This is going to be a long, meandering post, as there is much I wish to reflect upon for my own edification. Between meeting so many different people, the borderline insane intensity of the CELTA and the borderline insane intensity of the ensuing celebratory debauchery – I’m too old to be watching the sun come up several days in a row, dammit – I feel the need to unburden my mind and make some sort of linear sense of it all, if that’s possible. I’ve crammed more living into the last six weeks than I’m accustomed to – and I think that’s a good thing (although I probably overdid the debauchery a bit, but what the hell) – but now I need to step back and ponder things.

Plus it’s a good excuse to loaf all afternoon in a café, not that one needs an excuse to do that in Viet Nam, as café culture is flourishing here (thank you French colonialism) even as it fades away elsewhere — kind of ironic, that. In fact, loafing in a café is what I was doing last weekend in the picture above, recovering one steamy afternoon from the second of several post-CELTA all-night revels. What you see on the left is the sublime taste of nirvana that is Vietnamese iced coffee with sweetened condensed milk. When it is served traditionally like this, you have to wait until the coffee stops dripping from the grounds suspended above the glass, and the anticipation is sweet, sweet torture.

But I digress. So since I’ve already brought up Tet, let us start with that. As in much of Asia where there is an historical Chinese influence, this is a major holiday. To put it in context for a Western mind, Tet is more akin to Christmas or Hanukkah than our calendar New Year holiday (although there is a midnight countdown and whatnot) in terms of how it is celebrated; it is a time to spend with loved ones, and many return to their ancestral villages and reconnect with extended family. Shops are closed, often for the week. It is also a time to remember one’s ancestors and family that are no longer here; incense and paper offerings are burned in their honor, as well as that of Buddha. I presume that this is traditionally done in front of or near the family altar, although here in the seedy backpacker ward, where not everyone may have a family altar or may be far from it, one sees offerings being made on the sidewalk and in the street. Even bar girls stop at the stroke of midnight to usher in the New Year with prayers, offerings and incense.

But it is not a somber time; indeed the end of the old year and the beginning of the new is marked with revelry and fireworks. Throughout the week it is not uncommon to see troupes of performers in the streets dancing to the beat of drums in the guise of a Chinese dragon. Homes, shops and even the streets of Sai Gon themselves are adorned with banners and flowers, and in the days leading up to the New Year the parks of District 1 (and I presume elsewhere in the city) are transformed into enormous flower markets. Birds and fish are also available to be bought and then released, as Buddhist custom dictates that purchasing their freedom provides merit and good luck for the New Year (not sure about the (de)merit of those who actually put them in bags/cages, though). Then there is the custom of lucky money; people give gifts of money stuffed into festive red envelopes in return for wishes of good fortune and luck. I gather that traditionally these are given to children, although I saw my share of adults receiving red envelopes as well; in fact I drank at least one round on the first evening of Tet bought with lucky money.

One more thing I might note about Tet — I was warned repeatedly by locals, both expats and Vietnamese, that Ho Chi Minh City would empty out after the initial Tet hoopla (which took place Feb. 14 this year). Some of my fellow newbie expats were worried that we might have a tough time scavenging for food in the ensuing desolation. While from what I understand the outlying districts of Sai Gon did indeed become ghost towns, District 1, which encompasses the backpacker/budget traveler ward and much of the city center, maintained it’s 24/7 buzz. Granted, traffic lessened and many shops were closed, but finding open restaurants and cafés was not a problem, and traffic was even worse in the evenings as streets in the city center would be clogged with people visiting the flower displays or just out and about celebrating. I rode my bike to District 5 and back on Monday (and lived to tell about it once again) and there were still plenty of motorbikes on the road, not to mention buses and the odd car.

I also added a new phrase to my still-minuscule Vietnamese lexicon: chúc mừng năm mới (happy new year). I can now say hello, order phở with lean beef, fried eggs with a baguette (which comes with veggies), bottled water (either small or large), iced coffee with sweetened condensed milk, beer and say thank you – all in Vietnamese. I’m also working on “good night,” and “vegetarian spring rolls” but haven’t cemented them in my head yet.

As is true elsewhere in the world, and as I discovered on my first trip to Japan, showing that you’re making an effort to learn the local tongue instead of resorting to the lingua franca of English inevitably brings a smile and warms up the locals — even some of the hardened hearts one finds in Phạm Ngũ Lão, the street that lends its name to the seedy backpacker district it borders. Phạm Ngũ Lão, incidentally, is named for a noted general from Vietnamese history who lived during Nhà Trần dynasty here centuries ago. I wonder what he would think of this honor; probably mixed feelings at best.

British Grammar is Right … Because It’s British

But enough about Tet. Let’s talk about the CELTA, the reason I came to Vietnam, or at least the immediate reason. After four long, grueling weeks comprising eight-hours a day of class time, and an average of 3 to 4 hours each night outside of class (not to mention more than half the waking hours of the weekends), it is over. I both survived and passed. For the benefit of anyone reading who hasn’t heard me go on about it already, the CELTA is the most widely accepted certification for teaching English as a foreign language. In some countries it is a requirement to teach; in others it is not but often can net one a better job or better pay.

As anyone who has survived will tell you — or the institution offering the class should tell you — this isn’t some fly-by-night, hang-out-on-the-beach, pay-your-money-and-here’s-your-certificate kind of thing. It’s like finals week during college — a quarter/semester in which you took 18 credit hours with no blow-off classes – only it lasts a freakin’ month. Needless to say I fell off the caffeine-free bandwagon repeatedly, and contemplated resorting to the drastic pharmacological methodology I sometimes employed in my college days to get through difficult finals weeks. In the end, however, such measures were not necessary, as I’m older and wiser — well, the latter is debatable, but I’m definitely longer in the tooth (although I certainly didn’t act like it this past week).

So in essence it’s a month-long hell. On the plus side, Cambridge University, which developed and overseas the CELTA programs around the globe, stuffs a lot of practical learning into that month; on the second day you find yourself in front of real students teaching. I now feel like I have some small clue as to what to do when I stand up in front of ESL students, and in the midst of all the practical things I learned, the CELTA exposed me to some interesting theory about how students learn and whatnot. I also discovered that I find linguistics rather fascinating, particularly phonemics – didn’t see that one coming — I’m seriously contemplating getting an MA in this rather than journalism or TEFL (but I’m going to try on this teaching career for a few years first).

The CELTA course is not without its immense frustration, however. More or less by design, it sets you up to fail, or at least flail, during your teaching practice: there is so much information thrown at you so fast you can’t possible absorb it all and use it all effectively in the classroom. But then one quickly discovers one’s strengths and weaknesses this way, and during feedback and a tutorial with one’s instructors you learn/reinforce what you need to know/do. It’s kind of a sink-or-swim/trial-by-fire situation, which is rather stressful, to say the least; if you don’t thrive or can’t at least handle the pressure well, it can be downright brutal at times.

