He stared up at me. He sat, sunken, in a wheelchair. He looked battered and defeated. A World War II veteran who I thought was invincible, until today. He was 82, with a full head of brilliant white hair. Still thriving, still enjoying his day-to-day routine of coffee with friends, and dates with his longtime girlfriend, Marilyn. Okay, so he started running stop signs a few weeks prior, but he didn’t kill anyone. He was doing fine. This was Pa, Daddy's father, and my grandfather. I didn't know it at the time, but I would only have one more hour with him before he died.
Pa was not the stereotypical grandfather. He wasn't particularly warm. On a good day, I would describe him as tepid. I knew he loved me, but he was more concerned with teaching me life lessons as opposed to hugs and kisses. When I was younger he would send me these two to three page essays about his ill-spent youth. These stories were morality tales. They included such important lessons as: Never Hitch a Ride On a Train with Hobos, Always Shake The Scorpions Out of Your Boots, and Remember That a Man Only Has Two Things: His Word, and His Credit. I was twelve. In those days, I spent my time reading Stephen King novels, watching MTV, and shoving Nutter Butter's in my hole. His lessons were a complete waste on me, but we shared a similar sense of humor, and as I got older, it helped to create a bond between us. We were more friendly acquaintances than family, but I loved him.
I was instructed to deliver Pa to the emergency room after a brief visit to his doctor who said that something was seriously wrong with his colon. I didn't get all the details as I was only half listening. I was more concerned with the ridiculous uniform I was wearing, and the impression I was giving others. Even under the most distressing conditions, I'm still a narcissistic asshole, but it's like Mama said, "As long as you know somethin' is wrong, it's permissible."
It was the summer of ’92, and I was waiting tables at Pizza Hut between semesters. During this time, I had the distinct pleasure of being one of the first to wear the new fuchsia uniform. I was my own gay pride parade with my fuchsia polo, and matching ball cap. Complete that look with long, dark red bangs, Linda Evangelista-styled eyebrows, and you have more gay than you can cram into a deep dish meat lover's pizza. You could choke on all the gay I was serving up.
After getting Pa settled at the E.R., and with Marilyn by his side, I told him I needed to head home, change clothes, and check in with my boss. The latter was a lie. I needed to call Mama and Daddy. I was told he was deteriorating quickly, and with Mama and Daddy living 260 miles north, they would need to leave immediately.
He looked at me and quietly asked, "Why do you need to change clothes?" I replied, "Have you seen me lately?" I stood back a few feet from the wheelchair so he could see the entire ensemble. Pa squinted, took off his glasses, and cleaned the lenses with his handkerchief, and said, "What the hell are you wearin'? Go on. Go home. I'm not goin' anywhere." I laughed. This was a good sign. He still had some sass to him. A few pills, some rest, and he'll be back to running stop signs.
I leaned down to hug him. I whispered, "I love you, Pa." and when I stood back up, he held fast to my right hand, pointed at me, and slowly uttered, "The Last of the Mohicans." I just stood there, telling myself not to cry. After all, I knew what he meant. I was the last son in the family. My brother, Spud, was my half-brother from Mama's first marriage. I was the only one remaining to carry on the family line. The Last of the Mohicans. I immediately thought, "Fuck my gay, fuchsia ass. How did this happen to me? What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Jesus Christ, I am so tired."
Attempting to drive while sobbing is never a good idea. Number one - you just look stupid, and I was already ranking pretty high on the stupid scale given my hair and my outfit. Number two - no matter how much you try...your hand will never, ever be as absorbent as facial tissue. Number three - you can’t really see, and you could kill someone; however, if Mama could drive with her knees while smoking a cigarette, and drinking a Coke, I could make it home without incident. It was in the genes.
In the house I was attempting to remove my Pizza Hut Gay Pride Gear, and use the phone at the same time. The line was dead. I then realized that I had not paid the phone bill...again. It's the 21 year-old-gay-male-dilemma: pay the phone bill, or pay the gym? The gym will always win.
I changed clothes, and ran to my neighbor's house to use the phone. He wasn't gay, and obviously didn’t belong to a gym given his penchant for bucket chicken and pork rinds.
Mama answered the phone. “Damn!” I whispered to myself. I didn't have the time to cut through the many layers of Mama's drug-addled brain. She was like a dense, Valium laced, Tiramisu of grey matter.
"Mama!"
"Hey, Sugar"
I thought, "Oh, she sounds lucid. How novel." At the time I didn't realize how sad the thought truly was.
"Mama, Pa is really sick. He's in the emergency room. You and Daddy need to get down here right away."
"Oh, I don't think that's gonna happen." she said in a calm, even, Stepford tone.
"What? Did you hear me?"
"Don't take that tone with me. I'm your Mama."
"I am well aware who you are, but like I said, Pa is really sick. He's in the hospital."
"Well, your Daddy is hurtin'. He's completely hungover. His friend, Arthur, you know...the lawyer (she takes a long drag on her Kent 100)...well, they got the idea they were goin' to find that armadillo that's been makin' a mess of the yard (exhaling Kent 100). Arthur seems to think they're delicious, so he wanted to marinate it, and put it on the grill. Well, they started drinkin’ at two o'clock and didn't stop..."
