Home Is Burning (39 page)

Is God going to play some sick trick on us where he cures Lou Gehrig's disease the day after the funeral and comes down to earth and yells, “That's for all the shit you talk on me,” and then ascends back into heaven to pick on the next family? Does my dad believe in God and heaven? Wouldn't things be so much easier if he did, if we all did? Did the Mormons get it right? Have you ever seen a depressed Mormon sitting in a coffee shop writing about death and how awful the world is? Is the reason why you haven't seen that simply because the Mormons aren't allowed to drink coffee? Should we have converted when we had the chance? When discussing religion with a Mormon friend should I have asked, “How do I join?” instead of “How do you believe some of this bullshit?” Is the only saved soul in my family going to be my sister Jessica, because she converted after marrying Creepy Todd?

When does college football start?

What is going through my dad's head right now? Is he happy with this decision? Does he really want to die? Why does he want to die? What was the breaking point? Was it when, in a burst of tiredness and anger and frustration, I yelled, “How long are we going to do this shit?” while struggling to get him out of the van? Did I kill him? Was that the breaking point? Or was it when the Lakers eliminated the Jazz from the playoffs and I responded by throwing my phone across the room and breaking it? Or was it when his legs stopped working? Was that it? Was that the point when he realized he wasn't going to be getting better, that, in fact, things were only going to get worse? Was it when Jessica married Creepy Todd and then got impregnated by him? Did Dad just grow tried of my batshit crazy mom sitting by his side crying? Was it when we stopped doing all the care and instead hired Regina? Was it when I brought home those chicken fingers from the Wing Coop and ate them in front of him? Was it when people outside the family stopped being able to understand him? Was it when we stopped being able to move him out of bed with ease, dropping him on his bony ass several times? Or was all this blended into one giant, shit-filled smoothie that was just too shitty and sad and awful for him to stomach anymore?

What should I do with my remaining time with him? Am I supposed to sit at his side and rub his arm and say, “Doesn't that feel nice?” until he's gone? Should I show him all the best movies and let him listen to all the best music? What are the best movies?
Life Is Beautiful
was pretty fucking good, wasn't it? What about
Home Alone
? Isn't
Forrest Gump
his favorite? Can anyone recall a time when you were watching a movie with him and he remarked, “Wow, that was a great movie. If I'm on my deathbed, I would love to watch it”? Should I massage his body? Should I read him David Sedaris? Should I find a way to sneak him into a hot tub? Should I stand at the base of his bed and say, “I love you. I love you. I love you,” over and over again? Should I help him make a bucket list and hope “Walk again and move my body” isn't one of his listed items but that “Watch
The Bucket List
” is? Should I take him on a shopping spree? Should we go get pedicures?

Should I be mad at him for making us put in all this work just to watch him give up in the end? Should I remind him that I quit my job and lost my girlfriend over this whole mess? When he asks me to do something for him, should I say, “What's the point? You're going to die anyway”? Should I take a bat to his wheelchair? Should I resent him?

Or should I organize a living funeral that he can attend where we all dress up and honor him and say nice things about him and give great speeches that are funny because he hasn't died yet? Who should I invite? Do we all talk? Do we all cry? Do I really have to dress up? Should everyone bring a gift for the family? Would everyone just bring lasagna? Should I have fireworks and dancers and circus performers? Do I know anyone who juggles? What food would we serve? Should I request that we all have a Promote, which is the only thing we put into his feeding tube? Should we all clap for him? Which motherfucking Hilton should we do this shit at?

Or should I not make a big deal of this all and just kiss him on the forehead and say, “I respect your decision and will always love you”? Should I thank him for all he's done for me? Should I tell him what a great dad he's been over the years?

And what about me? Should I sit around and mope? Should I call Becca up and do a bunch of ecstasy with her again? Should I lower my standards and pathetically say, “I'll fuck anything with or without a pulse,” as I sip on my second forty of the morning? Should I get to the point where I can say, “I know her. She's a stripper”? Should I start getting in fights with everyone, including my best friends? Should I always remind everyone of this all the time? Should I hate myself for not doing enough? Should I disappear and not tell anyone where I am?