But as I say, once you get through it, you have some tools in place to do the job. Granted I still have a lot to learn — no substitute for experience — and much of what I learned during the CELTA course will only get cemented with time and practice. But I feel that I now have the foundation that I need to begin teaching English as a foreign language, and can step into a classroom and actually teach, as opposed to being an entertainer – entertainment being a method that many ESL teachers apparently resort to, particularly those like me that come to it from other professional backgrounds.

And I discovered that I like teaching. At least I like teaching Vietnamese students. I suspect that by starting a teaching career in Viet Nam I might be spoiling myself when and if I move on to other countries. I was aware going into this that I might discover teaching wasn’t for me, and that may still prove to be the case in the long run. But I further suspect that If I still want to teach after going through CELTA hell, that I’m in it for the long haul. And as I mentioned above I found some of the theory behind language and teaching endlessly fascinating (but then I am a nerd, loud and proud).

Brothers and Sisters in Arms … or Was that Bondage?

One aspect of the CELTA that surprised me was the camaraderie among my student group. It is really quite remarkable when you think about it: what are the odds that 16 people from disparate backgrounds, ages and countries would all get along so well (with one notable exception, but I’m not going to go into details on that). Indeed, while some got along more than others, and there was some drama on the interpersonal relationship front, on the whole, we all got along surprisingly well. In fact, one of the things we all remarked on at the end of the course was that we would all miss those moving on to other countries or returning to their (current) home countries, and glad that those remaining in Viet Nam for a time would be close at hand.

Even crusty ole’ anti-social me grew fond of nearly everyone on the course to one degree or another, and I suspect that in some cases may have even made life-long friendships. At the very least I hope to keep in touch with everyone as the years pass and we diverge across the globe.

I think there is a larger truth to be known, here too. Sure, part of the bonding of my classmates and I arose simply from the fact that we all went through a stressful situation together. But I think there is perhaps more to it than that. One of the things I’ve always loved about traveling abroad is meeting fellow travelers. I don’t mean the people on a two-week vacation or what have you, but the people that travel long-term or choose to live abroad. One still meets a certain percentage of assholes and assorted tools among this population, but the percentage of really cool people that one meets abroad is much higher than say, the percentage of cool people one meets back home, dramatically so. I’m not sure why this is exactly, but theorize that it has to do with the mindset that drives one to travel long-term or live abroad. I’ve discussed my theory with other travelers and other expats (other expats … God I love the sound of that) and they tend to agree.

My CELTA class is a case in point. That’s the beauty of this lifestyle — when and where else could I have made new friends from Poland, South Africa, France, England, Ireland, Australia, Canada, as well as the United States (one from a small town near Houma, LA of all places – Geaux Saints!)? Not to mention my new Vietnamese friends, and other travelers and expats that have been well met. I’ve even met a girl from Nova Scotia who may be an even bigger nerd than me (of course I was too drunk and tired to ask for her number at the end of the night; I’m an ignorant dumbass when it comes to these things). If I hadn’t of taken the CELTA class here in Vietnam, I doubt my paths would ever have crossed with any of these people. Furthermore, if you took 16 random people from around the world ranging in age from early 20s to late 50s who weren’t long-term travelers or expats and who knowingly only had one thing in common to bring them together for a month, would 15 of them become fast friends? I really doubt it.

I don’t miss the CELTA and I’m glad it’s over — ecstatic even, as evidenced by my revelry this past week. But I miss seeing my fellow students every day already, but take solace in the fact that our paths crossed, even for just a little while. For those not remaining in Sai Gon, well met and fare thee well, CELToids; may our paths cross again, and sooner rather than later (I seem to be channeling Tolkien all of a sudden; would that this happen more often).

So Now I’ve Got to Get a Job

Four weeks of intense study (and there were a few moments when I wondered if I would get to the end successfully, but by and large was confident of the outcome) followed by a week of intense celebration and goofing off, with a day trip to the Mekong Delta thrown in. Now it’s time to find a job in my chosen course of study. Yes, it feels like I crammed a whole second college career in the span of five weeks or so, replete with the “year off” for travel and wild oat sowing. Ay carumba.

I plan to stay here in Viet Nam and teach, provided I can find a job in the near future now that Tet is over. I’m reasonably confident that I can, as there is a high demand for ESL teachers here, and the economy has continued to grow here, even as it stagnates in much of the world. But now that I have my CELTA certification, there are so many more jobs in other places that I qualify for now (and I feel that I can actually do) that I admit my wanderlust gets piqued when I look at ESL job boards, and I’m not sure where I may end up. I could return to Japan or China — I could conceivably get a university job in China; there’s an opening advertised right now in my beloved Chengdu — or go someplace I haven’t been to yet but yearn to experience — Thailand or somewhere else in Southeast Asia, South or Central America, or Eastern Europe.

I’m like a kid in a candy store; in that respect this situation also feels like I just graduated from college: for the first in too many years I’m excited about life and the world beckons; the entire globe is my oyster and it’s full of potential pearls waiting for me to discover them.

I Shall Not, I WILL Not Forget

Another unforeseen aspect of this whole experience so far is the fact that for the first time since she died nine years ago, the anniversary of my mother’s death came and went and I didn’t even realize it. It wasn’t until after the course was over that it occurred to me; I think it was watching someone burn an offering for Tet, and it suddenly popped into my head, that the sad and bitter significance of January 19 had escaped me for the first time. It was the second day of the CELTA course, and really the first full day of it; that was our first teaching practice day. To say I was preoccupied would be an understatement.

I have mixed emotions about this. On one hand, I suppose I should be glad. I can still picture my mother in my mind’s eye, whole and healthy; I still have my memories and they haven’t faded much with time. Furthermore, dwelling on the circumstances of her death accomplishes nothing; brooding in the dark can’t change the past or raise the dead. This I well know. Yet I still feel saddened by the fact that the day came and went unmarked by me. As terrible as it was, I don’t want to forget it; I don’t want to forget anything about her, even being mad with grief at her death. I don’t want my mother to become just a series of half-faded memories and snapshot images in my head as time flows on, carrying me farther and farther from the time she was alive. It is inevitable I suppose – the nature of things.

But I shall pound my fists against the wall of inevitability, just as I did in her dieing days, and do what little I can. That is the nature of me, dark and stubborn to the end. Some might say it is perhaps a good thing to temper the elation of the past week with a small undercurrent of sorrow – a balance, of sorts. Perhaps it is living in a Buddhist land, that engenders these thoughts. I wonder.

P.S.: New Roommate

If you’ve ever perused the blog of a western expat who resides anywhere in Southeast Asia, there is always a post with a shot of a gecko in their room. It’s like a rule to get a long-term visa or something, that one has to post a picture of a gecko. Here in Viet Nam (in Ho Chi Minh City, anyway), these cute little buggers are everywhere. It’s not like you see them all the time, but then it’s not uncommon to see one hanging out on the ceiling of a restaurant or the wall of a bar, scuttling across a rock in the park, or in one’s apartment/hotel room. They eat bugs and they don’t seem to, er, “leave anything behind” so they are welcome as I far as I’m concerned.

Anyway, here is my gecko shot. I think maybe he was gunning for that bug around the corner. Sorry for the crap quality; took it with my camera phone in low light.

