Home Is Burning (42 page)

Regina wanted to say good-bye as well. My mom was getting meaner and meaner to Regina because she was more and more convinced that she was in love with my dad. She would take any chance she got to cut her down.

“I want to say good-bye, too,” said Regina.

“These good-byes are more for family and friends,” said my mom.

“But I'm a friend,” said Regina.

“No, you're his hired aide—an employee,” said my mom.

I stepped in and told Regina that she was more than an aide, that she had become a family friend, and that of course she could say good-bye to my dad. Her presence on the scene had kept us all from burning out and had probably prevented our murdering each other, so I valued her a great deal, as did my dad. I also felt sorry for her, as her divorce was hitting her hard. I was getting groceries one night at the local Albertsons and noticed her green Ford Explorer. I walked over to it and she was sitting there gripping the wheel and crying. I knocked on the window.

“Regina, what the fuck are you doing here?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just grocery shopping,” she said.

“Really? Most people don't cry when they grocery shop,” I said. She started crying even harder. She told me how mean her ex was being to her. She had come all the way from Brazil to marry the bastard and now she was completely alone.

I convinced my mom that it was okay for Regina to be around during the last couple of days. “Fine, but that fat bitch better not try anything with Dad,” she said, protective of her dying husband right down to the final days.

My dad's family started visiting more, despite their ongoing hatred for my mom. Aunt Sarah had actually been spending most weekends with us, helping out and sharing stories with my dad. She even got comfortable enough to spend a night on Daddy Duty, which we all appreciated. I went out with my friends Aria and Henry that night. Jessica drove me down to the bars, since I had pre-gamed so aggressively at home and was already too drunk to drive myself. Now that she was pregnant, she was turning into my DD. I got so drunk, I woke up the next morning with a strange girl in my bed—so I was especially thankful to Sarah for doing Daddy Duty. My bed had been a lonely place for some time now. Aunt Sarah, Uncle Jack, and Aunt Ellen even rented a house in Salt Lake for a couple of weeks so they could be in town for the death and the funeral.

My dad's family requested that none of us be in the room when they said good-bye, especially my mom. They wanted some time alone with him, at last. So I'm not sure what they said to him. I'm sure they called my mom a bitch a couple more times. Their hatred for her was at an all-time high. My mom would certainly get her wish of never seeing them again. But I'm sure they also recounted the great life my dad had lived and promised to keep him alive in their memories. He would be part of their spirits now.

“Well, I'm glad they came,” I told my dad after they all left, rubbing tears from their eyes. My dad was crying the hardest I'd seen him cry during all the good-byes.

“Yeah, me, too,” he said. “I love them.”

“So, how many times did they call mom a bitch?” I asked. My dad just smiled.

*   *   *

My pilled-up mom mainly hung in my dad's room during the good-byes. She insisted that after each good-bye was said, the visitors and my dad listen to the Beatles' “I'll Follow the Sun” so they could take some extra time to reflect on the meaning of it all. I really didn't like this whole idea, even though I really liked the song.

“That's so stupid, Mom. Do we really have to listen to this silly, faux-sentimental bullshit?” I argued.

“We need the song. Dad loves it. Don't you, Bob?” my mom said. My dad just shrugged his shoulders as usual.

“See. He loves it. We're playing the fucking song,” my mom said.

So, at the end of the visit, after the good-byes, we'd all link hands, stand in a circle, and listen to that fucking song. I probably heard it about a hundred times.

The good-byes were always harder for the visitors than they were for my dad. It made sense. The people saying good-bye hadn't watched this disease slowly take everything from him. The last time most of them had seen him was when he was an active runner sipping a glass of wine. To transform from that to a skeleton on the brink of death was extremely startling. My dad's outlook was a lot cheerier than the visitors' as well. In the weeks leading up to his death, he had accepted and embraced that this was inevitable. He was totally Zen about it. He seemed surprisingly happy. He had been through a lot and was ready to go. He knew that there wasn't anything else he could do. He was freeing himself from his cocksucking terminal illness, and also freeing us from the burden of caring for him. Dying with dignity in full effect.