Or should I just try to do all that I can and never question whether it was enough? Should I try to move on with my life, get an M.B.A. or something? Should I forever remember that all this happened but not let it affect the rest of my life? Should I walk up to the next pretty girl I see and give her a kiss on the lips? Should I order the best steak dinner in town? Should I go to a Taco Tuesday party and eat so many tacos that observers look at me and say, “Wow, he is having the time of his life!”? Should I go on a roller coaster and purposely piss my pants? Should I see the world? Should I buy myself a nice car and a nice watch and nice clothes? Should I go to Vegas and get the motherfucking
Rain Man
suite? Should I move to Paris and fall in love with something that's not a baguette? Should I learn how to cook gourmet meals for myself? Should I live in a place with a view? Should I start sitting in more hot tubs and eating more cheese?

When does college football start again?

I set down the pen and looked over the mess of questions. It's going to be an interesting little stretch of life here, I thought. I went back to my room and clicked on the TV, finally ready to get some rest.

 

I'LL BLOW YOU TILL THE END

My dad only had a handful of days left. He was reminded of this every morning when I would come into his room and say something to the effect of “Fifty-five more days until you're dead, Daddy-O.” He'd raise his eyebrows and attempt a smile, his version of
sounds good, you sick son of a bitch
. He was used to my morbid jokes by now.

I asked him what he wanted to do with his last few weeks. “Go running, and skiing, and eat a nice big steak dinner.” I laughed. What a jokester.

“Oh, good one, silly, crippled, dying Dad. But seriously, what do you want to do? You're gonna be dead soon here,” I joked back.

He got serious. “I'd like to go for walks in my chair, and say good-bye to people, and spend time with all of you,” he managed to say. I guess when we're about to die we drop all the other distractions and go back to the basics: family, peaceful walks, spending time with loved ones. Fuck the rest.

“Maybe you can go on a cocaine, stripper, and heroin binge, too?” I suggested, figuring that he might as well fade out on a high note. He sort of laughed.

“I'd also like to go to Snowbird one last time,” he said.

“So, was that a yes or a no to the cocaine-stripper binge?” I asked.

*   *   *

My dad was actually excited about the upcoming farewell and weirdly looking forward to the end of all this. He was in pain. It was time to die and let his family try to live. His decision was tough, but admirable and rooted in selflessness. He figured that he had lived a very fulfilling life already. After all, he didn't have Lou Gehrig's disease for fifty-three years of it, and those had been good, happy, and healthy years full of skiing, running, and drinking wine with his family and friends in his gazebo.

In a way, his announcement affected all of us more than him. From his perspective, he was out of here soon, riding off into heaven's sunset on some sort of flying blow job machine while Alice Cooper's “School's Out” blasted on a boom box. Meanwhile, the rest of us still had to continue to exist in the world without him, having to mop up this mess and rebuild our lives, trying our best to fill the giant hole his absence would leave behind. If it had been up to him, I think he would've just pulled the plug right when he made his announcement, but he knew that we weren't entirely ready for him to go. We still needed closure, and hopefully this extra time would allow for that.

Greg and I were fairly relaxed about the announcement. We had put the most work into caring for him, so we were the most burned out. We knew it was going to suck to lose our dad, but we also knew living like this wasn't sustainable—mentally or physically. Tiffany was pretty freaked out, though. Now that there was a ticking clock on the situation, she pushed school, work, and BCB to the side so that she could spend more time with our dad. Jessica returned from Thailand with Creepy Todd and was around more. She seemed to be doing a lot better since the marriage. Maybe it was actually a good thing for her. Chelsea wouldn't talk about the situation outright, but she'd occasionally come sit next to my dad and cry uncontrollably without saying a word.

As usual, Stana put it best: “It is be sad house when there is no more Daddy.”