And thus concludes the longest blog post by anyone, ever.

But they are never far away though. They are always there, lurking just below the surface, that frail veneer of normalcy you present to the world. You know this, because you’ve lived with it for some years now. But sometimes, there are stretches of time when the environment around you, the fates, and your own mind all collude to lull you into a false sense of security; perhaps you even foolishly dare to think that you are “over it,” as if you ever can or will be over it – as if you have a choice in this matter — when deep down you know that can never be. That at best, you’ll adapt, like an amputee adjusting to losing a limb: her life goes on and she learns how to do without, but that phantom pain never quite goes away — indeed, it flares up when she least expects it.

In much the same way, you never know when something will whisk you back into those moments to relive yet again for the gods-only-know-how-many times those awful, terrible moments, the dreadful movie playing behind your eyes in all its vivid, mental Technicolor glory. Sometimes you don’t see it coming; the most tenuous reminders – a smell, an uttered phrase, an object on your dresser – they can collude to send you back to those moments unwillingly to live them all again. And sometimes it’s just for the briefest of moments before you can return to your façade; sometimes the ghosts even let you sleep unperturbed.

But then other times the ghosts cavort and play their infernal games until light floods the world once more.

And then there are the times you see it coming, like a slow-motion accident — the character in the television show you’ve been watching is in the hospital, on life support, and the prognosis isn’t good, and you know you shouldn’t be watching this; you know what it is going to bring – you hear the banshee’s wail — yet you cannot help yourself. You go there willingly; no collusion or sudden trickery is necessary. And even though it’s all bullshit, the heavily made-up actor lying on the hospital bed in a studio intensive care; no matter how they present it, you know its utter crap because you’ve seen this all first hand, twice now.

It’s like you’re not really seeing the stupid bullshit on TV, though. Oh no, your mind and your ghosts make sure that instead of seeing the clean, comfortable, participatory lie — the willing suspension of disbelief — instead you’re reliving the visceral  truth of death all over again: you hear the death rattle in lungs filling with fluid … you see the arms swollen and livid because the kidneys have shut down, and the fluids they continuously pump into him have nowhere to go … you hear the unconscious yet desperate gasps for breath … you smell that telltale odor of decay that refutes the hopeful, steady chirps of the monitors … you feel the rapid beating of a raggedy old heart fighting a desperate, losing battle.

And even though the character on television makes a rapid recovery, to the ecstatic, happy relief of their loved ones, that’s not the ending you see. No, you hear that last gasp as the lung rattle ceases, the chest rising for the last time, and you lay fingers on rough, dry, aged skin that’s prickly with gray whiskers so that your fingertips can be witness to that patched, retread heart fluttering once or twice more before finally stopping, forever. You watch as the blood drains away from the face of the one constant left in your life, never to return. The jaw slackens and you try and close it, grasping for even one tiny shred of dignity for this man, because that’s all you can do, even though you know it’s futile – that’s all you have left to give him, after he’s given you so much – but Death won’t even give you that.

And even as you wander out to the nurse’s station to inform them that your hopeless vigil is at an end, you know it’s only just begun: these images are mentally indelible. You know that even if you were to live for a hundred more years, or a thousand more years, that you will take them to your own grave, as brilliant and vivid as the moment they happened — that only when your own heart stops beating and your own jaw slackens for the last time, that only then will they leave you.

Only when you join them will the ghosts let you sleep untroubled.

So you come back to the present nine months later and sit and listen to Beethoven — Moonlight Sonata and Für Elise, over and over, and that upbeat, happy part in the middle of Für Elise always catches you off guard – because you know sleep will not come this night. You briefly take solace in the fact that sleep means no dreams. But then your tired mind keeps replaying those images in your head, over and over, like a tongue probing a rotten tooth, or a finger picking at a bloody scab. Ghosts will have their due, whether you sleep or not.

So you write it all down because words are the only way you know how to exorcise them, the images and the ghosts — the only way you know how to drive them away, however fleeting.

What is it about the humid, warm wind rushing through my hair and over my face as the soft, silky voice of a British siren whispers in my ear through the windy din that brings peace to my restless heart?

Even with no particular place to go, and the knowledge that I’ll have to turn around and point myself towards “home” eventually, well before the dawn comes — what is it about this suspended, sublime moment of sound and motion that brings solace?

Is motion, even with no destination, a balm for restlessness? Does it hearken back to the comfort of floating in the dark, warm comfort of the womb? Or is there some primordial memory imprinted in my deoxyribonucleic acids that recalls what it was like to constantly be on the move, a nomad whose very life depended on movement. Or does it hearken to something even farther back, some distant recollection etched in the molecules and atoms of my being, that of constantly cruising through dim, newly-formed seas from birth until death, the wind of the highway standing in for the flow of salt water over my bony, smooth flesh?

What is in me that only times I seem to feel at truly at peace, the only time that I feel truly “at home,” with myself and the world, is when I’m headed away from it? It hasn’t mattered where home has been, or who might be waiting there — doesn’t matter which side of the continent, rural or urban – it’s always been this way. What is in me that always seems compelled to see what’s over the next hill, or the next horizon — that is sometimes compelled to just leave at a moment’s notice? That only feels content on a bicycle, car, or plane that’s pointed away from where I’ve been?

These are thoughts that flit through my mind as Beth Orton croons to me of love, death, and loss at 3:30 a.m. on a highway headed west (Central Reservation has to be one of the best road albums ever — but then it’s very name speaks of the road). I eventually stop at a Waffle House in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana, to get something to eat, and there were two gentlemen in there having breakfast before beginning their respective work days. One was a public school janitor; I couldn’t suss out what the other guy did.

I couldn’t help but think that here were to guys, probably with houses and the corresponding mortgages, families, and responsibilities — they couldn’t decide to take off and hit the road on the wrong side of midnight on a weekday, just because they felt like it; just because it felt good to be moving. And here I was, a guy more or less the same age as these two, only marginally employed thanks to the current economy, no healthcare — but no bills or other responsibilities, who could just take off at a whim.

And I think how I wouldn’t trade places with either of these two guys, how I feel sorry for them, although they don’t seem like they were sorry for themselves (but then who knows what lurks behind their eyes).

Why?

Now, the magic spell of the road is broken as I point the Subaru back toward home (there’s that strange word again). Now my mind races ahead of the car, the voodoo charm of motion having warn off, scattered, smothered, and covered by a chance encounter at a highway restaurant. Now I think of my father, and how sometimes, when I was a kid, seemingly at random (but almost always on a weekend), he would ask if I wanted to go for a car ride — no destination, no particular reason, just felt like driving. This most often took place when I was a child, but sometimes it would happen even after I had grown into an adult, on up to the months before he died.

Did he feel that restlessness? Did I inherit it from him? Did he ever find himself hurtling down some isolated highway in the small hours before sunrise, the warm, somewhat sultry voice of a woman he’s never met his only companion, and find a brief enlightenment? Did he regret choices that kept him from being unfettered, from being able to take to the road whenever he wished? Did he miss the freedom of his postwar, post-collegiate self, the gleaming red Studebaker taking him whither he will? I recall his stories of those seemingly idyllic days, and I wonder.

