by Dan Marshall
“Okay, so let’s each ask dad one last question,” I suggested.
“What’s your favorite color?” my pilled-up mom asked.
“If you were a zoo animal, which one would you be?” Chelsea asked with a giggle.
“Daddy, who are you the proudest of? Keep in mind that Danny doesn’t have a job,” Greg joked.
“What’s your favorite mountain to ski?” Tiffany asked.
“What’s your favorite episode of Friends?” Jessica asked.
“I meant things that matter, like ‘What’s the meaning of life?’ or ‘What’s the key to happiness in ten words or less?’” I shot back at them.
“No one knows that sort of shit, Danny. And the ones who claim they do are the biggest idiots of all, since we’re all different, and we’re all just trying to get through the day,” said my druggy mom, displaying a remarkable flash of coherence.
We pushed forward. Regina kept trying to hold my dad’s hand, but my mom kept shooing her away. “This is family time,” my mom told her. Poor Regina—searching for love in all the wrong places. I pulled out the video camera and tried to capture the towering Wasatch Mountains in the background to remind us that the universe is huge and we are all merely parasites shit here by luck. I thought looking at the mountains would help dwarf our problems, but it didn’t. My dad was still dying. Our problems were still as big as ever.
We were approaching a street named Keddington. When we first moved to Utah some twenty years before, we’d lived on this street. It was a modest tree-filled neighborhood full of happy families and old couples who I always thought would die before my dad.
We were silent. There really wasn’t much else to say. The important thing was that we were all together. In a fucked-up way, my dad getting sick was good for this reason. Tiffany and I had never gotten along, but we had gone from being at war to being war buddies who had bonded over a real shit situation. Greg and I had rekindled our roles as each other’s best friend, and we had spent many nights talking about life. I knew we’d have each other forever. Chelsea and I had been given the chance to make each other laugh. And though I was critical of Jessica, I made it clear it was because I loved her and felt protective of her. We knew we could turn to each other if we ever really needed something. Before she married Creepy Todd, she had asked me for help getting a prenuptial agreement drafted, and I had turned to her when I was too drunk to drive but still really wanted to go to the bars to try to sloppily hit on girls. And my mom and I—well, we’d sort things out after this mess. I had faith that she’d turn it around again and keep on fighting, keep on being our resilient, spirited mom cheering us on no matter what. We were a family. A nice big fucked-up family that was certainly cursed with some misfortune, but we were still a family. We looked after each other. We had to. No one else would.
* * *
Our walk came to an end. We rolled back into the driveway of our home. We took my dad out to our backyard gazebo area looking out at the mountains. Creepy Todd left to get the balloons for the balloon-release shenanigans.
We were all circled around my dad as if he was a fire keeping us warm. I couldn’t believe this was actually it. I looked over at my tired dad, and he looked at me, at his whole family. He looked like he wanted to say more, do more. But he couldn’t. This fucking disease.
And just then, the sun hit his face as though he was the only person on earth it was lighting up. All the chirping birds in our backyard shut up. In fact, they stood and began to salute my father with their little bird wings. His respirator, hanging on the back of his chair, turned itself off, finally shutting the fuck up. My dad lifted up his arm and unhooked himself from the device. The hole in his trach filled itself in. He took a big gulp of fresh mountain air on his own accord. He cleared his throat and, just like that, his voice returned back to normal, just as it had been before the disease launched its game-winning attack.
“There, that’s better, and just in time to say good-bye,” he said with clarity.
We looked to the gazebo table and it was suddenly set for a family dinner, just like old times. Steaks, potatoes, asparagus, salad, and wine to wash it all down. My dad gestured to it, and we all took our seats in front of this giant feast, him, of course, at the head of the table.
