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10 Days of 10 Years Later – Day 01

10 days from now, March 12th, will mark the 10 year anniversary since my father passed away.  It’s been looming a bit on the horizon for me, and I wanted to make sure I commemorated it in a way befitting the meandering course my relationship with my father took up until the day he died.  And the now 10 years that followed.

I think about those things quite a bit, our relationship up until that overcast Sunday morning he passed away, and the 10 years that have followed.  I think on who he was, how he became who he was.  I linger on who I was, and how I became who I was.  And inevitably I settle into thinking about who I am, and how fundamentally different I am from the 32 year old version of myself who had just lost his father.

I often wonder if 42 year old Adam would have tolerated 32 year old Adam.

As this date has gotten closer I’ve discovered that I increasingly wonder if 32 year old me would have liked the person 42 year old Adam has become, and I wonder if Adam32 would see his father when he talked to Adam42.

And how much would he see?

And in those things he sees, would they be those things he loved about his father, or those things he didn’t?  What has Adam42 learned from the experiences of Adam32, and the years since?  Did he keep promises to himself to evolve, or is there a genetic predisposition to collapse into some of our father’s less desirable quirks?

And then, most importantly, I think about Dad and wonder what he would think of Adam42?  Would THEY have been friendly?  Or are they too similar to ever be friends?

As it happens, there’s only 3 people in the entire universe who can answer those questions.  Unfortunately, of those 3 people, one is dead and another is ten years removed by a linear perception of time.

So that leaves me, Adam42 left to answer those questions and many more.  And what better way to commemorate my father than to try and make sense of those questions.  Perhaps an answer can be found.  Perhaps not.  But I invite you to indulge me in the hunt.

For the next 10 days I’ll post daily on some different aspect of these questions, the life of my father, and in a very real sense his death.  I’ll unpack some boxes buried deep in the back attic of my mind and try to answer honestly how the three of us would have felt about each other?  Is the nucleus of Adams within the probability cloud of Bob’s electron shell a stable atom, or would it decay into nothingness?

Giddyup, pop.  We’ve got some adventuring to do.


Lil’ Bob, Big Pimpin’.

Post Script:  You’d be proud of me Dad, I waited to start writing this until the VERY last minute, just like I did with your eulogy.  So now I gotta scramble every day for the next ten days to meet my own self-imposed deadline.  I partly blame your questionable decision to shuffle off this mortal coil during what would turn out to be a very busy season for me.  We always were a bit of an uphill battle, weren’t we?  I’m excited for this, Dad.  I hope I do you proud.

Father’s Day 2014

EDIT:  This was supposed to have posted yesterday, but apparently I’ve turned the corner in my life where I can no longer adequately operate technology so today it is.  Dad loathed tardiness, so I suppose it’s one more bit of grist for his cosmic mill.

It’s Father’s Day and I’m laid up on the couch nursing a sore back I inherited from the old man.  My dad passed away 8 years ago this year, in some ways it still hurts like he just passed away, but in most ways the pain and sadness have been blunted by the callous of time and put in to perspective through reflection of his life, my life, and how the two affected one another.  Since Dad’s passing I normally tend to just ignore the frivolity of Father’s Day, and use the day to laugh to myself at the moments I choose to remember and ignore those I have no need to recall.  But this year my own version of the genetically frail lower back that I watched lay dad out on the couch for days at a time when I was a boy has put me into a position of deeper introspection.

So here I lay, the smell of warm vinyl from a heating pad beneath my tailbone swirling through the air, mingling with the sound of Sean Connery’s contemptuously veiled Scottish brogue as he chews through the deliciously misogynistic dialogue of a 1960’s James Bond romp heightening my euphoric sense of nostalgia while deepening the small abyss in my heart since dad left.

As a result, I’ve found myself reading the eulogy I gave at his funeral, and looking at old I.M. conversations I had back then.  It feels alien, though the people are familiar and loved.  I apologize for the numerous grammatical errors, for even though I had 14 years to prepare this eulogy, I wrote it the morning of his funeral, a full month after he died, in roughly 45 minutes.  It’s a first and final draft, honest and without polish.  As I’ve aged I’ve found the list of advice to be more and more true throughout the years, and the sentiment at the end of his eulogy is the same today as the day he died.  I miss you dad.  I love you.