Or does it come from my mother? She of the Northern Irish and Scottish blood, the blood of poets, blood that waxes and wanes across centuries, sometimes in thrall, sometimes free — bending but never breaking, sometimes turning the other cheek, sometimes gladly turning to fight (blood that now flows in my veins)? Depression-era child, that watched cancer claim her father only a few short years after she was born, did she ever find that the familial ties that brought comfort then only brought chafing and constraints later in life? Mother that kept a copy of Rand’s The Fountainhead buried on her bookshelf amidst family photos, myriad self help books, bibles and dusty old encyclopedias — a copy that she replaced after I took it home to the Great White North to finish reading, having discovered it on my first Christmas home after college.

There was more to her than I ever knew.

Am I more like them than I ever realized? Is my instinctive fear of life’s metaphorical anchors and chains inherited? Did they feel restless in the small hours of the night? What recourse did they have if they did? They were always there when I awoke as a child.

Sometimes I rue having been an accident, a gynecologist’s miscalculation, having been born so late in their lives. It seems like I barely got to an age — and if there is any blame to bear for this, it lies with me — where I could appreciate my parents as fellow adults, as distinct human beings, and as friends, before age, infirmity, and death claimed them. On one hand, I’m almost ashamed to say that in one sense I feel free now that my father is gone; there is nothing keeping me here now; I’m truly free to wander whither I will (if I only I had that sweet Studebaker). On the other, I’d pay anything — oh, I’d pay dearly and gladly — for more time with both of them, even just a precious hour or two.

Of course there is no one to ask, now, about these existential 3 a.m. questions  — no one to ask when I wander in the dark, why I wander in the dark. Why I only feel at peace when I do. Why it is only motion that ever drives away the vague angst that settled in my gut in my teenage years — as it seemingly does for everyone — and never left.

But then, does it even matter? Should it matter? Perhaps, sometimes, it is best not to wonder why we wander, why we travel through the woods on a snowy evening, or whether we will be seen by the land owner. Rather, we should simply revel in woods that “are lovely, dark, and deep,” living in that moment, not worrying about the promises to keep and the miles to go before we sleep — there is time enough for that in the still, sterile light of day.

Ole Bobby Frost, he knew a thing or two about angst, restlessness and 3 a.m. There must have been some Irish or Scotts in the woodpile somewhere in his family history, I’ll wager.

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Watching all of the fuss over Michael Jackson the past few days, marveling over all of the people mourning his death, holding vigil at his star on Hollywood Boulevard, or wherever those things are kept, I couldn’t help but feel angry. Why are these people crying and carrying on over someone they have never met in real life? Okay, fine, you enjoyed his music … but you didn’t know him, so how can you truly mourn him? Are your emotions that cheap?

I can’t help but think that the multitudes of fans we see on video carrying on over Michael Jackson in the streets of cities all around the world are ones that have never lost someone truly close to them – never had someone they dearly loved taken from them – and that they are fools, one and all. With their crocodile tears they mock everyone past and present that has watched someone they truly love and know die.

But such is life. For the first time in some months, I dreamed of my father, the other night. I guess Michael Jackson’s death is big news even in the realm of the dead; the ghosts are stirring and agitated.

As if to drive all this home, I learned Friday that my friend Michael Riley had died the day before. I feel compelled to memorialize him here in my own words, because that’s really all I can offer at this point, I suppose. It’s ironic, because I haven’t felt much like writing lately, either creatively, or blogging, or professionally. In fact, as of late, blogging just seems silly. But other than knocking back some beer with some mutual friends and reminiscing, I have nothing else to offer him.

I talked with his closest friend earlier today, and she said something that struck me. She was saddened most by the fact that Michael never struck it big as a DJ, in spite of having the chops and the respect of many people in the radio and music business. That is a sad aspect of Michael Riley’s life, and yet I can’t help but contrast his death with that of Michael Jackson. The only tears shed for Michael Riley will be genuine, and while he may never have got the fame and recognition he deserved, my Michael seems to have largely lived life on his own terms, which seems more than we can say for Jackson. Furthermore, while the music of Michael Jackson, whose fans are legion, touched millions (musical pablum that is; sorry, just have to be honest); I’ll wager that Michael Riley touched more people’s lives in a meaningful way, in ways that someone who lived in the rarified air of pop superstardom never could.

Just ask the Mekons and many other bands from outside the United States who probably wouldn’t have a fan base here in the Midwest if it weren’t for the efforts of the Disc Doctor – bands you’ve probably never heard of, who made music because they love to do it, because it was their calling – not to feed the hungry maw of the undiscerning masses, lining their pockets and those of their sycophants along the way. The Disc Doctor, as he was known when he spun records, was a bit of a legend around Cincinnati, at least in certain musical circles – circles that actually spread well beyond Cincy, actually. I only got to know Michael in the last few years of his life, long after he had left the airwaves, but my life has been the richer for it. He used to work at the coffee shop where I frequently hang out at, since moving back to my old hometown. I don’t remember how we eventually got to know one another; I imagine one day I was trying to find out what obscure music was playing in Sitwells, and the inevitable answer that anyone would give was “ask Michael.” At some point Michael determined that I was not just another ignorant hipster douche bag hanging out in an indie coffee shop, and he started bringing me music, giving me homemade compilations that span just about every musical genre you could think of. Aside from his friendship, he turned me onto a lot of music I would not otherwise have discovered, and for that, I will always be grateful. And I am just one of many with similar stories.

I can’t claim that we were super close friends, but we were close enough that we would take road trips to see bands. We were close enough that I happily volunteered to help him move when he needed it, because I knew he couldn’t manage it himself. I only asked that he let me come over some time and let me comb his extensive music collection that wasn’t on CD and let me rip whatever my heart desired. I think he got a kick out of the fact that in spite of our age difference I shared many of his musical predilections. As he used to tell me, “I don’t know about these other kids (anyone 10 or more years younger than him was a kid) but you get it. You know what’s good.”

Of course, I never got around to actually doing that. And now it’s too late. As I wrote this, the last song he played as a radio DJ came to an end. It seemed only fitting today, when I confirmed beyond rumor that he had died, that I listen to a copy of his last radio show that he had given me a couple years back. The last song on it is Sun Ra’s Nuclear War. The lyrics are rather spooky, given the circumstances:

If they push that button
You can kiss yo’ ass goodbye
…
What you gonna do without yo’ ass?

Indeed, Michael Riley, what are we gonna do? Who else could choose songs from the likes of Muddy Waters, The Stones, Dylan, and Hendrix and mix them up with Alpha & Omega, The Mekons, Patti Smith, Carol King and Bette Midler into one radio show and make it work? You will be sorely missed my friend, and like others that are gone from my life, the world becomes a slightly more dreary place without you in it. I’ll try and take comfort in the fact that our paths crossed for a time; I’m a better man for having known you.

