Da-Da Part 3: We Have Met the Enemy and He Is Us
Part Three in a series. If you’d like to read it from the beginning, here are parts one and two.
It’s been a challenging week for writing.
I started out simply wanting to tell you about saying goodbye to my father. How fitting and funny and beautiful his send off was. As I began writing about it, I realized that no one would understand any of it without first understanding Dad himself. Who he was and how we interacted with him explains why our closing ceremonies were conducted the way they were.
So, I had to kind of give you some background, some insight into our relationship with him. The more I tried to explain, the more complicated it seemed to become, because he was such a complex person, in life and in death.
“How do you explain Dad?,” I asked my mother. “How do you tell people that we look back on him and his behavior, and actually laugh about some of it now?”
She simply said, “You had to live it to understand it.”
I still struggle. How can you describe someone so crazed and incomprehensible? How can you tell others that it’s all really okay? That in the end, we understood him and loved him, and that despite his words and actions, eventually we knew that he loved us too?
The quote above was one of my father’s favorites. For years, he kept a framed version of it on his wall. I love it because it’s so…Dad. He truly was his own worst enemy, and he knew it.
We cared so deeply about him. At the same time, we had to protect ourselves from him. On many levels, he terrified us, even when he was weak and confined to a wheelchair. He was also extremely manipulative.
~~~~~~~~~~
That last year was a rough one. I believe that had he not listened to the doctors and had his leg amputated, that he would still be here today. It changed everything for him. He was not the kind of man who could make the best of a bad situation. He despised weakness and loathed reliance on others. I don’t think he had a clue that he’d end up immobilized, completely dependent on others for his survival.
I’d tell him inspirational stories about Stephen Hawking, or other people who had overcome disabilities, and I realized that my words sounded impossibly stupid to someone like Dad. He truly hated sunshiny, pie-in-the-sky bullshit. We tried to present him with options, but he wouldn’t listen. Assisted living was out of the question. To him, it was the ultimate in giving up, the final degradation.
His children had scattered to different cities, and were raising children of their own. Dad wanted me and my kids to move in with him.
“I’ll sign over the condo to you,” he bribed. But I knew it would destroy us all.
My brother flew to see him many times. Our father would tell him that he’d reconsidered assisted living, and needed help finding a place. Upon arrival, my brother would find out that Dad just needed his lawn mowed, or a carton of hard-to-find cigarettes.
And on it went.
He became increasingly difficult. He had scared off every home health care worker in the city of Memphis, except one, a huge teddy bear of a guy I’ll call Otis.
“Listen old man,” Otis told my father the first day they met, “I’m your only hope in this world. You’d better act right.”
This attitude was one that my father could respect. He and Otis developed a tight bond, and I believe that he was Dad’s closest confidante at the time of his death.
Otis described their relationship to me this way:
“Me and Mr. McQueen, we has us an understanding.”
But my father was still a wild man. A wild man in a wheelchair. His condominium became kind of like the Bat Cave, his secret headquarters. From this base, he did his wheeling and dealing, forming alliances with shopkeepers all over town. He paid people to cater to his whims. They brought him foods that he craved, cleaned his apartment, and delivered items that he decided he wanted. There was even a grocery boy who would come over and watch football games with him.
These were desperate times for Dad. Otis came in the mornings, and helped him from his bed to his wheelchair, from his wheelchair to his recliner, and at night, he’d come and repeat the process in reverse. Dad kept falling out of bed, and he’d have to call the rescue squad to help him, which he found humiliating. Someone once accidentally left his front door open when they left. Unable to get up from his recliner to close it, he sat for hours, becoming hysterically agitated, worrying that his cat would escape.
And he wanted pills. He once paid someone a hundred dollars to drive him to the hospital so that he could try to talk the doctors into giving him more meds. The driver took the cash and abandoned him at the hospital. Defeated and exposed, Dad called an uncle to come and get him.