I’ve had 14 years to prepare for today. 14 years ago Dad went in for a cancer surgery that he told me he very well might not survive. That was all I knew. I didn’t know what kind of cancer it was, I didn’t know what his prognosis was other than dad telling me it was very rare and thereby less survivable. 14 years and countless surgeries, ailments and ding dong ditches at death’s door later and I can tell you with no uncertainty; 14 years of near misses doesn’t prepare a person for a phone call saying “I think he’s gone.”

I’ve felt I knew my father well. I’ve spent nearly half of my life helping care for him in one capacity or another, and learned all the ins and outs of the way he thought. I could predict dad’s reaction to every situation, and provided him things before he vocalized that he even wanted them. Yeah, I knew dad probably better than any other person on the planet.

And then he died. Tari and I found pictures we’d never seen. I read letters I’d never read, and I’ve heard stories from so many people detailing my father’s life away from me.  Before me. This was a man I’d never met. He was full of life and laughter. He was the person everyone unanimously said could be counted on at any hour of the day or night to help a friend out. Lose your job and sitting at a bar at midnight drinking your lonely sorrow into oblivion? Call Bob. Not only would he come buy you a drink and sit until sunrise listening to you vent, but he’d drive you home, put in a good word for you for a new job, and still make it to work himself by seven. These sort of compassions I’ve heard over and over again. Need a ride? Car broken? In jail? Call Bob, he’ll fix it. A man who laughed and smiled and wasn’t crippled with disease or crushing fear.

I knew dad would give anything for Tari or me, but I never got to see my father strong enough for that selflessness to extend to anyone he called “friend.” For me, if I was asked to describe in a single image the visage of my father when I was growing up, the painting would be of a paunchy, bald silhouette slouched back in a sturdy wooden chair shrouded in a dense cloud of dirty orange, nicotine-soaked smoke glowing in the afternoon sun; a half-finished suitcase of beer holstered on the floor beneath his left arm, a half-dozen cans spread across the table, and the nasal, shrieking voice of Tom Leykis thundering loudly enough to drown out any attempt at conversation. That was the dad I knew growing up. His advice ranged from the practical, “be careful on the roads when it starts raining. We don’t get a lot of rain down here, and the drainage is bad on these streets, so that top layer of oil on the road starts floating and it’ll make the road slicker’n snot.” To the seemingly clinically paranoid, “Don’t wear shoes with white on them, because people in LA will stab you at any hour of the day for shoes with white on them.” Dad’s twilight years became a cautionary tale, a game of worst case scenario against the outside world, hermited in a dark condo next to the flood control. A condo that Tari and I spent countless hours trying to convince him SHOULD NOT be redecorated with chocolate brown carpet and burnt orange paint.

But the truth is, that wasn’t my father. Dad was a carefree, slightly thuggish boy, convincing his brother to swallow a life saver on a string so they could yank it back out and repeat ad nauseum. My father was a serviceman, fixing radios and playing practical jokes in the Air Force. He was an ambulance driver, rushing the helpless, and an occasional loaf of bread he’d mistaken for a severed head to the hospital. He was a beautician, full of charisma and charm and really great at an updo. He smiled all the time and made the ladies giggle. He was a garage door repair man, and so good at his job that even twenty years after he retired from the business, we’d still get phone calls asking if dad could come fix their doors. He was a postman, walking or driving the streets of the city he’d called home since the 50’s, and so loved by those people he served with, that today’s congregation is almost as thick with his friends from the post office as it is with family.

When I think about it… I could see who he was, if I had just looked. Every career he’s carried had one thing in common; he helped the helpless, even if it was in a small way. He kept pilots communicating, he carried the weak to help, he made you feel beautiful and special, he made the simple task of parking your car easier and more secure, and he finished off his career doing the same thing he started with, he kept people connected. 

Dad’s most tragic sin was the distance he kept from the people he loved. I think everyone here has a story they could tell about dad’s isolationist tendencies. Some moment they’ve bumped up against that thick headed and stubborn wall dad erected around himself. To my sister and I, the dad we came to know these last fifteen years was something of a paradox; at once hungry for affection, and fighting it at every turn. He was so afraid of dying in a convalescent hospital alone that the two months he was in one following his hip surgery I don’t think he got a good moment of rest. 