You know, Michael hit just about every genre of pop music you could think of during his final show, including punk – that was the Disc Doctor. While many of the choices were pointed commentary on the politics that led to his leaving his radio station, and the fact that he was leaving the air, they are also eerily poignant in the wake of his death. Among those songs is one from country artist Matraca Berg, River of No Return:

All aboard
The ship is waiting
All aboard, you know I’ve finally learned
That I don’t need no farewell party
I’m just gonna watch my bridges burn

Cause I’m going down the river of no return

Well, I let it go
Yeah, I cried myself an ocean
Now I’m gonna, gonna pack up my dreams and sail away
And my destination is none of your concern

Cause I’m going down, down the river of no return
I’m going down, down the river of no return

A misty grey morning covered for me
As I left, I left you there sleeping
All tangled up in your dreams
And this morning I woke up
And I knew I was free
You may shed a teardrop
But, oh baby, it won’t be for me

So all aboard
The ship is waiting
All aboard, yeah, my ship has finally come in
And I don’t need no farewell party
Just gonna watch those bridges burn

Down, down the river
All the way down, down the river of no return

Goodbye, my friend.

And I broke – and only by the slimmest thread of self control did I keep from literally breaking everything I own. In the end, I wasn’t psychologically strong enough to do what I believe what my father would have wanted me to do.

And I went to a very dark place inside my soul. A dark, dank little cave that I haven’t visited since the spring of 2001, following my mother’s death; this has been my third visit to that place since December 1999 when, but for a “grave”(heh) miscalculation, it would have become my permanent place of residence. After writing what follows, I felt much better; I guess it enabled me to come to terms with my failure, that and the new cadre of ghosts that joins those my mother’s death left behind to keep me company.

I decided not to post it right away, however; I decided to give it a few days and read it over. For one reason, writing when one is emotional is not necessarily a good thing – sometimes it can be powerful beyond measure in its passion; at other times the force of that passion can completely wreck the writing, tearing it asunder and making it descend into melodrama, even as you put it down on the page. The second reason is because I have mixed feelings about keeping a truly personal blog. On one hand, I’m an intensely private person; I often fit the cliché of the loner. On the other hand, when I look at others’ blogs, the ones I truly enjoy reading, they tend to be of an intensely personal nature; they are the ones in which the authors lay their souls bare (they can write well, too). It’s probably not surprising that the blogs I enjoy the most are by published fiction authors.

So, I suppose if I’m going to keep a blog, then it might as well be one that I would actually read, were I on the other side of it (I’ll let you decide if I can write well or not; obviously I believe that I can). Furthermore, despite my private nature, there is something cathartic about publishing your innermost thoughts and feelings on a blog for all the world to read – it lets one bare one’s soul without the embarrassment of sharing that with someone in person. Plus, the reader gets the powerful words and compelling emotion without the drama and tears. If they’re uncomfortable, they can stop reading; if it’s someone I know, they can choose to acknowledge it, or not, as they see fit, when we meet in person.

For a misanthropic, navel-gazing loner who only maintains a handful of good friends, it’s the perfect psychological vent.

Another reason I’m glad I waited is that on Friday – it being early Saturday evening as I write this – bitch-ass Fate decided to deal me a coup de grâce: I got laid off from my job. That kind of helped me put everything in perspective, I think, because in spite of what conventional wisdom would suggest I should feel, I feel relieved. I liked my job, liked my coworkers and my employer, but lately, even before my father died, I had had trouble with motivation – in short, I just couldn’t feel motivated anymore to do something that I didn’t have a passion for. It has been like staying in a relationship with someone because it’s comfortable, not because I’m still madly in love with them. My career had become just a job – a cool job, but just a job nonetheless. I’ve actually felt that way about journalism for several years now, but with all of the shit going on following my father’s death, I was finding it extra difficult to do the job – I just couldn’t find it within me to care – so I think it is for the best, even though the future is now even more uncertain than it was before.

One of my good friend’s favorite quotes is from the movie Hero; the lines in question are spoken by Bernie LaPlant, played by Dustin Hoffman, to his son Joey as he explains his philosophy of life.

“People are always talking about truth. Everybody always knows what the truth is, like it was toilet paper or something and they got a supply in the closet. But what you learn as you get older is there ain’t no truth. All there is is bullshit, pardon my vulgarity here. Layers of it. One layer of bullshit on top of another. And what you do in life like when you get older is – you pick the layer of bullshit you prefer and that’s your bullshit so to speak.”

I suspect my dilemma with regard to my career and everything else right now is that the layer of bullshit I have come to prefer is near the bottom, if not precisely the bottom itself. Maybe I’ve always been that way, and I just took 40 years to figure it out. All I know is, if I don’t wake up and the first thing in my brain isn’t “Hot damn, I can’t wait to do my job today,” then I don’t want to do it at all any more, because, well, it’s bullshit otherwise. Out in California you often hear the phrase “I work to live, rather than live to work,” often to justify some heinously long commute, or to justify some mind-numbing, soul-crushing drudgery in a cubicle farm. I think at this point in my life, I’d rather just “live to live,” because everything else is bullshit, I’ve come to conclude. It’s cliché, but it’s true: one must follow one’s bliss.

Granted, truth is subjective, and so is bullshit. But then, I’m a loner at heart, and now that both my parents are dead, the only person I have to answer to is myself. So, whatever the future holds … it won’t hold a lot of bullshit, as far as I’m concerned. I may end up living in my Subaru down by the river, but damn it, it will be on my own terms, and there won’t be any bullshit involved – I won’t have to be full of shit, convincing myself to do a job that I don’t care about, and that doesn’t matter to me at the end of the day.

If I ever get laid off again, I want it to be a tragedy, because I loved that job, and because I couldn’t wait to do it each and every day I got out of bed. No more bullshit, that’s my motto.

So yeah, whatever self censorship may have taken place in the past here is no more. I’m posting what I want and everyone else can bugger off if they don’t like it, future employers included.

But be prepared, dear gentle reader; what you are about to read, should you chose to continue, isn’t a fluffy box of kittens with a side order of Carebears. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

OK, that was a bit over the top. But it is gut wrenching stuff, if I do say so myself. And lengthy. May want to go take a leak and get something to drink before you click.

So I guess in the end it turns out I’ve been a fool, and I come to the precipice overlooking madness and despair after all. Grief is a cruel mistress.

I’m sorry, Dad.

I’m more sorry than mere words can describe; I could fill the oceans and cover the world with my shame and guilt, and still, it wouldn’t be enough. This is failure beyond epic proportions.

You spent 40 out of the last 50 years of your life making sacrifices for your children, as did Mom. You slaved away at a job for 30 years – a job you loathed, a job you hated – working extra hours on top of it all. I think I was a teenager before I realized that most kids’ dads who had white collar jobs like you didn’t usually work on Saturdays; I had always thought that was normal. You even passed up promotions – and with them, pay raises and better benefits – because you didn’t want to uproot your family time and again to move hither and yon. You didn’t want to become a complete corporate shill, because being a father and husband was more important.

