper or pat on the shoulder from the ghost of my old man. Kind of a nudge of encouragement or gratitude.
One of these items is a life-sized, ceramic, self portrait bust my dad sculpted in a community college art class back in the 70s. I’ve considered painting lifelike eyes on it like the Greeks did on bows of seafaring vessels. Eyes that are meant to see far ahead, beyond the boiling tumult. Eyes keen enough to ensure a safe voyage. My reasons for painting them would have been less profound—I thought they might make my regular conversations with this inanimate, bald-eyed, twenty pound head feel a little less less weird.
I’ve also been slowly reading books I pulled from my dad’s basement bookshelves. Books that speak to a later version of him—an iteration I do not know. My dad as an artist, philosopher, and religious scholar. In one book of essays is a passage about the importance of letting flowers wilt in order to give them more presence. I’m struck by the idea of surrendering to time in order to witness and perhaps accept gradual losses before all life is exhausted. I can’t help but wonder if my dad also paused on this section of the book. If he did, he didn’t highlight it as was his habit.
But there’s been no hint of my dad’s ghost. No quirky temperature spots, no phantom footsteps, no spooky feeling as I come up the dark basement stairs. My dad, it seems, is gone. Which makes good sense, I suppose, since he and my mom were inseparable. Why would he stay if she left? If anything, he is across town alongside her, getting acquainted with her new community, too. If so, he’s the draft under her door. The flickering light in the fridge. The wall clock whose battery keeps petering out.
During one of the two estate sales I hosted in January, a browsing man told me he grew up across the street and used to mow neighborhood lawns for a couple bucks a pop. He said that Mr. Chauncy, the original owner of my folk’s place, would sit on the porch, smoke his pipe, and watch as the boy pushed the manual mower back and forth across the yard. The man said Chauncy always tipped him a couple quarters.
After living for 63 years in the house, Chauncy died in his sleep. Which is when it went up for sale. My dad used his VA loan to secure a mortgage. The closing paperwork notes that my parents bought the house from the estate. The transaction, recalls my mom, was quick and easy. Chauncy’s grandkids left my mom and dad a welcome note on the counter.
The shopper’s comment about Chauncy’s pipe was intriguing. Because while emptying the house I regularly caught a sweet whiff of pipe smoke. Sometimes in the mudroom, but also in other places like the paneled den and the closet-sized upstairs bedroom. I’d breathe it in and be transported to a different time. My dad’s dad smoked a pipe, and I’ll forever associate the aroma with sitting on Grandpa’s lap as he puffed away, overjoyed by time with his first grandkids.
I asked my mom if she and my dad ever experienced any spectral smoke during their fifteen years in the house. Her response, an emphatic no. I want to believe that ol’ Chauncy has been in a smoking purgatory, of sorts. Twiddling his thumbs while respecting my non-smoking parent's space. Their departure relieved him of his prohibition. He capitalized—struck a match, skimmed the bowl of damp and fragrant leaf with careful circles, then enjoyed a true light in the comfort of his own home. I can only imagine his glorious relief.
A few days from now I’ll finally be back home. Hopefully healthy, but surely poised to settle in for an indeterminate amount of time. Months, I presume. Gosh, being home, what a concept.
Truth be told, I am terrified by my empty schedule and unknown future income source. I’m tempted to snap into hustle mode and quickly muster up a payday. I have loads of anxiety around money, and no matter how much or how little I’ve got, it causes me regular distress. Interestingly, I was much less anxious about money when I had a significantly smaller bank account. Energetic weight is real.
But rather than give in to this tendency to make shit happen, I’ve decided to instead embrace stillness. Refrain from my frenetic nature so I might witness what’s underneath it all. DaVinci was convinced he was revealing bodies hidden in the marble. I find this concept appealing.
I want to use this downtime to examine what it means to live a purposeful life. What do I need? Is it more? Or is it less? I want to meditate on what it means to have anything at all, then deeply consider the rationale behind my material and non-material burden. I have a sense that my story would benefit from some refinement.
The word that keeps popping into my consciousness is truth. A dear friend once asked me what I’d tell myself if I were truly being honest with myself. He encouraged me to question my narratives. Challenge my norms. His words were thought-provoking, and now they seem vital to my very existence.
These past years have come at me fast and I’m desperate to find a foothold. And though I’d like some certainty about the future, I also know that to chase the outcome is foolhardy. Focusing on the destination and not the trail is a sure way to miss everything along the way. Instead I’ll pray for some glimmers here and there. For breadcrumbs. I’ll let the journey be what it needs to be and roll with the punches.
My dad was never my go-to guy. Not for answers, advice, support, or anything. For various reasons I’d benefit to more deeply explore, I kept him at arm’s length, then blamed him for not being more involved in my life. We had, and still have, a complicated relationship. A push pull that remains even after his death.
But maybe, just maybe it doesn’t need to be this way any longer. Maybe my countless conversations with his ceramic head have split something open and illuminated new potential. I’d like to think that even in death we have a chance to create life. That said I offer up one question to my old man, and will anxiously await a response.
Dad, how can I be better?
