Home Is Burning (8 page)

Greg somehow contracted pubic lice about halfway through the trip. We shared a very small cabin, a twin-sized bed on each side. He said he hadn't slept with anyone on the cruise; he figured he must have gotten it from the sheets.

“How didn't you get it?” he asked.

“I don't know. Maybe the lice prefer your gimmicky, uncircumcised cock,” I joked.

“I'm going to wash my pubes again,” he said as he scratched his way to our little cabin bathroom.

My mom's hope campaign was starting to fade as things got worse and worse with my dad. She was still pinning an inspirational quote on my dad's pillow each night, and she was still preaching that things would be okay. She and my dad would walk laps around the giant ship's track to keep his legs strong. But there was no denying that the disease was working on my dad faster than my mom had thought it would, faster than we all had thought it would. Everything was being sped up. Her goal was to get chemo and hopefully start feeling better before my dad had to go on a respirator, so she could resume taking care of him.

During the last dinner my mom asked us all to hold hands as we sat around a circular table. I reluctantly put down my wineglass and took Tiff's hand as my mom started her short speech.

“Things are going to continue to get bad. But we all need to be there for your dad. We are a family and we can do this. If nothing else, we will always have each other,” she said.

For some reason, Chelsea was hypercritical of my mom on the trip and was attacking her at her most vulnerable moments. She assumed everything was fine, that both my parents were faking as a ploy to get our attention. So, instead of linking hands with the rest of us, Chelsea sat at the table, giggling and digging her gangly fingers into her water cup to fish out ice cubes to throw at my mom.

But the rest of us nodded in agreement. At least we had each other. At least we were still a family.

“Sounds good, Mom,” said Greg while folding up his napkin. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go back to the room to scratch my pubes.” Tiffany and I separated our hands and scowled at each other. Jess didn't say anything. Chelsea was busy with her water glass. What a family.

*   *   *

After the cruise, my dad got a feeding tube implanted into his stomach, and my mom started big guns chemo. I returned to Los Angeles. I knew I had to talk to my boss about taking a leave of absence from work so I could help at home, but I was still trying to put it off for as long as possible.

Right as the chemo started up, my mom seemed to drop the never-give-up bullshit and go back into full panic mode. She was on my ass about moving home to help out. She started sending me three or four guilt-inducing text messages each day while I was at work or out drinking. I wanted to kick whoever taught her how to text in the teeth. It was probably Jessica. The texts started coming in at all hours of the day and night.

We really need your help. Dad is going to die soon.

I can't do this.

Come home.

It's not looking good out here. How's work?

Dad shit his pants today. We need your help.

I'm just getting home from chemo. Your dad is way worse. Wish you were here to help.

I've been vomiting all day and your dad can't move his arms. Your siblings are starting to resent you. I hope you are well.

We all have those “What the fuck am I doing?” moments. Mine came at a bar called the Derby in Los Feliz. I was probably five drinks into what was shaping up to be another shitshow of a night when I got this message from my mom:

Dan, we met with the architect, elevator guy, and contractor today. This could really push me over the edge, but I am going to do it. I have been in bed all day trying not to throw up from twelve hours of chemo and blood transfusions. It would probably be a zoo to move home right now with all the construction, although we could really use the help.

I closed my phone and ordered another drink, trying to ignore the message, but the guilt was starting to get to me. I caught a glimpse of my fat, smiling face in a wall mirror—sweating out alcohol, like a spoiled white asshole—and had the moment.

“What the fuck am I doing?” Here I was, drunk in everyone-has-their-head-up-their-ass L.A., while my mom was lying in bed next to my dying dad, recovering from a horrible day of being injected with awful drugs to keep her from dying so she could continue taking care of our diseased father.

I flew home to Salt Lake the following weekend to assess the situation.

Home was certainly different this time around, and not just because of the construction to make our house wheelchair accessible. My dad had gotten much worse in the couple of weeks since the cruise. He could hardly move his arms, he was having some trouble walking, he was now on the feeding tube, and his breathing had gotten so bad he had to be hooked to the BiPAP machine a couple of times a day.