But dad, you didn’t die alone, and you weren’t in a convalescent hospital. You were home, in your bright and sunny apartment, able to keep an eye on the city you’d called home for half a century through windows that ran the whole of the wall and looked over the valley. And the people who made sure that everything you needed was tended to. Willy and Christian, two men of such compassion that they refused to sleep anywhere other than on the floor beside your bed so that you would never be alone and that anything you wanted, you would have immediately. 

The Sunday night before he passed away dad had a great night. He was lucid and he could speak well enough for us to understand him. He made jokes and laughed. We listened to Ray Charles and told stories for hours. The man who lived the last 30 years in such fear and trying to figure out how you were going to screw him was gone. I thought he was really loopy from the medication. He was so full of unabashed laughter. But now, after hearing this last week of stories, I don’t think it was the medication. I think, for that three hours, I got to meet my father for the first time. I will always see those three hours as the last and greatest gift he gave me.

At the end of the night he finally asked for something I think he wanted to ask for his whole life. He he said, “Do you know what would be really great? If someone could just hold me.” So I did. And for about fifteen minutes dad just patted the back of my head and cried softly until he fell asleep. Dad passed away on a Sunday morning. After the divorce, Sundays were the days that Dad, Tari and I would do something together. He’d always have us call him at 8 in the morning to make the plan for the day. Dad passed away at 8:15. We would usually meet at 11 to do…. whatever our plan was, almost without fail. The mortician arrived for dad at 10:50. Dad had one last Sunday adventure for me. He left us at at time when he wasn’t alone, but wasn’t surrounded by his family or the people who had come to care for him, it was the only way he could protect us.

So what have I learned from the lessons of my father’s life and his death? Well, I don’t think dad’s done teaching me, but so far I think I’ve learned as much from dad’s mistakes and shortcomings as I have from his strengths and soul. Here’s what I’ve learned, I hope I got them right

• Live life without fear. Fear steals your life quicker than any death.
• Love without compunction
• Experience everything you can in life.
• Tell all your stories, or better yet, write them all down. The narrative of you is a book someone will want to read later on.
• Listen to all your parent’s stories, no matter how many times they’ve told them or how bored with them you might be.
• Always be available for a friend, the best things to be remembered for are being that dependable rock of a person and being a great listener.
• Laugh unabashedly. Laugh at everything. No matter how sad a situation is, there’s something funny in it. Find that funny, it’s so much better than being sad.
• And perhaps most importantly, be careful on the roads when it starts raining. We don’t get a lot of rain down here, and the drainage is bad on these streets, so that top layer of oil on the road starts floating and it’ll make the road slicker’n snot.”

I miss you dad.
I love you



Relevant Things

Relevant Things

Eight years ago today my father passed away.  Or is it seven?  Sometimes it’s hard to keep track, in all honesty.  2006.  Let me do some arithmetic on my fingers… yes, let’s stick with eight.

Eight years ago today my father passed away.  He passed after struggling for years with several illnesses including three kinds of cancer, COPD, and Parkinson’s disease.  He was on hospice care and had lost the ability to speak or stand, so it’s difficult to explain how his death was still a surprise; but that’s exactly what his death was to me.

Most of you regular readers of this irregularly updated blog know that both Hemstead and I lost our fathers, Hemstead far earlier than I, and you know that we both tend to mark the anniversary of their deaths/birthdays with at least some subtle  post.  Me, I often just re-post the piece I wrote for the Good Man Project a few years ago and be done with it.   Time and a healthy dose of introspection has given me wonderful peace with my father’s illnesses and his passing.

This year however, I find myself thinking about the immediate time following his expectedly unexpected death more than usual.  A friend of mine told me he recently lost his mother, and while not exactly the same age I was, or the same circumstances, he’s close enough in the latter that it has encouraged me to open up that box and re-live some of what I went through to try and offer support and possibly insight.

He mentioned that he had broken down at work and started sobbing uncontrollably for 20 minutes, and then cleaned himself up and finished up.  He said it was bizarre and unsettling and he didn’t much care for it.  It made me think of that exact moment I experienced that exact same feeling.

As usual, I’m going to simply word vomit a first draft out that will change tense and person regularly, then will go back and clean it up later.  So with that in mind, choose to read forward or move on.

