Dad

Dad

By Jeff Guy

Driving down dirt and gravel. Smoothed out by the maintenance crew. Daughter, Kenzie, oblivious to it all, her mind in her ear phones. Some sounds I hadn’t heard, I’m guessing. As for me? It was the old man’s town for all those years. He knew where the bodies were buried.

I was driving down one of the gravel roads of the graveyard, clueless as I watched for them, thinking, perhaps, they hadn’t arrived. I'd been at the spot before, but man, I'm no human map, I'm directionless. I parked, texted and got a response.

"We're right behind you," she texted back. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw my step-sister, Michelle, and her husband, Peter, standing at the folks' graves. Kenzie, who was riding shotgun, and I got out and walked over the path and walked about 10 yards to where they were standing, alongside the headstone. It was Memorial Day and the American Legion had placed a flag in the ground beside Dad's grave because he was a veteran. Michelle decorated Dad and Marcia's graves wonderfully. She has an eye for these things.The sky was as light blue as ever, weather mild, and an easy sun. Hard to believe, the old man had been gone for more than a year.

Michelle, Peter, me, and Kenzie.

The Last Days

Christmas Eve, 2022. Dad happened to call while I was at the candlelight service at the United Methodist Church. I walked to the back, outside the sanctuary and took the call. “Just thought I’d check on you,” he said. I apologized for not being in contact all day, but told him that Kenz and I would be at his house the next day. Wasn't sure what Sam was doing.

Christmas Day, a Sunday. We arrived at his house at about 11 a.m. No tree up anymore. An old man, sitting in his recliner, watching Gunsmoke. I was stuck finding things to talk about. I was a damn fool. About two or three times during the two hours we spent there, Dad asked, “Everything goin’ alright?”

What’s the closest thing to affection you'd ever get from the old man? Well he gave me money for some medical treatment on Kenzie the year prior. He gave us a turkey for Thanksgiving. When I'd leave his house in the rain, crossing the interstate, he'd call afterwards and asked if I got home alright. When I'd finish mowing his lawn, before I headed home, he’d say, “You wanna get a Coke?” I’d say yes even if I didn’t feel like it. He seemed like he wanted to do it. So I’d ride shotgun in his Suburban and he'd slowly drive the streets he'd been driving for nearly 70 years and through the drive-thru at McDonald’s.

“Want any fries or anything with it?,” he’d ask

“Nah,” I’d say. “A Coke is enough, but can we make it diet Coke this time? I’m getting too fat.”

The old man didn’t talk much anymore. He’d slowed down a lot since his wife, my step-mom, Marcia, died. I’d always known Dad to have super good mental health (I take after my mom), but I knew he was depressed after Marcia passed away. She was the love of his life. The time he was married to Mom was only a short stop in the road of his life. He and Marcia were married 39 years. I think she made him a better person, not that he was bad before, but she softened some of his edges, was ultimately good for him.

"Peter's going with me tomorrow to a doctor appointment," he said.

That was good. The step-siblings, their spouses and kids who lived in the same town as Dad looked after him. Last Feburary (Groundhog Day, actually) when it had snowed, I texted my step-brother, Mike, and expressed concern about ice and snow on Dad's driveway. Mike said he had hired a guy to clear his driveway. Thank God for them! "We'll keep him as safe as we can," he said.

The next evening, after I'd come home from work, Dad called. "Remember how Peter was taking me to the doctor today?" he said.

"Yeah," I answered, even though I'd forgotten.

"Not good," he said.

I thought he was going to tell me he had prostate cancer again. He'd beaten it before.

"Myeloid Leukemia," he said.

"Damn," I said. "Are you gonna' be alright?"

"I love you." I thought I heard him say that before we hung up, but I wasn't sure. That's not how Dad normally ended phone conversations.