My mom was on edge and sick from the chemo. Tiffany immediately reminded me how much more she was doing for the family than I was. Greg still had pubic lice from the cruise that he couldn't seem to shake, so he was even crankier than usual. Jessica was wandering in and out of the house, trying her best to hide from everyone. Chelsea had her head in the schoolbooks, ignoring the situation via math and science. When she wasn't studying, she was dancing, or talking about it.

The calm, soothing force that had always been my dad displayed more anger than usual. He was clearly frustrated by his misfortune. Before heading out for a family dinner, Chelsea was slowly buttoning up my dad's shirt because he couldn't lift up his arms to do it himself. As she buttoned, she noticed that Tiffany had removed all the pictures of herself and Derek from the dresser next to her old bed.

“How could she get rid of those pictures of her and Derek? And now she's dating Big Cock Brian? What a whore,” said Chelsea.

“Don't talk like that,” said my dad, growing less and less patient by the second.

“What? She shouldn't take down those pictures and get rid of those memories, all just because Brian has a bigger cock. It's bitchy,” said Chelsea, smiling a little.

“Chelsea. What did I just say? Don't talk like that. I want to smack you in the face,” said my dad.

“You can't move your arms,” said Chelsea.

My dad looked down at his shirt, bursting with frustration, and said, “How long does it take to button up a fucking shirt?”

He also had an uncharacteristically low tolerance for our hyperactive golden retrievers, whose cheerful tail-wagging natures seemed out of place with all the dying taking place around us. Anytime they would try to charge out the front door so they could freely run around the Mormon neighborhood—shitting wherever their hearts and anuses desired—my dad would greet them with a swift kick to the rib cage, making great use of the little strength he had left in his legs.

“These fucking dogs,” he said. I had never seen my dad mad. He just wasn't the angry type. Everything was not normal on the home front.

Before I left Salt Lake, my dad and I went up to Snowbird resort—a place where we had spent many days skiing the steep slopes and chatting about life on the chairlifts. Though it was only August, some of the leaves were starting to change, giving the mountain a colorful glow.

“Boy, it's so beautiful up here, isn't it?” my dad said, and for a moment, it was like all the other times we had been up there, just a couple of healthy pals there to ski. I think we both momentarily forgot about all the developing problems in our lives.

“Yeah, it's pretty great. Beats L.A. The endless sunshine is nice, but consistency can be boring,” I said.

“Nice to see the leaves changing. Always marks the beginning of my favorite time of the year. Also means that ski season is on the way,” he said, forgetting for a moment that he'd never be able to ski again.

We took the aerial tram to the top of Snowbird's Hidden Peak, some eleven thousand feet above sea level. We looked out at the world—all the peaks and valleys, all the dark clouds mixed with the patches of blue sky.

“DJ, sorry to get all serious here, but the mountains bring it out in me. My life is falling apart here. This damn disease. Didn't think it would hit me this hard,” he said, taking a deep breath and letting the slight mountain breeze run through his graying hair.

He continued, “I know you got your life going in Los Angeles, and we're really proud of you for that. But we need you back home. I need you back home.”

Fuck, there it was. My mom had been begging me to come home for a month, but finally the request was coming from my dad. In a strange reversal, he was now asking for my help. He'd always had my back, and now it was time for me to have his. I was hoping he would snap out of it and say, “Just kidding. Go on being a kid and fucking around in Los Angeles. You're too young to take care of your parents.” But he didn't. He needed my help, and I had to give it.

I placed a hand on his bony shoulder. “I'll do everything I can, Dad. I'm a bit of a selfish asshole, but if you want me here, I'll be here.”

It was time to finally accept that things couldn't stay good forever, that my relationship with my dad would have to change. It was time to accept that life isn't all about gin and tonics and sunsets, that it's about spending as much time as possible with the people you love, through the good and the bad.