~~~~~~~~~~
My last visit with him was sad and beautiful. He never even bothered getting dressed anymore. It was just too difficult. He’d become fat and immobile, and he was embarrassed. Although he still shaved and combed his hair, his wardrobe had become a towel spread over his lap.
I hugged him a lot, that last visit. I loved putting my cheek against his, and looking at that deceptively handsome, gentle face.
His apartment was immaculate, as always. My father had been a man of tailored suits, careful grooming, and tasteful decor. His knick knacks were arranged just so, and if you moved one an eighth of an inch he knew it, and would ask you to move it back. He was becoming obsessive-compulsive, by necessity.
I ran errands, fed him, and did little household tasks. He wanted me to play tapes for him. Music truly did soothe him, and I went about cleaning his already clean bathroom while Karen Carpenter sang, “Close to You” in the living room. Later, he asked me to put on Bob Seger, but the tape player was messing up. Soon Dad was yelling at me, frustrated that I wasn’t following his instructions properly. Finally, I got that damned tape in.
“Ahhhh…I just love Bob Seger, don’t you?” Dad asked.
Still stinging and hurt by his yelling, I replied, “No, Dad. I think he sucks.”
To this day, my penance for that snarky comment is this: Whenever I hear a Bob Seger song on the radio, I will not allow myself to change the station. I force myself listen to those gravelly, awful tunes all the way through.
~~~~~~~~~~
He loved food. Rich, calorie-laden food. It had become his passion, the only thing that brought him comfort. During my last visit with him, he placed a huge order at an Italian place we’d gone to for years, and I went to pick it up. I got lost on the way, and the more lost I became, the more upset I got. The more upset I got, the more lost I became. “He’s going to kill me,” I kept saying to my sister. “His food’s going to be cold, and he’s going to explode.” All of my childhood terror was surfacing. I was a ten-year-old, driving a Pontiac.
Finally, we got to the restaurant. I begged to use their phone, and I called my father. “Dad,” I tearily explained, “I’m so sorry– I got lost. I’m so stupid– it’s just that the city’s changed, and…I’m really, really, so sorry, and I’ll be back as soon as I can, and I’m so sorry, and…”
And in that moment, he understood. He understood what he had wrought. He knew that underneath it all, he terrified me. And it broke his heart.
“Sweetheart,” he said gently. “Don’t worry about it. It’s all okay.”
~~~~~~~~~~
He ended his life not long after that. I’ll spare you the details of all of it, but consider this one little thing.
My father was too weak to lift a spoon. How could he have lifted a gun?
In my heart, I believe that he had to have had help. I believe that there was someone out there, an angel of mercy who understood his suffering, and wanted to help him escape it. And they helped him lift that gun.
Dad and Otis had an understanding indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~
Next: The Best Little Send Off in All of Shelby County
Jan said,
January 16, 2008 at 7:20 pm
What a moving story. I think it’s good that you wrote about. That helps in our understanding of things. I’ll be back for more. (((HUGS)))
Thanks, (((Jan))). I’m glad you stopped by!
bosquechica said,
January 16, 2008 at 7:29 pm
Moonbeam – gripping, crazy, sad. You’re doing an amazing job of writing this. It is so hard having a mentally ill parent in the first place (I had one too); your perspective is clear, painful and strong. And I had been wondering about the gun, myself. Thanks for the brave honest work you are doing here.
Bosquechica, thank you! It is hard, but it’s easier, once you get to that place where you’re on the outside looking in. I’m glad the gun thing became clear.
Brian said,
January 16, 2008 at 8:19 pm
These stories are riveting! You could easily write a best-seller based on the life of your father. Thanks again for sharing such a moving tribute with us. I can’t wait to read the next entry!
Thanks, Brian. I hope to finish this up tomorrow!
randomyriad said,
January 16, 2008 at 8:30 pm
Anyone who likes Pogo can’t be all bad. It sounds as if you were closer to your crazy, messed up Dad than I will ever be with mine. You give me hope that I may find a way to get beyond this stalemate I have with both of my parents. Because I have to protect my children and wife who can’t understand his behavior, not that I do much of the time. It is understood that he did things for me as well as all the negatives. I understand about laughing about things. It’s one of the ways you get through and past it in one piece, a little tattered, but still mostly OK. Thanks for the story. I’m glad I read it.