He looked at his youngest daughter, Chelsea. Her unexposed emotions finally started to kick in as she uncurled his brittle, skinny fingers and squeezed his hand with her own brittle, skinny fingers. She stopped thinking about school and realized this was an opportunity to learn a more important life lesson. My dad looked deep into her eyes and said, “Chelsea, you are a great kid. You are very smart and attractive. You will make a difference in the world. Keep your mom company and never forget that I’m still here for you, even if I’m not. Keep up the dancing. Keep up the interest in school. Good luck learning to drive and good luck turning into a woman; both events I wish I could witness. You are uniquely you. Never change that.” Chelsea cried and said, “You’re not really going to do this, are you?” flashing her signature blend of optimism and denial. My dad nodded his head and said that he was. Chelsea understood and released his hand.
My dad looked at Jessica. She was already crying. And not a soft weeping, but a hard and painful expression of misery that was difficult for all of us to watch. Her body trembled with powerful sobs, her emotions banging against her rib cage. She got up from her seat, gave my dad a two-armed hug, and watered his shoulder with her tears. My dad said, “Jessica, I wish you the best of luck. Good luck with your marriage. Good luck with your pregnancy. Good luck with everything. Kiss your children for me. Go back to school when you’re ready. You are smarter than you think. You are a very gentle and kind person with a bigger heart than any of us. I love you very much. Good luck.”
My dad looked at Greg with a gleam of serenity and poise. Greg was the strongest of all of us. He started to cry and thanked my dad for going on the respirator so he got to spend an extra ten months with his number-one conversation buddy. My dad said, “Greg, you are the new rock. You react with both emotion and logic, making you a rare commodity. You are the easiest person in the world to talk to, and a great listener. You will use those skills to achieve more than the rest of us. I hope you always cherish the time we spent together: the U.S. Open in New York, the trip to France, the countless times we battled it out on the tennis court. You have shown bravery and honesty in your life and I am proud of you for who you are. I love you.” Greg’s crying intensified. He didn’t want to lose his dad. He didn’t want any of this to happen. But he understood and didn’t try to talk him out of his decision.
My dad turned toward me, his oldest son. I thanked him for all that he had given me and taught me. I reminded him how a silly sport like basketball had brought us together and thanked him for always letting me beat him to build my confidence. He said, “Get a fucking job and lose twenty pounds, you bum, and then look after Mom and help her as much as she needs. I know you think she’s crazy, but also realize that she’s your mother and you are half her. You have given me a lot over the last year and let go of a lot along the way, but I want you to move forward without resentment toward me for putting us all through this, toward Abby for moving on with her life, and toward your mother for putting so much on your shoulders. I think in the long run you will look back at this and think it was all worth it because I’m your fucking father and it was your duty to care for me when I needed you the most. I’m sorry it happened when you were only twenty-five. It is now time to get on with your life and push forward as an adult without any excuses.” I reached over and pinched his nipples and messed up his hair. I looked at him with a loving smile and said, “Don’t watch me masturbate from heaven.”
My dad looked at Tiffany. Tiffany tried very hard to not cry. The intense effort reddened her face, which she covered with her hand. She finally broke down and exploded into moans. Her rare expression of intense emotion caused us all to cry, even the saluting birds in the trees. My dad said to her, “Tiffany, some
of my best days in life were spent on the mountain with you, watching you carve through the snow with grace and ease. I always loved the mountains, and of all my kids, you were the only one who loved them as much as I did. You will do great things in life and end up exactly where you want to be, even if you doubt yourself right now. Know that I’m always looking after you. You are beautiful and I love you.” Tiffany cried and promised to think of him every time she was about to descend into a fresh batch of powder, beating all the tourists and wannabes to the punch.
