I am large …
My high school senior English teacher, Eric MacKnight (whom my friends and I called, surreptitiously, “Skippy” due to his preppy, khakis & oxford-cloth-button-down wardrobe), had a number of sayings from various literary sources around his room. One that always kind of bugged me–because I didn’t understand it–was one from Whitman: “Do I contradict myself?/ Very well then I contradict myself,/ (I am large, I contain multitudes.)” Maybe it was because I was only 17, and wasn’t really that large yet, but I didn’t really get what old W.W. was after, although I’m sure I contained multitudes–what teenager doesn’t?
But I was thinking about that quote as I drove the 200 miles from Medford, where my dad lived, back to my house last Saturday night. I was thinking about all the different ways I felt about my dad’s recent death–the day prior, though it seemed like weeks had passed. On the one hand, I was still shocked. A phone call at 3 am from the hospital is likely to do that to anybody, but when the call is to give you the news that your father has died, it’s a significant increase of magnitude. But I was also feeling relief. He’d suffered from COPD for years, depending on an ever-increasing amount of oxygen (4 liters/minute at the end), and it was hard to watch him have to catch his breath just from the efforts involved in, say, eating. He didn’t complain–at least not vociferously, not to me–but he was growing increasingly weak. I tell myself that he’s at peace now, and no longer has to struggle just to breathe anymore. So that helps me feel relief at his passing.
But I also feel relief from a much more selfish perspective. Dad and his wife, Sally, were planning to move from Medford to the Sacramento area, and I didn’t really think that it was a great idea. They would be closer to Sally’s daughter, and to me, which would have been wonderful. But they were looking to move into an independent living situation, and I didn’t think his health would hold up–I couldn’t imagine him getting to and from the dining hall twice a day for meals. I was sure that there would be increasing needs for more care, and the difficult questions and decisions that such eventualities would necessitate. I didn’t look forward to that, and frankly felt relief that I wouldn’t have to face those choices. I’m not proud of feeling that way, but there it is, anyway.
Shock, relief, guilt … oh yes, the guilt. I’d spent the prior weekend with my dad, while Sally was in the hospital having hip replacement surgery, cooking for him, chatting, running errands. All good, right? But at the same time, I was a little resentful that I was missing riding the Downieville Downhill as part of the California Muni Weekend 2009. When I saw how much he needed help, though, with everything, I knew I was in the right place; but it didn’t mean that I wasn’t still wishing I could be in NorCal riding that infamous trail.
I was feeling pretty resentful, too, as I drove to back to Medford on Thursday, just four days after my prior trip. Dad had been hospitalized two days after I’d left, and I went back as soon as my teaching duties for the week were done. I arrived around 5 pm, and stayed at the hospital with dad until sometime after 8. He seemed just like he’d been during the previous weekend–breathing seemed no more labored, his appetite was good, he was alert and sharp and his usual self. So when I said good night to him, I called my sister in Maine and told her he didn’t seem too bad, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was discharged in a day or two.
But instead he died about 5 hours later.
My call to my sister the next morning, 4 am my time, 7 am her time, included this exchange:
Me: Hey, it’s me. I have some bad news–dad passed away about two hours ago.
Laura: What? Are you fucking kidding me?
Me: No. I just got back from the hospital.
Laura: What did he die from?
Me: Uh, lack of heartbeat? How would I know? He was 86. He couldn’t breathe.
So I guess one of those multitudes to go along with guilt, shock, and relief is “inappropriately jokey,” to say nothing of lacking prescience. I didn’t see it coming.