I looked around the room hoping that someone else was hearing this. Defeated, I put my ear back to the receiver. She was still talking.
"...and there they were, runnin' around the backyard like a couple of drunk monkeys..."
"Mama, as fascinating as Daddy's drinking games are, both of you need to get down here right now! Pa is going to die!" At that moment I knew it was true. He was dying. There was no time to keep talking about drunk monkeys. I had to go.
"Now, I am goin' to hang up this phone, and when I do, I expect to see the two of you at the hospital within five hours. Don't make me call again." With that, I hung up, and drove off to the hospital.
When I returned, I asked the nursing staff what room Pa was in. I walked in, but he was gone. I checked the room number. This was the room. I went back to the nurses station, and asked where he was. Initially, there was some confusion. I was about to ask if they had a lost and found when the nurse said he had been moved to intensive care. He was comatose, on a ventilator, and not expected to live through the night.
Within a couple of hours other family members began to arrive. Aunts, uncles, and cousins were all contained in a private room where we could all grieve without an audience, and without being a nuisance.
At some point, member's of Pa's church arrived. They were carrying plates of deviled eggs, and ham sandwiches. Someone even had the wherewithal to bake a lemon pound cake. It was all so timely, and well presented, that I couldn't help but wonder if the church somehow received some divine advanced notice that Pa was passing into the hereafter. Some kind of Jesus First Alert system that I wasn't aware existed.
Shortly after I cried my way through my second piece of pound cake (more evidence of my emotional eating disorder) Pa's doctor came into the Grieving Pen. A signature was needed by the next of kin. Pa had left specific instructions that he was not meant to be kept alive by any artificial means. It was time to let him go, and I would be the one to cut the cord.
"What? You want me to what?" I asked the doctor wiping the sticky cake bits from my mouth.
"It's what he wanted." He then moved to show me the paperwork. I stared at it, but nothing registered. I could have been looking at the Dead Sea Scrolls for all I knew.
"Go ahead. It's okay." Marilyn said. She had been sitting next to me. I had no idea how long she had been there. She squeezed my left forearm. I looked at her, hoping she would tell me to wake up; that this was just a preposterous dream, but she just stared back, her eyes welling with tears. She smiled slightly and said, "It's okay. Go ahead. Sign those papers, now. It's what he wanted."
That was all it took, just a few strokes of a pen, and I ended Pa's life. Daddy was nowhere to be found. The Last of the Mohicans indeed.
Pa was not the stereotypical grandfather. He wasn't particularly warm. On a good day, I would describe him as tepid. I knew he loved me, but he was more concerned with teaching me life lessons as opposed to hugs and kisses. When I was younger he would send me these two to three page essays about his ill-spent youth. These stories were morality tales. They included such important lessons as: Never Hitch a Ride On a Train with Hobos, Always Shake The Scorpions Out of Your Boots, and Remember That a Man Only Has Two Things: His Word, and His Credit. I was twelve. In those days, I spent my time reading Stephen King novels, watching MTV, and shoving Nutter Butter's in my hole. His lessons were a complete waste on me, but we shared a similar sense of humor, and as I got older, it helped to create a bond between us. We were more friendly acquaintances than family, but I loved him.
I was instructed to deliver Pa to the emergency room after a brief visit to his doctor who said that something was seriously wrong with his colon. I didn't get all the details as I was only half listening. I was more concerned with the ridiculous uniform I was wearing, and the impression I was giving others. Even under the most distressing conditions, I'm still a narcissistic asshole, but it's like Mama said, "As long as you know somethin' is wrong, it's permissible."
It was the summer of ’92, and I was waiting tables at Pizza Hut between semesters. During this time, I had the distinct pleasure of being one of the first to wear the new fuchsia uniform. I was my own gay pride parade with my fuchsia polo, and matching ball cap. Complete that look with long, dark red bangs, Linda Evangelista-styled eyebrows, and you have more gay than you can cram into a deep dish meat lover's pizza. You could choke on all the gay I was serving up.
After getting Pa settled at the E.R., and with Marilyn by his side, I told him I needed to head home, change clothes, and check in with my boss. The latter was a lie. I needed to call Mama and Daddy. I was told he was deteriorating quickly, and with Mama and Daddy living 260 miles north, they would need to leave immediately.
He looked at me and quietly asked, "Why do you need to change clothes?" I replied, "Have you seen me lately?" I stood back a few feet from the wheelchair so he could see the entire ensemble. Pa squinted, took off his glasses, and cleaned the lenses with his handkerchief, and said, "What the hell are you wearin'? Go on. Go home. I'm not goin' anywhere." I laughed. This was a good sign. He still had some sass to him. A few pills, some rest, and he'll be back to running stop signs.