Family always came first, your children in particular. You only quit that job after it nearly killed you, and then Mom stepped up to the plate and went to work full time, because I was still a kid, and two of your other children were still in school and living at home. I remember discovering the tapes you made for my older siblings during your long stay in the hospital back then, the tapes I wasn’t supposed to find and hear. But as a child I knew more about what was going on than anyone gave me credit for; I think most children are.

I listened to those tapes. Even as you sat in a hospital bed, facing at best an uncertain future and at worst, an early death, your thoughts didn’t turn to yourself. There was no navel gazing or maudlin, simpering self-loathing in your blog (heh); no lamentations at your own limitations and weaknesses. No, your thoughts were for your wife and children. I remember listening to your recorded voice exhorting my older brothers to take care of me and Mom, should you not come home from the hospital; you expected them to be able to step up, if it the situation called for it.

I remember thinking in my naive, 10-year-old way that they wouldn’t have to take care of me, that I could take care of myself. That I could help share the burden and look after Mom. That I could step up and meet your measure.

I was a fool then, and an even bigger fool now; the intervening years have brought no wisdom, only more self delusion. Less than a month ago I stood beside your corpse in its ridiculous funeral garb and makeup, and declared that if, at the end of my days, I could say that I was just half the man that you were, then I will have done okay with my time here on this earth, by anyone’s measure of a man. And here I am, drowning in shame and despair, for I have failed you already, and the weight of the years that must follow bears down. More ghosts to live with.

But it’s nothing less than I deserve. Indeed, all of your children deserve this fate.

For we’ve failed both Mother and you in the worst way possible. Your lives together were marked by self sacrifice for your children; so many times you put aside your own self fulfillment, your own hopes and dreams, for all of us. By the time you decided that we were far enough along in life that you could go back to your own lives, it was almost too late. Mom was already fading (and yet you stuck by her, to the bitter end). Your last few years were spent as you saw fit – at long last you lived for yourself and yourself alone, and for that, I am forever thankful; there is some measure of cold comfort in this. But even then old age and infirmity robbed you of much enjoyment in life that should have been yours; you deserved nothing less and never got it.

So what did it mean, your sacrifices? In the end, judging by the actions of my siblings and I, they meant nothing.

Nothing.

In fighting over your estate – hell, they haven’t even been fighting over that yet, but merely fighting over who gets to be in charge – in squabbling over just how quickly they can get their hands on your meager possessions and modest financial portfolio (before you were even clinically dead, wrangling over the discharge of your estate began), they’ve done more than metaphorically defecate and urinate on your grave.

They’ve burned away the very meaning of your life.

Merely by how you lived your life you made it clear, leading by example, that family should come first, that blood is what is most important, even more important than one’s self. Your only wish upon your death was that your children would get along; you said as much on more than one occasion.

And yet there was still breath in your lungs when your children descended into backstabbing and deceit, giving into selfishness, pride, and issues that stem back to childhood, even before I was born, I suspect.

But even though I refer to “them,” and “your children,” don’t think I absolve myself of blame and the burden of guilt and shame: oh no, far from it. I’m the worst sinner of all; there is no cross large enough for me to carry that would adequately symbolize my sin.

For I knew, knew instinctively, before I even reasoned it out, that what was happening was wrong. I knew better, and yet, in the end, I succumbed to baser emotions and stooped down to their level; in the end, I remained true to my nature and succumbed to selfishness. In the end my anger consumed me and prevailed over what I knew to be right – what was necessary to honor you and your life – and I crawled down into the muck and mire to lie with them, my siblings. Even now, I can’t entirely let it go, even as I acknowledge it to be the worst of wrongs.

They lit the pyre that burned away the meaning of your life and made your death meaningless. And now I’ve joined them, wallowing in anger and despair – wallowing in the ashes of your life and letting them sift through my fingers and scatter to the four winds.

Nothing. Emptiness. Death and dissolution at the end of a life that adds up to a meaningless nothing.

You deserved so much more.

For what it’s worth, Dad, I tried. I really, honestly, did try. I tried my best to take the high road, and play referee between my battling siblings. I tried to rein in the paranoia of one and the delusional fantasies of the other, as well as the mountain of insecurity they both share that masquerades behind their foolish, selfish pride. Every time I would hear one of them come to me and complain of the machinations of the other, filling my head full of crap and attempting to color my judgment with perceived transgressions, imagined plots, and personal insults, I would try and remind them this wasn’t about them, it wasn’t about any of us, that it was about honoring you and what you would want. About what your entire life stood for. Even as the aftermath of your death descended into the stuff of Shakespeare – and bad Shakespeare, at that, I tried to rise above it.

But like a tragic Shakespearean figure, I have been tried by Fate and found wanting. I remember thinking that you would want us all to get along, and if we couldn’t, then you would at least expect me to step up and do what I could to maintain a fragile, volatile peace, rather than indulge in blood feud – because that’s what you would have done.

But I failed to live up to your measure; it turns out I’m not even half the man you were; apparently none of your children inherited what made our parents great, as we’ve all failed you in the worst possible way. But I think my failure is the worst, as I say, because I knew better, and yet I failed in spite of that. I knew better, I aspired to be better, but I’ve thrown in the metaphorical towel; in the end I’ve washed my hands, laid down the burden, and surrendered to the baser of the potential fates that lay before me. Even now, I subconsciously try and assuage my guilt and shame by comparing myself to some noble, flawed, Shakespearean figure – ridiculous, really.

In the end I guess I’m no better than they, in my selfish pride and vanity. There will be no end to my shame, either. More ghosts to live with.

No, there won’t be an end, at least not any time, soon, will there? Not unless whatever gods there are take pity. But I’m sure now that there are no gods, benevolent or otherwise. I admit, in my despair, for the first time since Mom died, I’ve contemplated taking my own life. Oblivion would be most welcome right now. And the one person that was left on earth that I truly gave a damn about deep down in my heart of hearts, the only person left whose opinion I cared about … well, you’re gone.

So what stays my hand? It’s ironic, Dad. It really is. When Mom died, I had to turn to a belief in an afterlife, just to keep from going insane with grief over her loss. And now, watching what has befallen your family after your death, I hope beyond measure that there is nothing beyond the pale but darkness and dissolution. I pray you are not able to see what is happening. I fear for the guilt and shame I must carry over the course of my remaining years, but I fear even more the possibility that our souls will cross paths again, on some other plane of existence, and all these sins that have come to pass will be laid bare before you, naked and exposed. Remote as this possibility may seem, I don’t think I could chance bringing myself to insult you and your memory even further by taking my own life. I have no desire to add to my karmic burden, and dishonor you even further.

In spite of my failure, I love and respect you too much for that.

Besides, I feel like penance should be served. I suppose that is why I’m posting this here, for all the world to see. Public catharsis is the only avenue open to me now, even though with your death no one remains alive whose opinion concerns me anymore. Nothing at all really matters anymore, not even the life you’ve lived, thanks to the actions of my siblings and I. So the least I can do is acknowledge this, to bear the weight of shame, guilt and dishonor, and embrace it with open arms.