Finally, my dad looked at my mom, his wife. Her mouth was a perfect upside down U, and her eyes were darkened by a genuine sadness. My mom said, “Don’t do this, Bob. Please. Please. Don’t leave me.” My dad said, “Deb, I love you so much. I did from the second I met you. You are an inspiration to us all. Don’t give up the fight even though you now have to battle it for both of us. I know you were the sick one, the one with cancer who was supposed to go before me, but it didn’t work that way. I’m sorry to leave you, but I hope you understand and accept my decision without being angry. You now inherit the family that we created together, and that family will be there for you and help you through this. Hold our grandchildren for the both of us, and spoil the shit out of them. Remarry if you must. I understand. Take your mind off me. Start eating things other than yogurt; you’ll need the strength to keep up the fight. Buy yourself anything you want. Don’t feel alone. Your kids, our kids, will look after you because they have inherited kindness from both of us. Clean up your language so you don’t pass on your bad habit to others, like you did with that shithead, tit-fucker Danny. You are the bravest, strongest, feistiest woman I have ever known, but most important, you are a survivor who has never given up. Don’t give up now. I love you with all my heart.” My mom burst into tears and squeezed my dad’s shoulder. They looked at each other, having cleared their eyes of the blurring tears, and thanked each other for making thirty years of marriage so easy.
We were all silent for a moment to take it all in, to feel the sadness but also the joy of being together one last time.
Suddenly, just as we were finishing our last family meal, Sam appeared out of nowhere, also in his running gear. He shook his head in disbelief. “Man, Bob, this all seems so surreal.” My dad agreed. Then, my dad stood up, his bones creaking and popping back to life. He stretched his arms and legs, and just like that, he was back on his trusty old feet.
He looked over at Sam and said, “How about one last run, my old friend?”
“You got it, buddy,” Sam said.
They ran out of our backyard and through Salt Lake City, up Millcreek Canyon along the river, down by the Delta Center where we used to go to Jazz games and talk about life, then back along the base of Mount Olympus. Sam laughed the whole way.
Suddenly, the surroundings started to change, and my dad and Sam were no longer running through Salt Lake, but rather through my dad’s whole life. First they ran through his childhood in Pocatello. They ran down the elm-tree-lined streets, packed with kids full of youth and life. They ran past my dad’s family sitting at the dinner table, all of his siblings passing plates around and discussing the day’s events. They ran past my dad’s dependable father, who always arrived at home right around five o’clock to emphasize the important balance between work life and family life.
My dad and Sam continued their run, now through my dad’s adolescence. They ran past my dad talking to his brother Jack on the back patio in Camano. They ran past my dad beginning to take an interest in women, and even getting his first hand job from Caroline Summers. They ran past my dad and Jack working long hours at their family’s nearby ranch, where they learned, “Your work is not done until the last bale of hay is in the barn.” They then ran past my dad’s family waving him off to Drake University.
My dad and Sam continued through his adulthood. There was a blur of random and formative events: college. The fuzz surrounding college disappeared and they ran past my dad asking my mom’s hand in marriage on her parents’ back porch. She said “yes” as a tear of joy rolled down her cheek and onto her lip, which he promptly kissed. They ran past all his children being born and growing more and more capable. They then ran past my dad helping his children whenever they needed it the most, but allowing them to fight through their own trials and tribulations. And finally, they ran past my dad and my mom watching their kids leave the house to begin to build their own lives.
Then, finally, my dad and Sam ended their epic run and returned to our neighborhood and back to the gazebo. My dad looked over all he had done over the years and realized that he’d lived a very good life.
“That was a great run, Sam,” my dad said.
“It sure was, Bob. The best yet.”
Just as they were catching their breaths, everyone who my dad had ever loved and who had ever loved my dad appeared out of nowhere and started filling all the empty space around us. People even climbed to our rooftop because it was the only available vantage point. My dad yelled, “I’m not done yet!” Everyone clapped and screamed. “We love you, Bob!” people shouted at the top of their lungs. He threw both of his arms up in the air and spun around until he was dizzy, as confetti streamed from the clouds above and fireworks lit up the sky. He ran onto our tennis court, which was also surrounded by people he had loved and influenced over the course of his life, and back-flipped onto the net after serving up an ace that Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal’s child couldn’t have touched with a tennis racket the size of a fishing boat. My dad began tightrope walking across the net while juggling all sorts of poisonous animals. He stopped tightrope walking and began a set of one-armed push-ups on the net. One spectator said, “Bob is amazing. He can truly do anything.” Another yelled, “I hope this never ends.” He then back-flipped off the tennis court net and stuck the landing so well that the judges in the crowd had no score available for his one-step-above-perfection performance.