Which brings me to a something that makes me reconsider that last statement. I’d tossed a bunch of CDs in the car because I lose NPR pretty quickly on the road between Chico and Medford. I had a mix of music that began as an 80s indy/folk fest, but as I hit the pass at the shoulders of Mount Shasta, I slid Jackson Browne’s Late for the Sky into the stereo. I hadn’t listened much to him in recent years, though he was my poet/troubadour of choice during high school. As I made my way toward my dad’s hospital room, “For a Dancer” came on, and I was again struck by the poignant lyricism of his songwriting:
Keep a fire burning in your eye
Pay attention to the open sky
You never know what will be coming down
I don’t remember losing track of you
You were always dancing in and out of view
I must have thought you’d always be around
Always keeping things real by playing the clown
Now you’re nowhere to be found
I don’t know what happens when people die
Can’t seem to grasp it as hard as I try
It’s like a song I can hear playing right in my ear
That I can’t sing
I can’t help listening
And I can’t help feeling stupid standing ’round
Crying as they ease you down
‘Cause I know that you’d rather we were dancing
Dancing our sorrow away
(Right on dancing)
No matter what fate chooses to play
(There’s nothing you can do about it anyway)
Just do the steps that you’ve been shown
By everyone you’ve ever known
Until the dance becomes your very own
No matter how close to yours
Another’s steps have grown
In the end there is one dance you’ll do alone
Keep a fire for the human race
Let your prayers go drifting into space
You never know what will be coming down
Perhaps a better world is drawing near
And just as easily it could all disappear
Along with whatever meaning you might have found
Don’t let the uncertainty turn you around
(The world keeps turning around and around)
Go on and make a joyful sound
Into a dancer you have grown
From a seed somebody else has thrown
Go on ahead and throw some seeds of your own
And somewhere between the time you arrive
And the time you go
May lie a reason you were alive
But you’ll never know
I found this clip of Jackson and David Lindley performing “For a Dancer” at the 2006 Philadelphia Folk Festival, and found it comforting. The whole sadness of that song, and its somber but thoughtful, lyrical but hopeful tone was exactly what I needed to hear and think about before seeing my dad. And I guess it’ll keep me from letting the uncertainty turn me around, and I’ll instead throw some seeds of my own as I think about my dad’s last days.
I guess I am large. And I contain multitudes. That Whitman fellow was onto something.
October 06 2009 09:05 pm | Daily life
Resentment? Check. Guilt? Check. Relief? Check. Inappropriate joking? In spades. Those were just a handful from the grab bag of responses I had when my dad died. I won’t say I’ve been there because each circumstance is so different, but I will say I know some of those same feelings. And I will say time has made most days easier. One day all those harder feelings give way to a little seedling of something good. I hope the memorial goes well.
Oh and thanks for introducing me to Jackson Browne. I didn’t know who he was until today, you know, because I’m young. Shoot, there goes that inappropriate joking again.
Take care.
(I just wrote a long response to this, but my connection wigged out, so I’m starting over with a shorter reply.)
I understand all the emotions you are going through, and I promise they are normal. I went through them all when first my dad and then my mom had a stroke and became dependent on their five children, but especially my family and me because we were the only ones who lived in the same town and then my sister Gail and her family when they moved back to MS. I was heart-broken, resentful, guilty, grief-stricken, angry, sad–the entire gamut of emotions. Soon after my mother’s funeral, my minister told me, “Don’t worry that you can’t cry. It’s okay. I’ve watched you go through all the stages of grief already.” And, you know what–it was all right–finally.
My prayers are with you and yours as you go through all the stages of grief. It will be all right–finally.
Cynthia
Oh, Peter. Jackson Browne is my all-time, since high school (too), melancholy poet/singer/songwriter. I actually own his hat. My aunt was obsessed with him and lived and worked in LA around his haunts. She passed by his open convertible and snatched it from the driver’s seat. I inherited it when I began playing his records all night while penning my sad sack poetry…
I am so sorry for your loss. Such inadequate words when we get close to the bone. I am, though, heartened to see you working through your experience by writing, and with such honesty. Even in admitting your weaknesses, I am struck by how humble and good you are.
You have been in my thoughts. If it would make you feel any better, you can borrow my/his hat sometime.
Sing out if you need any old thing.
–SP
Oh Peter, I do know this myriad of feelings. When my dad passed I was angry with him for the longest time. I was mad that he smoked and mad that he drank and disgusted that he didn’t eat right. I wanted his approval and I needed him there to give it to me. But he suddenly wasn’t and I was mad. I stayed mad for a while, and could work up a good head of tears over it at very little provocation. After a while though, it all began to settle and I forgot to be so mad. Every so often I’d turn inward, though and kind of pick at that scab, just to see if it’d still bleed. Finally, it no longer did. I guess I grew up a little after that.
I loved reading your piece. I’m glad you’re writing – it is really the only way out for some of us. I’ve thought of you all week. Please know I’m sending you lots of love and support.
Lynn
This was beautiful. And it was Large. As are you, for sure.
Peace and love to you, my friend.
A beautiful piece of writing, Pete. I’m sure your dad is very proud of you.
BTW, I’ve still got a lot of quotations up on my classroom walls, but not that one at the moment. By Wednesday next week, I promise.
Best wishes.
Eric