I wish you were here to yell encouragement at me Dad, like you used to from the sidelines of the football field, giving voice to the motivation I needed to transcend myself and actually perform like I was capable of. But you’re dead, buried and gone; your voice has been silenced. And thus it seems I’ve opted to play give-up ball, in spite of all that you taught me about life and how it should be lived. It is a bitter thing.

But at least in the end I will walk off the field with my head held high. I will persevere, as that is the only avenue left open. I may have failed you, but I shall bear it and disgrace you no further, even if I should live for a thousand years – which would be fittingly ironic, should it come to pass. Because there is no pit that lies deeper than this, no graver sin to commit, than erasing what meaning your life had.

In the end, this is all I can offer your spirit and your life: my eternal sorrow.

I’m sorry, Dad.

Technorati Tags: death, blog, parents, fluffy box of kittens, despair, Grief, Dad, Death

If you actually were a lover, I would have ejected you from my bed already; if you were a human lover, our relationship would clearly be over. But unlike a human lover, I actually can’t live without you.

So please come back, Sleep. I miss you. I need you.

…

Grief, it’s a strange thing. Like a cancer, it can rage through your body unchecked, and then be put into remission for a time, and you think you’re okay, perhaps even cured, though scarred by the experience. And life goes on.

But then it creeps up from inside you again. It wells up from some unknown place, and metastasizes through your being, and you realize that no, there is no quick cure. There is no biopsy followed by a quick surgery. No, this is going to be a long and difficult fight. The historical survival rate may be in your favor, but how long the malady lingers remains to be seen.

After we buried my father on December 23, I was in a mental holding pattern, of sorts. Perhaps it was shell shock. It all happened rather fast. From the time I found out that my father was in the hospital to the time he was in the ground was only two weeks. After it was all over – heh, apparently it’s only just begun – I was surprised at how well I felt, relatively speaking. I was hurting, but I was functioning. Life was going on as before. And I slept.

When my mother died, I literally wallowed in despair. It felt like I was hanging at the edge of a precipice over a black pit of sorrow, and that it was only a matter of time until I lost my grip. More than once I feared for my sanity, the grief was so overwhelming; at the time I consciously decided that some part of us must persist after death in some matter. Believing in this was the only way I could deal with the grief of my mother’s death and not go insane with sorrow; I couldn’t accept the fact that she was just … gone. Forever.

It took months, really more than a year, I suppose, before I put it behind me, at least enough to get on with the business of life and actually find some joy in it. And there were so many sleepless nights. I remember more than once after she died that surely I would never sleep again.

In that week or so following Dad’s burial, I kept waiting for the overwhelming despair to set in. I was waiting to teeter on the brink of madness and despair … and yet I never did. I marveled at myself, and chalked it up to having been through it before. I was amazed every time I woke up and realized that I had slept through the night. I was better equipped to deal with it, I reasoned, having been through it before; I had the tools in my psychological tool box to deal with it all.

But in retrospect, I think I was in a fugue. Between Dad’s death, turning 40, the holidays, squabbling siblings, and the accompanying ghost of my mother – like Dad, she went into the hospital shortly before Christmas, but lingered until mid January (and now I’ll have two Christmas ghosts to deal with in the future) – I think some sort of psychological failsafe switch kicked in. My subconscious was like: “Um … yeah … we’re not gonna take this on right now. Nope. Not gonna do it; not even gonna try. We’re just gonna kick back, drink some Guinness – maybe get into the vino, even; eat some pizza, eat some Thai, play some video games, read a book – and deal with all this shit later, mmmkay?” Which is actually just what I did.

But now that the holidays are over, and life returns to the mundane everyday concerns of work, groceries, bills, broken toilets and whatnot, and there is no more avoiding the sad business of settling my father’s estate, grief has come again. I don’t feel like I’m hanging on the brink of despair and madness this time, but I can see it on the other side of the fence bordering the Grim Reaper’s parking lot (boy, I’m just full of metaphors and similes this morning, aren’t I?).

And it’s hard to find the motivation to deal with the business of everyday life, because when I’m so close to that pit I realize that none of it really matters. I admit I find it hard to give a tinker’s damn about my daily copy deadline, or getting paperwork signed, or fixing the handle on the toilet, or figuring out what we’re going to do with my father’s boat when all I can really think about is that he’s dead, he’s gone, and I’ll never be able to talk with him again. I’ll never venture out on the water with him on that boat. That the two constants in my life, my parents, are now both dead and buried, and I’ve got 30 years left, 40 at the outside, give or take a few – if my luck holds out – before I’m daisy-root sniffing myself – that’s one of many colorful expressions my father taught me – so why the hell am I wasting precious time on things that I don’t really care about? Why does anyone?

As Dad himself used to say, if it won’t matter a hundred years from now, it probably doesn’t matter that much right now, does it?

Of course, this begs the question that has always plagued me as an adult – and only seems to get worse as I get older — as to why I never seem to care about the things that everyone else cares about? And what do I care about?

And when, for fucks damn sake, will I sleep more than a few hours in a stretch again?

Aw hell, Dad.

Grief, it’s a strange thing.

Well, I should probably wrap this up, and get to work. … yeah …

Technorati Tags: Grief, death

But there is a bright side – I haven’t made an ass of myself dithering about turning 40 a week ago. And then there is the fact that 2009 cannot suck any worse. Even if the whole Western world continues its meltdown to the point of apocalypse, it still cannot suck worse than 2008; Mom and Dad can’t die again. So good riddance, 2008; you shall not be missed. As for 2009, bring it. Do your worse. I laugh tauntingly and defiantly in the face of your impending adversity from the ramparts of my psychological castle. *in best gravely French accent:* I fart in your general direction.

You know, I’ve tried several times to write about my father’s death here in recent days, but have found I cannot. I’ve tried to recreate what I said at his funeral – he died December 16 – but every time I sit down to do it, my muse has been AFK (she’s pretty smart like that; smarter than I, surely). It is the same issue I had trying to put my mother’s death in perspective through writing; history repeats itself like the cruel mistress she is.

Until today, that is. Real life seems determined to intrude on the self-imposed mental holiday I instituted following my father’s burial December 23, although as far as I’m concerned, it lasts until Monday. But that fucking bastard of a devil is in the details. And my muse has coincidentally decided that her holiday is over. She’s fickle and recalcitrant; her timing rarely proves convenient. But I love her just the same (queue that silly Billy Joel song).

But Mistress Muse doesn’t want me to write about Dad, really, at least not yet; rather she wants me to confront death; specifically, the manner of dieing. The pastor that presided over Dad’s funeral said he was touched by the stories that my siblings and I had told during the ceremony, urging us to record them for posterity. But it’s kind of hard to worry about posterity when you’ve just had the ephemeral nature of existence violently thrust through one’s psyche like a barbed lance. Everything dies; everything fades away eventually, ourselves included. How many sons and daughters have mourned the loss of their parents throughout the ages – how many unique stories have been lost forever with the passage of time? How many will be still, as the years pass? The number is countless.