He then ran out to the crowd of friends and family, now a thousand fans deep. He maneuvered through the people and kissed everyone on their forehead and reminded them that they could make a difference in the world. He told jokes and shook hands in a way that would be remembered forever. He pulled all the sadness out of everyone’s hearts and wadded it up into a soccer-ball-shaped object, then kicked it into outer space with his powerful leg.
Eventually, his triumphant performance had to come to an end. He told everyone that they had made a positive difference in his life and that he hoped he had done the same in theirs. They started to chant, “You have!” and “We’ll miss you, Bob!” He reminded them all that his spirit would live on in theirs, and that life is about the relationships you form with other people and not about collecting material things to fill the void. He encouraged each and every person to turn to their neighbor and hug him or her. Everyone performed this request and then agreed that it was nice.
He thanked everyone for the love and support they had shown him, blowing kisses their way. He then looked at his watch and said, “Shit, I really have to go.” Everyone understood as they watched him walk back to his wheelchair, take a deep breath, and back-flip into it. The hole in his trach reappeared. He hooked himself back to the respirator. His body went limp again. Everyone, even Sam, slowly faded away. The birds started chirping again.
“BEEP. BEEP. BEEP,” said the respirator. “It’s time to face reality. It’s time for your dad, your pal, to finally die.”
Sunny from hospice showed up and brought with her a chilly set of clouds. She carried a little black backpack full of all the chemicals that would be used to numb my dad so the respirator could be shut off.
It was time to go back inside.
We wheeled my dad around to the front of the house, past all the children who were collecting outside for the balloon release, back into the garage, then finally into the elevator. I got in with him. The accordion door closed. It was just Dad and me again, the last moment we’d spend alone together. He looked up at me and said, “Thank you,” as he does
every time we return from an outing.
I’m usually a smug asshole and say, “Oh, you’re welcome. I know I’m fantastic, a hero of sorts,” but this time I just said, “No, thank you.”
I started to feel a little sappy, so I decided to steal the last line he had uttered to his mom on her deathbed. “I’m glad you were my dad,” I said.
“I’m glad you were my son,” he said.
I rolled him through his bedroom. He took one last look out the window at colorful Mount Olympus looming above our house, the changing leaves reminding him that it was fall, the start of his favorite time of the year.
We entered his room and transferred him out of his wheelchair and back into his bed for the last time. The whole family was there, plus Gary, my mom’s friend Kelly, Dr. Buys, Stana, Regina, Sunny from hospice, and Dr. Bromberg.
“Okay, so, Bob, we’re going to start the morphine drip. You’re going to start to feel numb and will slowly fade out of consciousness. Then Dr. Bromberg will turn down the respirator and you will, well, you will pass on,” said Sunny.
We all took turns hugging and saying good-bye to my dad. It was hard. It was really hard. I wished he could talk so he could impart some last words of wisdom to each of us. Instead, we mostly just said, “I love you,” and he looked at us with his warm, generous, big, wet eyes. We had said everything we wanted to say to him before this moment, so we didn’t have to cram it all in now. He knew how much we loved him.
My mom finally accepted what was happening. She snuggled up to my dad as close as physically possible, then said, “I love you, Bob. You are so strong and we all understand this decision. Thank you for such a wonderful life. You always were my marathon man, even before you ran marathons. It’s okay for you to go. It’s okay for you to go now.” She started to cry. We all did. “It’s okay for you to go.”