The first and most powerful thing I remember after dad was buried were the powerful waves of grief.  Honest grief.  Grief in a way that I had never known it.  Ever. These waves poured over me like tsunamis, but with the warning of an earthquake.  Sometimes they’d last two minutes, sometimes thirty, but always the same feeling of drowning in sadness.  Drowning is the word I hear most often associated with the feeling, and it feels the most accurate in my mind.  I’ll try to describe it as I recall it happening to me. I feel it’s important to not only someone who has never experienced that kind of grief, but also to people who are finding themselves as befuddled as I was by these emotions.

-While there was no real warning, there were signs – what could best be described as a rumble in my ears a few seconds before and shortness of breath, as though the wind was being sucked out of one’s lungs.  These were only moments before, not enough time to really recognize what was happening or react to what was happening in hopes to get to some emotional high ground in time.

-The body goes cold, numb even, and tremors settle in.  It’s that feeling of being really tired to the point where there’s a vaguely euphoric swimming sensation, but in this scenario the euphoria is replaced with dread and loss.   At this point there is no “stopping it”, you’re underwater, rooted in place by your feet and feeling the water get deeper and deeper around you.

-I personally have a distinct memory of my vision getting darker, but I can’t say if that’s not a revisionist memory or not.  But I do know that people suddenly made me feel very uncomfortable, and claustrophobic.  They weren’t helping, and therefore they were obstacles to surviving.  I’d become very short and snap at the people around me in these moments.

These waves of grief would often leave as quickly as they had come, and all of the emotion was completely internalized, but I’d be left with a confusing absence of emotion for a while after.  Well, that’s possibly not correct, I didn’t have an absence of emotion, maybe I just had “normal” emotions?  And that was equally unsettling.  Where did all that grief go?  Am I broken because it’s gone now so suddenly?  If I really cared about dad shouldn’t I still be experiencing all this grief?  The after effects of this grief left a swath of destruction and ego clean-up that far outlasted the tsunami itself.

Then one day, driving from L.A. to my mom’s house, I got hit with one of these waves and I did something uncharacteristic:  I started crying.

No, that’s not accurate, not crying.  Crying is a civilized emotion.  One could argue that the Leave Britney Alone guy was crying and was civilized about it.  No, this was full Spinal Tap, Ours-Go-To-Eleven bawling that would put a hungry infant to shame.  This was the kind of cartoonish bawling that Will Ferrell is paid an obscene amount of money to competently fake for our amusement. This was an unrepentant explosion of directionless grief.

I repeated the same pleas over and over, I bargained with the stoic air around me to make things different.  I drooled, I leaked from my eyes and nose while my throat issued noises I’d have thought better left for a zoo than a man.  I’m not sure how long, but it was from Culver Drive in Irvine to Oso Parkway in Mission Viejo, so I’m going to guess about 10-12 minutes.

And then as suddenly as it came on POOF, it was gone. It didn’t peter out, it didn’t ramp down, it was just… gone.  And again, I was left with a din of silence after the tsunami.  But instead of ego clean up I was left with… nothing.  Peace, maybe?  I licked my lips once with the dumbfounded look of a freshly burped newborn across my face, turned the radio back on, laughed a little and continued driving.

I bawled twice more on my drive home.  The whole thing was refreshing but uncomfortable.  I don’t like crying.  Boys don’t cry.  Don’t show that weakness, and don’t play all your cards.

I pondered the whole affair the next day, because I don’t function very efficiently in a void of data, and I came to a simple and stupid conclusion:  Unfettered bawling is the pressure release valve on the pressure cooker of our emotions.  It’s not a human trait, it’s a mammal trait, and it’s there for a very good, and life-preserving reason.

I know, it’s a pretty stupid “aha” moment, but it was a helluva breakthrough for me.  I slowly started to accept those moments as cooking off a potentially larger problem.  I started to laugh heartily at them, and WITH them.  Slowly the tsunamis of grief began to “schedule” themselves when I was in a car by myself.  I could give myself over to them completely, and come out the other side laughing.  I found that I began looking forward to them.

Eight years later, I’ve not had much use for them, and I seldom find myself tearing up.  Every now and again I’ll get hit by a rogue wave, usually triggered by something.  Honestly, nearly every time that trigger is Harry Chapin’s Cat’s in the Cradle, a song that exists simply to break the wills of men.   But most importantly I’ve learned to embrace them, and roll with the squall rather than to fight against it.

Experiencing grief didn’t make me less of a man, and I believe embracing it made me a stronger one still.

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