And why should I worry about posterity and preserving memories of my father and mother when I will be dead myself – in 40 odd years if I’m lucky; sooner if I’m not? I’ll have my memories until then. To lay a claim beyond my years seems kind of silly to me right now. Entropy is the nature of the universe; to try and deny that only seems foolish. Perhaps I’ll write about those memories in the future; perhaps not. But if I do, they will only be for my own edification, nothing more. The older I get, the more Buddhist I get; all that matters is now.

And I wonder how touched the good pastor would be if he knew about the sibling drama that started even before my father was technically dead? But that’s a story I shall not be delving into in this public forum, to be sure. And I’m not pointing any fingers or casting aspersions on anyone; we all react to and deal with death and grieve in our own ways.

Requiem, the Intimate Details of Death, and Death Wishes

In some ways, my father’s death has been much easier to deal with than my mother’s. The small rural hospital he was at let us stay with him in his room in intensive care around the clock, and the nurses were quick to respond to any request or concern we had about his comfort. They would even offer to get us food and coffee. The nurses were first rate, in fact; they made all the difference. Ladies of Rhea County Medical Center, you are the best, and you have my eternal gratitude.

At this point, though, in the waning hours of his life, I believe my father was past caring; at some point between his resuscitation from cardiac arrest a few days before the point that he clinically died, whatever made him Dad had already slipped away; he never really regained consciousness, at least not on this plane of existence. But for those of us left behind, at least for me, it made a huge difference to be able to be there every moment, knowing that he was as comfortable as possible and as dignified as possible, right up until that last heartbeat. Some might think it morbid, but to witness his last breath, the last few pulses of his heart – he was so thin at the end, his pulse in his carotid artery was visible in his neck — the color draining from his face, all this made my father’s death much easier to accept, as difficult and gut wrenching as it was to witness.

Yeah, that beat-up, retread heart of his, the one that we thought for nearly 30 years would be the death of him, held out until the bitter end, the last of his organs to stop functioning. Even in death, even as his spirit fled his dieing, frail body, Dad had to be a smart ass and have the last word.

A twisted part of me wishes I had that heart – I mean that literally; I would carry it with me always as a sort of talisman, a tribute to the kind of spirit that laughs in the face of long odds; the kind of spirit that flips the bird in the face of adversity. The kind of spirit that insists on just one more cast of the fishing rod into the water, even though the light of day is fading, we’re cold and miserable, and we haven’t caught one damn fish the whole damn day. The kind of spirit that taught me that you play every down as hard as you possibly can, no matter if there is less than a minute left in the game and your team is down by 50 points. The kind of spirit that taught me to play like it’s the first play of the game, and there is no score, even when it is the last play and we’ve clearly lost. Win or lose, you play hard; you never play “give-up ball,” for that is the worst sin of all. You play that way every play, or you don’t even walk out on the field; there is no half-assing. I would carry that heart as a testament to the spirit that taught me that, metaphorically, that’s how one should live one’s life.

I suppose I carry that heart metaphorically, if not literally, huh Dad?

My mother, on the other hand, died alone in an intensive care unit. We were only allowed to see her for 10 minutes an hour every hour, and then, only if there was no other activity in the ICU. If someone were being admitted or discharged, or getting their respiratory therapy, too bad; you can wait until next time. And frequently when we visited her, she seemed cold; I remember finding her shivering on more than one occasion, in spite of repeated requests to keep her warm with blankets. And on the rare occasions when she seemed aware of her surroundings, she seemed scared. She couldn’t really communicate, but you don’t need to words to see fear in a loved one’s eyes.

With a few exceptions, the staff just didn’t seem to give a shit about her or us; everyone seemed more concerned about their own personal jurisdictions and covering their own ass. She was a job, and the job was to keep her flesh alive in the clinical sense for as long as possible. I’ll never forget her admitting physician telling us that her oxygen levels were improving, only to learn later from the respiratory therapist that he was giving her a maximum amount of oxygen possible to sustain those levels. That was just one example of several. No one would outright lie, but the truth was often distorted, giving us false hope.

In the end she suffered needlessly for days, and that is the simple, awful truth of the matter. It is something that haunts me still, and I’m sure will continue to, to the end of my own life. I guess there are some things that endure, at least for the span of one’s life, in spite of the passage of time.

Ah, Death, you’ve taken the two people I’ve loved most; you took one of two constants in my life in the beginning of 2001; the other just a few weeks ago. Some might think it odd and morbid, but to me it seems only natural now to contemplate my own mortality. It’s only natural to be lurking in my thoughts throughout New Years revelry and that other nearby holiday that I now refuse to acknowledge henceforth (Mom’s death killed any joy left over in Xmas; Dad’s death dumped the dirt on its coffin). What will the circumstances of my death be?

Just when I think I can’t be any more preoccupied with death, someone ups and dies …

Ashes to (Meteor Pulverized) Ashes …

If the Grim Reaper and/or any Supreme Being(s) are reading this, I have some requests: there is to be absolutely no lingering – let me “die with my boots on,” as the saying goes. Do not let the medical establishment get its clutches on me, no matter how good-intentioned those clutches might be. Unless I can be upright and walking around for it, there should be no delays of the inevitable.

And above all, even if I must linger in pain and torment, please let it be alone. For God’s/Goddess’ sake, let it be alone. No family drama or intrigue (again, not pointing any fingers). No one around to intrude on the intimate details of my body shutting down for good. No bedside vigils. No nurses, aids, doctors, etc., even if they have the best of intentions and are completely sympathetic. Please, let me die alone.

Of course, given my own personal beliefs, I suppose most of these details are up to me; I’m not one to believe in fate or predestination; life is what we make of it (do what makes you happy, as long as you don’t hurt someone else in the process – it’s actually pretty simple). Time to get my Living Will in order. I hope I won’t have to deal with it for a long, long time, naturally, and if I’m lucky, never. My preferred mode of demise at the moment is to be done in by a meteor falling from the sky, just big enough to take me out on my 100th birthday – seriously, how cool of a way to go would that be? Instantaneous, no mess to deal with (other than a small, smoking crater) for those left behind, no funeral bills, and if not eternity, I would at least have a footnote in recorded history for some time to come.

And no, the irony here isn’t lost on me. I eternally regret not being at my mother’s side when she died, and not doing whatever was necessary to make her more comfortable, intensive-care-unit rules and the medical establishment be dammed. And it made it much easier to deal with and accept my father’s death, being there for every intimate, awful detail of his death – that, and the fact that I knew what I was in for, psychologically and emotionally, thanks to Mom. And yet, for myself, I do not want to have anyone present. Seriously G-man/woman, grant me that one request, huh? Yeah? Sooner or later, quick and painless or long, lingering, and agonizing, let me do it alone.

Of course if you’re honoring requests, let’s not let it be for some time to come. I may be a morbid bastard and whatnot, but I haven’t fetishized death to the point that I don’t like being above ground – I do, in-spite of it all. And if you could swing that meteor thing, that would be so totally rad.

As for Dad, I’ll just say this, the words that I used to conclude what I said at his funeral.

If, at the end of my days, I can say that I was half the man my father was – just half – my spirit will be able to rest easy, for I will know that by anyone’s measure, I will have done well with my time here. Just half – for my father, William Blackburn Chappell, was that much of a man.