Nobody Loves A Farting Princess

by Jeni Birr

  I called Eric and left him a message that I would likely be late because of the accident and the detour and whatnot, but not to panic because I was on my way and would be there as soon as I could. His plane was a little delayed and I ended up making better time than expected, so he didn’t have to wait long. We finally made it back home about 2:30 in the morning.

  The next morning we went to pick up the moving truck, as soon as they opened at 8:00am. This was a very long day of packing up my dad’s house, driving back to our apartment to pack up our stuff, then going back to my dad’s for the carpet cleaners, and the final walk through with his landlords while Eric finished packing our apartment into the truck. That night we ate pizza off paper towels and played cards on the floor and tried to enjoy each other’s company though we’d bickered all day.

  We bickered quite a bit the next day too. The whole weekend really. I was just heartbroken to be leaving Florida. The time before I knew I’d be visiting, and maybe we’d move back, but for some reason, I just knew that this time, that was it. I didn’t have any family there anymore and only a few friends left at this point, and Eric had no interest in ever going back, so I just knew that I wouldn’t have much reason to go either. I resented him for this, even though it was not his fault. I resented my brother for having no job and being able to be my dad’s full time caregiver while I had to work. I even resented my dad for refusing to fight his cancer. There was a lot of anger inside me and I took it out on Eric while we were driving back. If I had to psychoanalyze myself, that would be my quasi professional opinion; but what do I know?

  CHAPTER 11

  When we got back to Michigan, Eric showed me around the house he had picked out for us, which took about 4.2 seconds as I’m pretty sure it was smaller than our apartment we’d had in Florida which was $260/month less, but at least this place had a small fenced yard and a one car garage we never parked in. We unloaded our stuff into our house and then drove the two miles to my dad’s new house and my uncle helped unload my dad’s and Tom’s stuff before going to pick them up from their hotel. This place was much more to their liking, even though it had yellow walls and purple carpet, but they didn’t seem to mind. I took pictures of how dirty and cluttered with debris the place was for future reference, but did not put up a stink to the landlord as I suspected I was already the newest pebble in his shoe, and that is not like me.

  Once I knew they were settling in and going to be okay for a couple days I went back home to my own new house in shambles. Fortunately, I had just hit my six months anniversary with Panera so I was allowed to use one of my vacation weeks to move and not take unpaid time off, but I only had two more days off at this point and I wanted to get my house in some sort of unpacked order before returning to work at my new store, which was about thirty minutes from my new house. One of those days off I did drive out to the new store and met my new District Manager, Chris, and General Manager, Sherry, both of whom seemed nice enough to work with; but I’d never met anyone working for Panera that I didn’t get along with, yet.

  It was a bit of a rocky start at the Bloomfield Hills store, I still felt brand new to the company as my dad had gotten sick right at the end of my training, and no one expected me to do much or learn much while he was dying. I wanted to learn, but I was the extra manager in my training store, and then basically became the closing bitch, at my temporary store in Jacksonville. Kenny had started showing me inventory, but once they all knew I was transferring, I think they didn’t feel like wasting any more training hours on me and decided to let the Michigan stores teach me what else I needed to know. I remember Sherry told me once “just let me know what you don’t know and I can teach you;” which I found rather laughable, because to me, it was obvious that I wouldn’t know what it was that I didn’t know and needed to be taught, but I got through it.

  I’m not proud to say it, but I think I only went over to see my dad once or twice over the next couple weeks. I had all kinds of perfectly rational excuses in my mind, but I’m pretty sure I knew he was close to going, and I wasn’t ready. He was getting really bad. Confined to a hospital bed they had brought in and mostly paralyzed. My brother and I had to change his diapers in his last few days. The hospice nurses would come by the house every morning to give him a sponge bath, and to check on my brother, who wasn’t eating. One of the nurses even brought him lunch one time. I do remember in his last couple days, once he had stopped responding, they put him on morphine, which had to be administered every four hours. I offered to come by and stay the night Friday March 11, 2011, so Tom could get a full night’s rest. I remember trying to sleep in my dad’s recliner, in the living room with his hospital bed, and I couldn’t get that David Bowie song out of my head, “Space Oddity” which my dad had often sung, because his name was Tom. I kept reciting the part where he sings “this is Major Tom to ground control, I’m stepping through the door, and I’m floating in the most peculiar way, and the stars look very different today.” I don’t think I slept at all that night.