I decided that when I returned to L.A. the following Monday, I would talk to my boss and try to take a leave of absence from work so I could go back to Utah to help take care of Team Terminal. It was time to put my selfish life on pause. It was time to come home. My dad needed me.

 

LEAVING LOS ANGELES

When I got back to Los Angeles, I drafted an e-mail to my boss asking for a leave of absence from work. I really didn't want to flat-out quit. I liked my job. I was just starting out in my career. I couldn't stand the thought of just giving it up completely. My crazy mom—all fucked up on chemo drugs—had called my boss, Ian, at his home at eleven o'clock one night to tell him that she needed me back in Utah, so he understood the situation. I'm still not sure how my mom got his number. I guess she's resourceful like that, chemo drugs or not.

The whole thing was awkward. I felt very exposed by the situation, which seemed like a bad way to launch my professional life. But fuck it. My parents were dying. They were now the most important thing that ever existed in the history of anything. Fuck the rest.

I sent Ian this desperate e-mail:

August 22, 2007

Ian,

As you know, I spent last weekend at home with my family. Unfortunately, my father's condition is much worse than I had anticipated. His weight is down to 140 pounds and his breathing is down to around 33 percent (meaning he is only able to inhale and exhale using 33 percent of his lungs' capacity). They have already surgically implanted a feeding tube and are going to be putting him on a breathing machine shortly, at which point he will no longer be able to talk. To top it off, my mom is undergoing intense chemotherapy and is emotionally unstable (as you witnessed firsthand when she called you at 11 p.m.).

My family and I are in a state of panic right now and I'm not sure what to do about the whole situation. I've been thinking about solutions all day long and was wondering if I could talk to you about potentially taking an unpaid leave of absence to help out at home and spend time with my family. I don't know how long it would last or if Abernathy even allows for these, but I do know that I really enjoy working here and would love to continue once things get better at home, assuming they will.

I know the timing for this request is awful, and that my temporary departure would place extra stress on everyone, but I would be willing to assist in finding some extra help and stay on until mid- to late September to ensure we have the bases covered.

I apologize for this request. I wish I didn't have to make it. I thank you for considering it and for being such an accommodating employer. Let me know if you are available to talk in greater detail tomorrow.

Thanks,

Daniel Marshall

Daniel is my grown-up, professional name.

Ian and I met a couple of days later to discuss the letter.

“I'm so sorry, Daniel. This is really unfortunate,” Ian said, looking out at the dirty Los Angeles skyline, traffic helicopters buzzing by. We were on the thirty-ninth floor of the Aon Tower in the heart of downtown, so we had an almost endless view of the filthy city. L.A. is an ashtray. Ian sat down in his desk chair and looked me over. “Things were going so well for you.”

“I know. It really sucks. And sorry again about my mom calling you,” I said.

“Is she okay?” he asked.

“Well, she gets a little loopy with chemo. She's insane right now.”

“Understandable. I would be, too,” said Ian.

He shook his head. He didn't know what to say about any of this. I was finding that no one really did. He was around my parents' age. I'm sure he felt lucky that such tragedy wasn't hitting him and his family.

“Well, let me know if I can do anything else to help,” he said. I wanted to say, “Hey, why don't you go ahead and cure Lou Gehrig's disease and cancer.” But instead I nodded and said that I would let him know.

My leave was to be three months long, unpaid, but I would still get health insurance. My last day would be September 15, 2007.

Initially, I thought there was a good chance that I'd return. I thought I would go out to Mormontown, wipe some ass, get my dad stabilized, wipe some more ass, maybe sit in on a couple of chemotherapy sessions, get drunk alone in the basement, show the world what a great, unselfish person I actually was, and wipe some more ass.

But, for now, I was leaving Los Angeles, the city I often describe as a giant toilet bowl full of dying dreams, to return to Salt Lake, a city I often describe as a wholesome Norman Rockwell painting, but one now full of dying parents.