Shouldn't I be crying or something? I sat there in shock and disbelief. Was this the beginning of the end. I thought to myself. Dad had beaten cancer before. During COVID when I had to talk to him through zoom and I saw him in his hospital bed, I thought Dad and Marcia, both, were goners. Unfortunately, she did pass on. Dad survived that, but could he make it again? I didn't look up Myeloid Leukemia. I didn't want to know.

The next day I texted Peter. "It's not looking good with Dad. I really thank you and Michelle for all you do."

"We're so sorry, Jeff," he texted back. "We will all continue to do everything to make sure he is surrounded by love and family as we all navigate this path. How are you holding up?

"Doing okay, but very sad.

"We are too! Please reach out anytime."

They were taking Dad to the local hospital to a get a blood transfusion the next day. He told me we could visit him, but we had to wear a mask to protect him from infections, but can visit him and that we should call before coming over because he might be too tired.

Peter said. "We are all going through this together as a family."

"I just want to say when Dad leaves this world, I want to stay in contact with you and Michelle, the whole family."

"The feeling is certainly mutual."

"I knew it would be."

"I would also like to ask you to say, 'I love you, dad,' any time you talk to him."

"He hasn't been the most demonstrative guy in his life," I texted back, trying to think of words. "That's his side of the family."

"It's important, nonetheless, and now more than ever."

In the coming days and weeks, there were more restrictions on visiting Dad. He got blood transfusions at the local hospital and they would take him home an get him settled. Peter planned to go with Dad to Jett where they would look at an assisted living apartment for him. On January 10, 2023, I got a message from Peter saying rather than taking Dad to assisted living, he was being admitted to St. Francis in Wichita. He had a lump in his neck and he needed to be in one place where all the doctors had access to him.

I went to the hospital that day. Dad was actually happy, but weak. I was trying not to cry. "Hi Andrea," I heard Michelle say when my sister, Andi, came in. She was laughing, joking and being her normal self. As she left, I saw she was starting to cry.

A couple of nurses were in the room. One of them asked Dad to count the 12 months of the year backwards. He did alright until he got to the summer months.

"July, (pause) May."

"There's one in between those," the nurse said.

"Oh, June," he said, and continued backward until finishing with January. "I haven't done that since I was in the Army," he said.

"Well, thank you, for your service," the nurse said. "My nephew's in the Army. He's stationed in Poland."

They told me Dad was going to have to stay in the hospital for awhile, rather than going home. "Man, Dad, that's the shits," I said.

"Hey!" Michelle said.

"I mean, that's the pits."

"That's better," she said.

"After a few hours, I was ready to leave. "Well, Dad, I love you," I said.

"Did you hear what he said?," Michelle said, but Dad was distracted talking to the nurses. I was comfortable with that.

Right before I left, I thanked the nurses for all their help and told them my dad "really respects nurses. His wife was a nurse.

The next day Dad didn't seem so well, wasn't speaking as briskly so I thought I better say what I had to say.

"Dad, when I was younger, I know I got into a lot of jams," I said. "I know I caused you a lot of stress over the years, and I just want to say I'm sorry I was ever a problem for you."

"Anything you done," he said, "has been forgiven."

Michelle was in the background, saying, "We've all made mistakes, but our parents forgive us."

"Well, Dad," I continued. "When I was younger, I was confused about a lot of things. Anyhow -- I'm at peace now."

"Well, you have a good job," he said. "You can take care of your kids."

"I'm glad you're at peace, Jeff," Michelle said.

On January 21, I was informed that Dad had been moved to the fourth floor. He decided not to go on dialysis and any care he received from the medical staff would be comfort care. End of life care. The doctor had taken him off food restrictions and he could eat what he wanted. "There's no reason not to at this point," Peter texted me.

I was having trouble with my daughter, missing a few hours of work here and there because there would be drama like her not wanting to go to school. And this.

"God, this fucking sucks!" I exploded.

As I entered the hospital wing, reading, "Harry Hynes Hospice," I told myself to stay composed. The room was crowded with family members. Mike's daughters and their partners, Michelle's kids and grandkids, and partners, people I didn't even know. They tried to comfort me.