  The next morning, once my brother had woken I told him I was going home for a shower, running some errands and I would be back later that night, after dinner time. Around 5pm he called me and said that I should probably hurry back because dad’s breathing had changed and he suspected it could be soon. I had just finished making dinner and told him I’d be over as soon as I was done eating, but he called back about a half hour later and I could hear in his voice that he did not want to be alone so I rushed over. I remember crying in my car and begging God to just take him, that I was ready. That I didn’t want him to suffer anymore and if he was keeping him on earth for me to please just take him, I would be okay.

  When I got to the house, about 5:45pm, it was pretty clear he had passed, and I wasn’t there when he’d gone. Tom was still sitting at the side of his bed, holding his hand, and wasn’t sure if he was truly gone because the bed the hospice people had loaned him constantly filled and deflated with air and it sounded like he may have been breathing, but he wasn’t. The most recent morphine pill was still between his gum and his lip, undissolved, and Tom had given it to him at 4pm. His eyes were half open and were just, lifeless. This is when I learned that the movies lie, and you cannot close someone’s eyes that has just died, they will just pop back open.

  The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur, but I know I called Eric, and then our uncle, and then Sherry at work, and then my mother, who didn’t answer. Our uncle came over and called their mother while Tom and I called the hospice people and they came and checked all of his medicines back in. We then called the funeral home we had decided to go with and two men showed up with a van and a gurney and suggested that maybe we go for a walk because it can be very traumatizing for family to see a loved one get zipped up and taken away, so we did just that. We walked down to the end of the block and turned around just in time to see them wheeling him out and into the van. We both turned back around immediately, but they were right. My dad was in that bag on that gurney going into that van to be cremated, and he was never coming back. The only thing that brought me comfort in this moment is that they had let me pack him a bag that would be cremated with him. I used his favorite beach bag and packed it with his swimsuit, a towel, a pack of cigarettes and a couple books I knew he liked. Who knows if they really burned it with him, but I’m glad they humored me if not.

  All of this obviously took several hours. Once everything was situated, all the important people were notified, and I checked that Tom was going to be alright, I went back home. I always felt bad about that, leaving him alone in the house our father had just died in. I should have invited him to come stay with us for the night or a few days. Even if he didn’t take me up on it, I should have offered, but I didn’t. Instead I went home to Eric and we went to our local watering hole, Danny’s, and a bunch of our friends met us and I proceeded to get drunk. I got the kind of drunk that I never get because I don’t like not being in control of my situation. Not since I was thirteen and I woke up i
n the closet have I been drunker than I was that night. Eric was driving. My father, my rock, my best friend in the world had just died. Even though I knew it was coming, and had almost six months to prepare, the books were right. It hurt like a motherfucker. Needless to say, I don’t remember much of this night. One thing I do remember is what I posted as my Facebook status that night:

  “Kids, gone to the beach. –Dad”

  The next day I realized my mother had never called me back. I had called her personal phone and her work cell phone as she was currently working as a hospice secretary, go figure, and left similar messages on both, but she never called. So around 11am on Sunday, I called her again. She was at church. Service had just let out, but no, she hadn’t received either of my messages. I told her she should probably sit down and then that dad had died the night before. She wailed. I don’t know if I should have told her to go home and then call me back, but she would have just insisted I tell her. I just pictured her sitting on some bench in the church lobby on the phone, sobbing, and everyone walking by her wondering what was so horrible. I felt bad about that too, but I don’t know what else I should have done.