As more and more visitors came through, my dad seemed to be desensitized to it all. He couldn't match their emotional intensity. Shit, another person's coming in to tell me how special I am and how sad they are about my disease and untimely death. Blah, blah, blah, he probably thought as they cried and cried. He would often end up consoling the visitors, instead of the other way around, as I had done with Robin.

Most visitors' good-byes were pretty forgettable, to me at least. The typical visitor would come in already teary eyed, a little tentative and awkward. They'd smile and try to be cheerful. They'd sit right next to my dad's hospital bed. Some would take his hand or place a hand on his shoulder. Others would just sit there.

They'd start with small talk. “How you doing today?” or “How you feeling?” or “How about this weather? Fall is beautiful around here.” My dad would answer, but he was almost impossible to understand at this point, so we had to translate for him. I loved fucking with people as I did these translations.

“Thanks for coming. It's good to see you,” my dad would say after clearing his throat. The visitors would stare blankly at me, waiting for the translation.

“He said that it's good to see you,” I'd say.

“Oh, thanks, Bob. Good to see you, too,” they'd loudly say, like my dad was deaf instead of terminally ill.

“What's new with you?” my dad would ask. More blank stares from the visitors.

“He said that he wants you to get me a spicy chicken burrito from Del Taco,” I'd say.

“Oh. Is there one around here?” they'd ask.

“I'm just kidding. He asked you what's new with you,” I'd say.

“Oh. Ha ha. Nothing. Things are really good … So, wait, do I need to get you that burrito?” they'd say.

Eventually, the conversation would turn a little more serious. They'd apologize for Bob's misfortune, as if it was their fault. They'd tell him that he was a good friend, a good husband, a good father, a good person, and that they'd miss him. My dad would then pay them back a compliment and maybe give a little life advice, usually about something specific in their lives: a child getting married, a new grandchild, a new job, a new house.

“Thanks for being a good friend. You're a great person. And good luck with your new granddaughter. Spend as much time with her as you can,” my dad would say. They'd look over to me to translate again.

“He said that he was never that great of friends with you and he wants you to leave so we can chill out, maybe watch
Forrest Gump
before he dies,” I wanted to translate.

“He said thanks for being a good friend, and wished you luck with your new granddaughter. He suggests that you spend as much time with her as you can. I think he's saying that because he's dying and won't ever see any of his grandchildren, whereas you're living and will. Live it up and cherish every moment, in other words,” I'd actually say, tacking on my own interpretation at the end.

“Oh, thanks, Bob. You're so special to us. Thanks for being so great. I know you're going to a better place,” they'd say.

“Okay, well, thanks for coming. Love you,” my dad would say. They'd wait for the translation again.

“He wants you to leave,” I wanted to say.

“He said thanks for coming and that he loves you,” I'd actually say.

“Love you, too, Bob. We'll pray for you,” they'd say.

“Don't bother. We think praying is bullshit,” I wanted to say.

“Great! Thank you so much!” I'd actually say.

The visitors would usually then cry a little bit. My dad—depending on how close he was to the person—would sometimes cry, too. But he was mostly all cried out. The visitors would then linger around, not sure exactly how to exit, probably thinking, This would be easier if it were just a car accident. They'd eventually give my dad one last hug and say, “Well, I'm going to go now. Great knowing you,” but then still hang around for a few more minutes, thinking they had to do or say more. It was awkward and uncomfortable for everyone. I wanted to tell people that they'd done everything they could and that they were good people for caring so much, but also to get the fuck out so the people who mattered more in his life could get more time with him.

As visitors were about to leave, my mom would remember the Beatles song. She'd say, “Oh, we've got to play the song,” and then fumble around with the CD player remote until she figured out how to work it.