January 21, I accidentally left my backpack in the room. I'd carried it with me because I had confidential paperwork from my job, and I didn't want to leave it in my car.

January 22, I was filling out a voluminous amount of paperwork at my job. I was running behind. I had to visit one client, then another. I was running late, the charger cord in my car wasn't working, and my phone was dying. I had to stop by the hospital to pick up my backpack because I needed that paperwork to do my job. I had to drive to the other side to get it. The relatives were all in the room with Dad. I fetched my backpack, drove back to the west side of town and went to the apartment building to meet with my client and her daughter. The old lady was Hispanic, in her 90s, and couldn't remember how to speak English anymore. Her daughter had to do everything for her. She would be the translator between me and her mother.

I was in the lobby of the building, and I buzzed to get in. "You're a half hour late and you didn't call," the daughter said. Reluctantly, she buzzed me in, saying she wished we could do this over the phone or online.

On the third floor, inside the apartment -- I didn't want to use this as an excuse, but I told the daughter, "My dad's in the hospital on his deathbed and everything has been awry."

They "We finished the assessment within 20 minutes, and I addressed the mother with a Spanish phrase I'd memorized.

Fue un placer verte

The old lady smiled at me. I turned to her daughter on my way out. "Thank you for your time, Maam. Have a pleasant evening.

"Go, be with your dad," she said.

I arrived in Dad's room. They all greeted me gently. ""I had a rough day at work, today," I said to Dad, who was barely awake. "I kicked its ass." They all laughed.

We were touching his arm, trying to make him feel more comfortable. I was trying not to cry.

"It'll be alright," Dad muttered.

It sounded like he was trying to comfort me.

him."I know, Dad. Everything's alright."

The next day he was moved to the final room. Dad appeared to be sleeping, but he'd told everyone to keep talking because he could hear us. I sat at a table by the window, talking to Andi and her husband, Chris, having a normal conversation.

"Is Garrett (their son) about to graduate from lineman school?" I asked.

"Yep, gonna graduate with honors," Andi said. "How are your kids?"a

"Well, you know, Kenzie's still in high school. She doesn't turn all her work in 'til the end of the semester, then suddenly makes it through."

"Typical kid."

"Sam's supposed to graduate from Grossmont this fall, but says he might take a break before transferring to a four-year university."

"Everybody does that," Chris said, with a laugh.

I addressed Dad on my way out. "Well, what'd'ya know, Dad? Your kids have been talking for the past two hours, and we haven't been assholes to each other."

"That's kids," Andi said in the background.

I placed my palm on the railing of his bed and said, "Thanks for everything, Dad. We'll see you later."

Dad, circa 1979.

My phone, next to me in bed, rang at around 2:15 a.m., January 24. A Tuesday. I knew this was it. I saw the name on the screen. "Andi."

"Yeah," I answered.

"Dad's gone," she said.

"Okay."

"He was ready."

"I know ---- I'll see you later today."

"Okay, bye."

"Bye," I said. I started to hit the button, then brought the phone back to my ear. "I love you."

"Love you too."

I wailed for two hours straight.

Aftermath

I called the school at 7:30 a.m. and told them Kenzie wouldn't be there today. I texted my supervisor at work (they all knew about my dad) and told her I couldn't make it in. My dad had passed away.

"Take all the time you need," she replied. "We have you covered."

I texted Clarice, with my Toastmasters Club in Wichita, explained that my dad had passed on. Clarice set up the meeting schedules. People were on deck to give speeches, but I asked if I could be put in to speak about my dad. She offered her condolences and promptly agreed to that. I spent hours writing the speech and rehearsing it until I could deliver it without crying.

At noon, I met my friend, Reese, for lunch at The Beacon Restaurant in the downtown part of Wichita. We'd made the appointment a week earlier, tentatively. Breakfast was served all day, and I had biscuits and gravy with hash browns and coffee.

