For a Friend

...And Another Thing

There are some people in D.C. that are wrestling with anguish and sorrow that will now have their mourning exposed like the cheap antics of an entertainer.

Not only did they not deserve this, but the scrutiny, political crap and complete disregard for their privacy during a time of mourning will only reveal more of the revolting underbelly of what we call politics and news reporting.

May they find moments of peace and solitude during their crises.

A New Beginning

I don't believe your existence ends when you die. There's too much power to the force we call life and all that would be left would be pure energy, which exists in a different time reference than ours.

With that written, I wish my mom a safe journey for her new beginning. God rest her soul.

I'll miss her forever.

BSOD

If you've ever tinkered with a computer that has one of those before Windows ever loads....and it tells you of a corrupted registry.....you know you're having a bad day at work.

I found the fix, but it's just another task that I really don't have time to do.

Bleh

When It All Becomes Unbearable

Mindy McCready took her own life over the weekend. Call it the culmination of years of anguish and the final release of pain.

If you've never had a family member attempt, or succeed with suicide, you'll never understand the devastation that's involved. Beside the deep sadness, there's the guilt of thinking you could have done more and the constant nagging thoughts of how you failed them in their worst moments of need. These feelings never completely go away and the lifetime of changes are never good.

So, my sympathy for the family. I have no advice. You're not alone with what you're dealing with and I share your sorrow.

You Have a Call On Line One

It was early December, 1989. The typical late fall on the Gulf Coast rewarded us with cool mornings and pleasant afternoons. Winter wasn’t far away and I had a lot on my mind.

Work was busy. The small company I was working for was struggling. The ending of a large job preparing an abandoned ship yard for the new owner was winding down, which meant layoffs and the hunt for more work.  Besides the distractions of life, I was constantly interrupted with bids by phone calls from suppliers. The distractions could be maddening; especially if I was in the middle of a takeoff or calculation.

I’d been thinking of my father. I’d seen him Thanksgiving Day, which was only a week ago. I had hopes; the doctors were sending him home for treatment.

About six months before, my father slipped on a catwalk and fell between the dock and the ship. In the process, he hurt his back. Months of treatments weren’t successful. The doctors were trying what they knew, including Cortisone shots, but he still had a lot of pain. I was getting the opinion the doctors were scratching their heads.

An x-ray revealed a mass on my father’s spine. More x-rays revealed spots in his lungs, which biopsies revealed as malignancies. His treatments started in a local hospital, but sound advice demanded M.D. Anderson in Houston. I went to see my father before he was transported to Houston. He was optimistic and looking forward to his retirement, which was a few short years away.  

My wife and I visited my father on Thanksgiving Day. Surreal is the only description of the visit. The stark institutional surroundings removed any semblance to what were once joyous family gatherings. The few indications it was Thanksgiving only added darkness to what was already depressing. My father was asleep when we arrived. I was shocked at how gaunt he was and appalled by the straps that held him in bed. My question of why was answered with a description of delirium and combative episodes during the last few days.  My mother needed time away, so we went to have dinner in the cafeteria.

I don’t remember what I ate. We discussed the future, treatment strategies and the good news my father was going home to complete his treatments. He would be home in a week. Arrangements were being made. A nurse would be provided and a hospital bed would be set up in the living room.  

I visited my father before we left. He appeared asleep, which I now knew was his common condition. I held his hand and told him I’d see him later. His weak squeeze and slight nod gave me comfort. I had hope and felt better knowing he knew I’d come to visit.

“You have a call on line one.” I quickly answered. My mother’s voice was surprisingly strong, but the news was shattering: “Your father just died”

Time stood still. Thousands of things crossed my mind in the moment between the announcement and my answer: “I’ll be there soon.”

I could only speak a few syllables to the secretary and told my boss: “I have to go.”

He replied: “For a long time?” with a questioning smile on his face. I couldn’t answer. One wrong word and I’d shatter into a million pieces. I only shook my head, walked to my truck and started home.  When I could breathe again, I called the secretary, broke down and explained what happened. She could only offer condolences; I could only prepare to call my wife. She was like me. Neither had any idea my father wouldn’t make it. Her response to my call was: “What happened?” I could only answer: “I don’t know.” I would pick her up and we’d go to my parent’s house.

On the way home, I stopped for a beer. I’m guessing I wanted some relief from the hurt. I know I didn’t care if all the local cops pulled me over.  Nothing fit. Nothing was right any longer. I had just reached the point in my life where I realized how precious time could be and relished the moments I spent with my father.

I picked up my wife; we went to my parent’s and I found my father was gone. They moved him after the official pronouncement, which I guess was best. The empty hospital bed was a stark reminder of the hollow void I now found in my heart.

I couldn’t speak. I tried, but all I could do was sit on the back porch and sob. Unable to console me, family members would only stop to sit for a moment while I cried. They were reaching, but I couldn’t be reached. The earth had shifted and reality was like the faint memory of a summer sunset on a bitter cold winter day.

The next few days are blurred memories. There were visitors and family, although I can’t tell exactly who they were. We gathered for the final moment, which was when we’d honor my father one last time.

Before they closed the casket, I touched my father’s face one last time. The morticians did what they could, but they couldn’t begin to re-create the exuberant spark of my father. His cold, waxy skin was that of a macabre mannequin dressed to look like my father. It only accentuated my loss and deepened my sadness.