Regina was rather upset by the announcement. She had grown close to my dad, and because this situation had helped her to get over her failed marriage, losing my dad meant she wasn't just losing her job, but also her sense of order and balance in the world.

My mom was handling the news the worst. Instead of accepting my dad's death, she'd taken to constantly pleading with him to not do it.

“Please don't do this,” she'd say. “How could you leave me like this?” She felt as if she were returning to her life as an orphan. She was terrified about having to manage on her own, especially all the little things that my dad always took care of, like the family finances.

I had taken over managing the finances because I'm a hero (of sorts) who is able to easily handle the weight of the world on my shoulders. Mainly, I paid the bills and dealt with the insurance cocksuckers. I sat down with my mom to try to teach her a thing or two.

“I set up bill-pay stuff online, so every time you have a bill, you just log into WellsFargo.com, go to ‘Bill Pay,' find the company's name, and enter the amount.”

“This is too fucking hard,” she'd cry, instantly dissolving into tears, not even looking at the computer screen. “Bob, don't do this. Don't die. You can't leave me with this fucking mess. Everyone thinks you're such a nice guy, but you're really an asshole.”

I looked at my concerned dad and said, “You're lucky you're getting out of here.” He raised his eyebrows and attempted a smile, his version of
yeah, I know
.

*   *   *

Robin came by to chat with my dad and mom. They wanted to discuss how to manage the remaining time we had left with him. The goal with my mom was to try to get her to settle the fuck down and actually enjoy the time she still had with her husband instead of worrying about what life would be like after his death.

“This is hard. Loss is hard, but let's think of some ways to live more in the now and enjoy your time with Bob,” suggested Robin.

“How about you just don't die? How does that sound?” said my mom. She wanted to feel that she was still taken care of—that someone was still looking after her. Eventually, my dad and Robin came up with an idea.

“Okay, so how about this. After Bob passes, every time you find a penny—whether it be on the sidewalk, on your kitchen counter, or in your car—that's Bob looking after you. So, even when he's gone, he's still there for you,” Robin said. My mom nodded, buying into that.

“I love that,” she said. I personally thought it was a load of shit, but hey, if it calmed my mom down, I was all for it.

With my mom slightly more relaxed, Robin also came up with the idea that we each pick an activity that we'd routinely do with my dad as September 22 approached. I liked that idea much more than the penny nonsense.

“Dad's got fifty-one days left, so we all need to pick activities to do with him before he goes,” I told the family. Everyone agreed and picked activities.

Greg decided he would sit next to my dad's bed, asking him all sorts of questions about his life on his fancy recording device he had bought for his reporter job. Greg had always had dreams of being a Charlie Rose–type figure. He even did a deep, intellectual-sounding voice when he asked questions.

“Let's talk childhood. What was growing up in Pocatello like?” Greg asked in his intellectual voice, as if he were talking to George Clooney instead of a man in a diaper.

“It was nice. We had a nice house and lived close to everything,” my dad managed to explain in his Lou Gehrig's voice. I was a little jealous Greg had come up with the idea of interviewing my dad, so I would try to sabotage these interviews.

“Who gave you your first hand job?” I interjected.

“Don't listen to him, Daddy. Danny has his mind in the gutter, right next to his penis.” Greg collected himself. “Now, your family had a ranch. What was a typical day on the ranch like?”

“Oh, come on. Who gives a fuck? He's got forty-seven days left. Ask some real questions. Who gave you your first hand job?”

“Caroline Summers, after a football game,” my dad said with a smile.

“See, my questions are much better than yours,” I said to Greg.

Jessica was starting to look more and more pregnant, her Native American belly poking out of the UC Berkeley sweater she had stolen from me, which I assumed she wore ironically since she was now a high school dropout.

“We're all picking activities to do with Dad before he dies in forty-four days,” I explained to Jessica. “You need to pick something. And make it fun, since you already broke his heart by marrying Creepy Todd.”