"I'm not working today," I said. "My dad died early this morning."

He said, "Oh I'm sorry."

"Thanks," I said. "It wasn't unexpected."

After lunch, Reese walked across the street with me to Resurrected Rags, a resale clothing shop. The store is a side gig for the effervescent Jamie. Her main job is as director of the Wichita Public Library. She's usually there, but that particular day she was in the store. She sold me a black suit coat and a thin black necktie. Later, Reese and I parted ways and I went to Hatman Jack's in the Delano district and bought a black fedora hat.

The next day, the siblings met with Pastor Wade Graber, who would presiding over Dad's memorial service. We got together at the horse stables outside Wichita where my brother, Jeremy works. The pastor listened to all our stories and took notes. Ministry is definitely the man's calling. He led Marcia's funeral and he's adept at what he does.

That evening I gave my speech at Toastmasters. The usual members were there -- husband and wife, Paul and Clarice, Mark, Marcus, Krista, Truman (he's engaged in senstive military work so I'm using a pseudonym) and Stacy.

"I guess my dad was as average as any other guy, but when I was a kid, he was 10-feet-tall," I said.

."It was the early days of the Cold War," I said midway through the speech. "There was a peacetime draft, and Dad was drafted into the Army -- like Elvis."

That got a laugh.

"Dad was no bookworm, but even in old age he could remember at least some of the lines from a poem he learned in school."

I then recited the classic World War I poem, "In Flanders Field" by John McCrae.

"Dad, we love you, we'll see you later," I said.

My fellow Toastmasters were visibly moved by my speech. "A plus," Truman said.

Coming from a professional military man, that means a lot," I said.

I gathered my things and took leave of the meeting early.

The morning of February 4, a Saturday, Dad's service was given at The First Baptist Church in Beaulah, Kan. I was running behind, driving in with Kenzie from Worthington. They were waiting for me to show up, and Jeremy texted me two or three times while I was on my way.

"Text him back, and tell em' I'm coming," I told Kenz.

When we arrived in the church sanctuary, the funeral had started five minutes earlier. Much of Pastor Graber's eulogy, he took from my speech, which was nice.

The kids' mom came with Sam. "Thanks for coming," I said to Maria at the cemetery later. "Of course," she said. "Your dad was a good man."

Dad recived a service with military honors. Two female Army officers folded the flag into a triangle and presented it to me at the gravesite.

On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service

I left the flag with Carlson's Funeral Home where they enclosed it in glass for me to pick up in a week. The next week I went back to Beaulah to pick up the glass-enclosed flag. The funeral director gave me an envelope someone had left for me.

On my way back, I stopped at Spangles for a cheeseburger, fries, and Diet Coke. I thought to myself I'm in Beaulah I gotta stop and see Dad Then I remembered.

The family met at Dad's house that summer right before it was sold. We took things that were, individually, willed to us -- beer steins brought from Germany more than 60 years ago, a .357 Magnum revolver, photographs...My siblings dumped most of the miscellaneous stuff on me. Badges, an old notebook from an agricultural class Dad took in highschool, a slough of auto trophies from Wichita Race Club.

"Hard to believe he got all those racing trophies, as slow as he drove," Mike said,

"I know, I said laughing.

The Ending where I was from

Dad & me.

"I like it here," I told Michelle and Peter. "The folks are in a good place."

Then I had to get us all in a group picture. It's cool, you know. A record of your family. Friends. People you hang out with.

Back home, I was busy cleaning the house when I found that envelope the man from Carlson's had given me a year ago. Unopened. I'd forgotten about it. So I opened it.

There was a hundred dollar bill inside! Right when I needed it. When I asked the kids where they would like to go to eat, they said, "You need the money, Dad. Just save it."

My parents, my kids? How can I be anything but grateful?

Young Gerald Guy

Precious Memories -- Jim Reeves