  Over the course of that next day I scheduled his service for the coming Wednesday, and informed everyone I could think of that might want to attend, and posted the information to the blog I had started for him back when he was diagnosed. I also went to the funeral home to sign some paperwork and select his urn. There was one I thought he would love. It was just a solid golden rectangular cube, but it was very geometrical and it reminded me of one of his favorite mathematical principles: the golden rectangle. The only piece of artwork he had ever made was a poster-sized collage of colorful felt squares that demonstrated the golden rectangle principle, and I had sewn him a fleece blanket many years later for a father’s day present in the same vein.

  We were blessed with a beautiful day the afternoon of his service, even though it was March in Michigan. I like to think he helped with that. He had never even wanted a service, but understood that they are really for the remaining living for closure, so gave me permission to throw him one if I wanted. We didn’t have any music, or any real format, and he wasn’t a religious man so there was no clergy or anything, but a lot of friends and family showed up. A whole bunch of people I hadn’t seen in years, and honestly, I don’t think he had seen in years, from his old days with Compuware, came and told stories of him that I had never heard. That was my favorite part. My friend, Rachel, whom I hadn’t seen or spoken to in probably fifteen years came and told stories of how she remembered my dad. Rob Fender, one of my best friends growing up, also gave a great speech about how powerful cancer must be, because he never thought anything could kill Tom Barry. Neither did I.

  The next day I had to take my mother, who had flown in for the service, back to the airport. Once she released me from her hug and walked inside, I left. I felt the most overwhelming sense of emptiness. This was the first moment since my father had passed, really since he had been diagnosed, that I had nothing to do. I’ve always been good at keeping myself busy at whatever task I was taking care of. For the past six months I was learning a new job, taking care of my father, getting married, planning a move for two households, moving, learning a new store, planning a funeral service, and getting everyone home safely. This was when it hit me the hardest. I was numb. I didn’t want to go home but didn’t know where else to go. Fortunately, or not, who knows, there was a brand new Ikea on the way home, and they are very good for wandering around and getting lost in, and I’d never even been to one before. Two hours later Eric called to make sure I was okay. I was.

  Too Late*2011

  I’d always get lost on the way to your house

  Wait, I’m lost again, I’m turning around

  I’m determined this time to figure this out

  I’ve come too far to be turning back now

  295 to 17 to 301 to 24

  Turn right at Winn Dixie, stay left at the fork

  Keep your wits about you

  And call if you need me to wait

  And you always knew I’d be late

  I made a wrong turn, I’m going the wrong way

  All I see around me are tractors and hay

  Take the back roads through the country

  So much faster, you’d always say

  295 to 17 to 301 to 24

  Turn right at Winn Dixie, stay left at the fork

  Keep your wits about you

  And call if you need me to wait

  And you always knew I’d be late

  I made it, I got it

  You’d be so proud

  I finally got it, I made it

  It’s just a little late now

  I finally made it, I got it

  I’m standing at your door

  But there is no answer

  Because you don’t live here anymore

  295 to 17 to 301 to 24

  Turn right at Winn Dixie, stay left at the fork

  295 to 17 to 301 to 24

  But you don’t live here anymore

  No, you don’t live here

  Anymore

  ~*~

  CHAPTER 12

  It had already been decided that once dad passed, Tom was going to go live with our mother in Savannah. I helped him pack up a few things, drove him to the post office to ship a bunch of it, and said my goodbyes. My uncle was kind enough to drive him to the airport the day of his flight since I had to work. I tried to immerse myself in my new store and staff, and my new marriage, which I was quickly learning was the best thing that had ever happened to our dysfunctional relationship. Eric really loved me and turned out to be an amazing husband.