I walked with my father one last time.  I helped carry his casket to the mausoleum, which would hold him forever.  We gathered, shed more tears and left before they slid all that remained into the dark cabinet of lost memories. It was the final moment of what can never be final.

I still miss my father. As I look back, I realize I’d reached the point we had really connected. It’s that point where the son and father have both had enough experiences to find they have more than they can share over one visit. Every subsequent visit yields new tales of life and the treasures to be found.  An afternoon barbeque and a few cold beers unlock the secrets of the world. Profound wisdom is developed and the discovery of heritage is found in the present.  The son is the father and the father is the son. Each is commonly different and so familiar.

I know it’s the day after Father’s Day. I wanted to write this yesterday, but it didn’t fit. If your father is still living, gather moments of your day to share. If you could share every moment, you still wouldn’t have enough.  Life is short and there is never enough time.  

Enduring Losses

I've lost two brothers in the last 5 years. Nothing can prepare you for the event and you find a feeling that life became incomplete by the loss. So, Ambulance Driver's loss touched a lot of raw nerves; especially since I know how he feels.

One Sunday

I was staring out my kitchen window and thinking of my younger brother. It was early fall and still hot along the Gulf Coast. Autumn was coming and we were ready for the relief.

As I stared, I thought of years ago, when my brother was fresh out of High School. He seemed to attract bad luck. He was never in trouble with the law, but he was always on the edge. Things happened to him that wouldn't happen to anyone else. I blamed it on his determination and defiance.

One day, he told me he had joined the Air Force. I thought he had acted on a whim and wouldn't last more than a few weeks of boot camp. Over twenty years later, when he retired, he proved my thoughts were wrong.

My brother's specialty in the Air Force was radar systems. I was a little amazed he took to electronics so well. I didn't even know he was interested, but it became obvious it was more than that. Over time, his expertise was sought. His recommendations of any new sytem were integral in final decisions. He would be sent to other bases, and places he couldn't talk about, to troubleshoot and repair systems. He was well respected by those he led and served.

Early in his career, while stationed in Spain, he met a wonderful women, who later became his wife and finally: a U.S. citizen. They completed each other. Good, bad or indifferent, they survived, and flourished, as a team. Her daughter became his, too, and they had a son that was a younger version of his father. I would smile when my brother told me stories of his sons defiance and determination. His son was definitely following in his father's footsteps.

After retirement, my brother continued his career. He was doing the same thing, but for a contractor. After travelling for a few years, he decided to take a job at home for a contractor that worked on the local Air Force base. Both he, and his wife, were more content with him being close and home at night. He had time to do things he never could before. He bought a Harley and spent many hours riding along the beach he loved. They built a new home to share for the rest of their lives.

As I stared out the window, I sorted my thoughts as I recounted the last few minutes. I remember my mother's call and passing the information on to my wife. My brother had crashed into a car while riding. An elderly woman had pulled out, he hit the side of her car.and was gone. I later learned it had been quick and he never suffered. I silently cried, while my wife sobbed in the other room.

The service was set for the next weekend. The long drive there gave me time to prepare for the service, but it didn't prepare me for seeing my sister-in-law. She looked so defeated. It hadn't been long since they finished their new home. She would never share it with my brother again.

The viewing was crowded. As I spoke with the people attending, I noted the large network of friends and coworkers my brother had acquired. They spoke of their admiration and sorrow. Some had to leave. It was too much.

The next day was the day we laid him to rest. After a short service at the funeral home, the procession left for the trip to church for the final service.

I can only describe the funeral procession as magnificant. It stretched for miles and included all walks of life, including friends on Harleys. A half dozen sheriff deputies escorted and kept the traffic at bay. People on the side of the road removed their hats in respect.

When we arrived at the church, the priest asked everyone to gather outside for a few minutes. As we waited, an Air Force honor guard formed next to the coffin, and honored my brother with a 21 gun salute. My heart burst with sorrow and pride. I had no idea of the respect my brother had earned.

At the service, people spoke of my brother. They recounted their memories and the goodnes of my brother. The admired his willingness to help and be part of their lives. I tried to speak, but I couldn't for long. I returned to my seat and held my wife. It all seemed to crash at that moment. He was gone forever.

The next day dawned with a change in the weather. A strong wind blew from the north and the crystal clear air was in the fifties. Summer had been broken and Autumn arrived on a beautiful clear morning. We had one stop to make before we left for home.

My older brothers, and I, went to the scene of the accident. There wasn't much to see, except the orange paint marks on the pavement. Since I knew the story, I could envision the last few moments, where my brother hit and where he landed. It was all marked on the pavement. I wondered what my brother thought at those last moments.

We laid flowers with those already there. A small cross had been placed by a friend. Again, I thought of the network my brother had acquired. I felt so proud and thought of how it all had been such a waste. It was too soon for him to go. I had too many more things to say. As we left, I realized we had closed my brother's book of life and turned to another chapter of our own.

They say time heals all wounds, which it does, but the wounds of the heart are deep. They heal, but life can tug at the scars until they ache. I can feel that now as I write, at family gatherings and when I think of my sister- in- law telling me they had scattered my brothers ashes in the Gulf of Mexico. He was now part of the beautiful emerald waters he loved. His circle of life was complete.