“Okay, you guys ready?” my mom would ask. “Hold hands. It works better that way.” Everyone in the room would link sweaty hands. Most didn't know each other, but they knew that they loved my dad, so they would go along with it.

“Okay, here we go,” my mom would say, after finally finding the right button.

All would hang their heads, like they were in a deep state of thought, even though they were probably thinking, Okay, this is fucking strange. And I think I'm holding hands with Jessica's creepy husband.

CLICK. The song would play. My mom would close her eyes. My dad's would remain open, looking around at all the love he was getting.

After the song finished, everyone would look up, nodding to each other, acknowledging that it was nice. Maybe the song wasn't such a horrible idea. My mom's eyes would remain closed for about a minute after the song ended. People probably thought she was praying, or meditating, or crying, but I think she was probably just zoning out because of the Fentanyl. She had also gotten her cancer hands on some Klonopin, so she was even more out of it than usual.

Eventually, the visitors would hug us all and leave. “Stay strong,” they'd say. “Love you so much, Bob,” they'd add.

Friends and family were so terrific during all this. All these visits really showcased what a great man my dad was and how much love he brought in. He had truly influenced a lot of lives in a positive way, which is all you can really hope for when you die: that the memory people have of you is a good one. Sure, these visits were hard and tedious and repetitive for me. But they also gave everyone, especially my dad, a lot of closure. People got to say what they wanted to say to him, and he got to say what he wanted to them. Regret is probably the worst feeling you can die with, and it was nice to know that my dad didn't have to die with any. Instead, he would die filled with love, thinking that he was special and great and had had a positive impact on the lives of his friends and family. This is how everyone should go. Or, at least, those who lived a good life, like my dad.

It soon became Saturday, September 20. The house started to clear out. The line out front vanished to nothing. The doorbell stopped ringing. My dad had said all his good-byes. Visitors were no longer allowed. It was our turn to bid adieu to the old man.

 

THE DAY BEFORE THE DAY OF

I was having a hard time sleeping during the nights leading up to my dad's death. When in bed, I felt like I was wasting time I should've been spending with him. I could lie down in the basement watching HBO anytime, but I only had a handful of hours left with my dad. So I'd wake up in the middle of the night and go sit in his room. My mom was always already in there, curled up alongside him in bed, clinging to him like her favorite childhood stuffed animal. Tiffany had also started spending the night. Must have been weird for her, because my dad's hospital room used to be her bedroom. My siblings and I used to sleep in her room on Christmas Eve. But all the happy memories we'd accrued in there would soon be trumped by the memory of the death of our father.

I'd just sit, listening to my dad's respirator, watching him sleep as peacefully as a man about to die can sleep. I took comfort in this. Though he wasn't the man he used to be, he was still my dad. He was still my road map. He was still alive.

I'd eventually crawl back into the basement with the other spiders.

The cats had officially won the battle over my room. They were using it as their primary litter box. I guess they were getting back at me for wanting to get rid of them. Maybe they were collectively trying to drive me out of there for good. The room's sheets and wallpaper were yellow, so an optimistic interior decorator could say, “Well, the piss matches the room's color scheme, so that's good.”

But I'd say, “My God, what am I doing? I just turned twenty-six years old. I'm unemployed. I'm not going to school. And to put some shit-filled icing on the cake, I'm sleeping in a bed that reeks of cat urine. It's been a long, hard tumble to rock bottom for old, fat Dan. Good thing we have HBO.”

When I did sleep, I would dream about not actually pulling the plug and my dad walking again. I dreamed about us watching a Jazz game together. High fives were easy. We didn't have to use our feet. LG stood for “Life is Good,” not “Lou Gehrig's.” I was safe and protected from all the spiders and trash of the world. You know when you have a dream where you fuck someone you've wanted to fuck, and then wake up and realize that you didn't fuck that person, but instead had ground your privates against the hard mattress? My dad-related dreams those nights were sort of like that, making waking up torturous, especially when combined with the pungent smell of cat piss.