I leaned down to hug him. I whispered, "I love you, Pa." and when I stood back up, he held fast to my right hand, pointed at me, and slowly uttered, "The Last of the Mohicans." I just stood there, telling myself not to cry. After all, I knew what he meant. I was the last son in the family. My brother, Spud, was my half-brother from Mama's first marriage. I was the only one remaining to carry on the family line. The Last of the Mohicans. I immediately thought, "Fuck my gay, fuchsia ass. How did this happen to me? What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Jesus Christ, I am so tired."
Attempting to drive while sobbing is never a good idea. Number one - you just look stupid, and I was already ranking pretty high on the stupid scale given my hair and my outfit. Number two - no matter how much you try...your hand will never, ever be as absorbent as facial tissue. Number three - you can’t really see, and you could kill someone; however, if Mama could drive with her knees while smoking a cigarette, and drinking a Coke, I could make it home without incident. It was in the genes.
In the house I was attempting to remove my Pizza Hut Gay Pride Gear, and use the phone at the same time. The line was dead. I then realized that I had not paid the phone bill...again. It's the 21 year-old-gay-male-dilemma: pay the phone bill, or pay the gym? The gym will always win.
I changed clothes, and ran to my neighbor's house to use the phone. He wasn't gay, and obviously didn’t belong to a gym given his penchant for bucket chicken and pork rinds.
Mama answered the phone. “Damn!” I whispered to myself. I didn't have the time to cut through the many layers of Mama's drug-addled brain. She was like a dense, Valium laced, Tiramisu of grey matter.
"Mama!"
"Hey, Sugar"
I thought, "Oh, she sounds lucid. How novel." At the time I didn't realize how sad the thought truly was.
"Mama, Pa is really sick. He's in the emergency room. You and Daddy need to get down here right away."
"Oh, I don't think that's gonna happen." she said in a calm, even, Stepford tone.
"What? Did you hear me?"
"Don't take that tone with me. I'm your Mama."
"I am well aware who you are, but like I said, Pa is really sick. He's in the hospital."
"Well, your Daddy is hurtin'. He's completely hungover. His friend, Arthur, you know...the lawyer (she takes a long drag on her Kent 100)...well, they got the idea they were goin' to find that armadillo that's been makin' a mess of the yard (exhaling Kent 100). Arthur seems to think they're delicious, so he wanted to marinate it, and put it on the grill. Well, they started drinkin’ at two o'clock and didn't stop..."
I looked around the room hoping that someone else was hearing this. Defeated, I put my ear back to the receiver. She was still talking.
"...and there they were, runnin' around the backyard like a couple of drunk monkeys..."
"Mama, as fascinating as Daddy's drinking games are, both of you need to get down here right now! Pa is going to die!" At that moment I knew it was true. He was dying. There was no time to keep talking about drunk monkeys. I had to go.
"Now, I am goin' to hang up this phone, and when I do, I expect to see the two of you at the hospital within five hours. Don't make me call again." With that, I hung up, and drove off to the hospital.
When I returned, I asked the nursing staff what room Pa was in. I walked in, but he was gone. I checked the room number. This was the room. I went back to the nurses station, and asked where he was. Initially, there was some confusion. I was about to ask if they had a lost and found when the nurse said he had been moved to intensive care. He was comatose, on a ventilator, and not expected to live through the night.
Within a couple of hours other family members began to arrive. Aunts, uncles, and cousins were all contained in a private room where we could all grieve without an audience, and without being a nuisance.
At some point, member's of Pa's church arrived. They were carrying plates of deviled eggs, and ham sandwiches. Someone even had the wherewithal to bake a lemon pound cake. It was all so timely, and well presented, that I couldn't help but wonder if the church somehow received some divine advanced notice that Pa was passing into the hereafter. Some kind of Jesus First Alert system that I wasn't aware existed.
Shortly after I cried my way through my second piece of pound cake (more evidence of my emotional eating disorder) Pa's doctor came into the Grieving Pen. A signature was needed by the next of kin. Pa had left specific instructions that he was not meant to be kept alive by any artificial means. It was time to let him go, and I would be the one to cut the cord.
"What? You want me to what?" I asked the doctor wiping the sticky cake bits from my mouth.
"It's what he wanted." He then moved to show me the paperwork. I stared at it, but nothing registered. I could have been looking at the Dead Sea Scrolls for all I knew.
"Go ahead. It's okay." Marilyn said. She had been sitting next to me. I had no idea how long she had been there. She squeezed my left forearm. I looked at her, hoping she would tell me to wake up; that this was just a preposterous dream, but she just stared back, her eyes welling with tears. She smiled slightly and said, "It's okay. Go ahead. Sign those papers, now. It's what he wanted."
That was all it took, just a few strokes of a pen, and I ended Pa's life. Daddy was nowhere to be found. The Last of the Mohicans indeed.
There are several reasons why this one vignette in particular stands out, but the mixture of humor and sadness is done so well, so sensitively, that it takes the reader (me!) right into the moment in a very real way. I am not sure how much of this is autobiographical and how much is clever fiction, but it is clear that the writer (you!) had some well of personal experience to draw from in order to make this so vital and touching. Once again, kudos!
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