  About four months later though, I was closing one night, and Leah called. As I think I’ve mentioned, my phone stays in my purse in the office but I check it every so often. She had called several times and left tearful messages about “I’m sure you’ve heard by now, but let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” I had not heard. I called her back immediately and she informed me that Blair had died the night before. He was staying at a local motel because they had air conditioning and his apartment did not and it had been insanely hot the last few days, as in record-breaking late July in Michigan hot. The housekeeping staff found him that morning. They didn’t know what he had died of, but it didn’t look like drugs or foul play of any sort.

  I lost it. I don’t know how I got through the rest of my shift, but I let my staff know I’d just learned a very dear friend of mine was just found dead, and I’d like to get out as quickly as possible. They all kicked it in to high gear and gave me their hugs and support and were done in about twenty minutes after I locked the doors at closing time (even though it normally takes about an hour).

  Fortunately, his service was held the following Saturday and I just so happened to be off that day. It was the most amazing event I’ve ever attended. You really kind of had to know Blair, but he was the kindest, most inspiring man I’d ever met. He was black and gay, and very proud of both of those traits and a big proponent to all kinds of groups and events for the furthering of blacks and/or gays, in addition, obviously to being a musician/writer/teacher. I only even mention this because I know he would want it known. I didn’t even realize until everyone got up to tell their stories at his service that he had encouraged most of the local music scene to get up and play their first performance. I know he had done so for me. Hundreds of people met at the corner of Martin Luther King Blvd and Cass Avenue and we marched and danced and sang behind a New Orleans style jazz band for about a mile up the Cass Corridor until we reached the church on the corner of the street that also housed the apartment building where he was living when I first met him. I cried the whole way, but half out of sadness, and half out of how amazed I was at how beautiful the whole thing was, and how many people showed up to tell their own personal story of Blair. He touched so very many lives, and I know he would have been blown away by his own celebration of life.

  Later th
at afternoon I had a very strange sensation come over me. We were standing in the church lawn with all of the other guests and it was about 105 degrees out. I got somewhat light headed and just sort of forgot what I was thinking about. I felt like I wanted to say something but I didn’t know what I wanted to say or to whom I wanted to say it. I’d had quite a bit of coffee that morning, had walked over a mile in the hundred degree heat, and had very little water, so I just figured I was dehydrated. It went away within a few minutes.

  This happened several more times over the next couple years, but it was usually when I’d had a fair amount of coffee. I found that if I just cut coffee out, it generally didn’t happen. Working in a restaurant with free coffee and espresso available to me all the time though, I didn’t make it through most mornings without a cup or two.

  CHAPTER 13

  About a month later, that itch to do anything besides working on cars came back to Eric, and he decided to go to the Specs Howard School of Media Arts at night, after a ten hour work day because he knew we couldn’t afford for him not to work. I was fully supportive because I knew how much he hated wrenching and I never want to be the one to tell someone not to follow a dream. Have I followed any of my dreams? No. But that’s because I never know what they are. I want him to figure out what makes him happy and while fixing high end cars is somewhat lucrative, it’s not satisfying to him. He made it all the way through the year-long program with almost no one at work knowing. I was amazed. I almost never saw him, and he got very stressed out and was exhausted all the time and we fought about the pettiest things, but when he finished I was so proud. I cried like a proud mother at his graduation.

  During much of this time, our house was also under construction. There was a tree in the front yard that someone had hammered copper spikes into, trying to kill it. I believe it was the next door neighbor, but I obviously never asked him. During a pretty bad storm one night, it fell on our house. I was closing that night and Eric called me at the store around 8pm to let me know. It was rooted in the city’s side of property on the other side of the sidewalk, and they had already come out, chopped it to pieces and had it removed and gone by the time I got home at 10pm. We found out later they’d had previous complaints about the tree and requests to remove it that were never adhered to. I’m guessing this is why whoever it was took matters into their own hands, and I’m guessing why the city made it out so fast to remove it. All I know is that we didn’t kill the tree, but it fell on our house.