He wasn’t all bad. In fact, there were some things that were quite wonderful about him.
I hope you get past the stalemate too, RM. Sometimes, you just can’t, and if you can’t, I guess you just have to get to a place where you’re okay with that. I really hope things turn out well.
Wendy said,
January 16, 2008 at 8:45 pm
These are beautiful stories. You didn’t think you could write with sad humor, but of course you did: “I was a ten-year-old, driving a Pontiac.”
And the last sentence is fascinating; Dad and Otis had an understanding indeed.
You’re amazing to share this with us. Thank you, MB.
Thanks, Wendy!
Heather said,
January 16, 2008 at 11:55 pm
All I can say is WOW! You have got to put this in book form-I have not been able to think of anything else all day.
Thanks, Heather. I am going to put it into book form, eventually.
Alyson said,
January 17, 2008 at 9:34 am
This is truly amazing. I find myself checking in often, hoping for the next installment.
I too, had been wondering about the gun since the first installment.
Alyson, I’m hoping to finish it today or tomorrow. I’m glad you’re checking back!
joanharvest said,
January 17, 2008 at 12:49 pm
I just read parts 2 & 3. It shows what a wonderful writer you are. It also shows what a wonderful person you are. The list about why I think that would be to long to write. I’ll just leave it here and say Thank You again for sharing that with us.
Thanks, Joan. I don’t know how it shows that I’m wonderful, but I appreciate it very much.
Red said,
January 17, 2008 at 2:10 pm
“How can you describe someone so crazed and incomprehensible? How can you tell others that it’s all really okay? That in the end, we understood him and loved him, and that despite his words and actions, eventually we knew that he loved us too?”
My dear, one cannot express it truly and completely. This above paragraph is so very familiar to me as I tried my damndest to write about my sister, Freckles. It’s hard to describe one that is so crazed and incomprehensible. It’s extremely hard. But you try, and you do the best you can to your ability .. and after reading each “story” of your Pops, you’ve done an outstanding job at describing him.
Red, I love the story you wrote about your sister. It’s just beautiful, and you described her so well. I guess when we blog about such people, it helps us to figure them out a little.
Red said,
January 17, 2008 at 2:11 pm
hahahaaa! After reading my comment, I realize it doesnt make a bit of sense. I sooo know what I want to sat, but putting it into words … Im finding it difficult *sigh*
It makes absolute, perfect sense.
WC said,
January 17, 2008 at 2:53 pm
A fascinating story indeed. You are brave to share it. I wonder if the sharing of it has been therapeutic for you? In my work, I’m in a different nursing home every week. So many days I see such pain and suffering (not always physical) written across tired furrowed faces in dimly lit rooms, staring out windows to the world they once freely roamed. I say a prayer each day in these places that I’ll never have to face such a sentence. However it actually happened for your Dad, it freed him from the demons and pain he’d had his whole life. It’s strange he chose the very method that actually started that pain and those demons in his own life. Knowing your Dad as I feel like I do now, he probably saw it all like Bill Maher said, “Suicide is man’s way of telling God, “You can’t fire me – I quit.”
The sharing is therapeutic, simply in that it’s a release to get the story out. It’s been locked away for a long time.
You must be very brave to work in such a place. It’s good that they have you there.
I’ve often marveled at my father’s lifelong fascination with guns. At one point, he even owned a gun shop.
The Bill Maher quote is so perfect and appropriate that I burst into tears when I read it (I do that a lot— hormones, y’know). I’ll never forget it.
David said,
January 17, 2008 at 8:08 pm
Oh moonbeam. I am still speechless. Thanks again for sharing your beautiful writing.
Awww…thank you for reading it. I think now you know why I wrote that manifesto last weekend. I couldn’t have written this without everyone’s encouragement- yours included.