BlitzBlog

It’s a strange thing, holding someone’s hand, the other resting on their chest, while they take their last breath on Earth.

My dad died peacefully on Wednesday afternoon with my wife Kate and myself on either side of him. The last thing I know he heard from my lips was, “I love you, Dad. You’re the best.”

He was 93 and after 6 months of dialysis, he decided that was enough. He said the treatments weren’t making him feel better, they were only keeping him alive. And for the most part, he felt lousy. I understood completely, and told him so. And then I took the next 7+ weeks off to be with him.

Dad’s doctors couldn’t say how long dad would live. Anywhere from 2 weeks to a year I was told. (I suppose in my dad’s honor as a lover of gambling I should have started a pool, but it’s too late now).

Surprisingly, for the first month, Dad seemed to be doing better than he did while taking the dialysis 3 times a week. When he was in treatment, he’d have good days and bad days, with seemingly no correlation to when he had a dialysis session. But once he’d stopped the treatments, his energy seemed to even out. While he wasn’t feeling great exactly, he was strong enough to climb the 7 steps up to our dining room from his bedroom and join us for dinner.

But inevitably, his virtually non-functioning kidneys allowed his blood to turn septic, and his energy level began a drastic decent about 10 days before his death. Interestingly, on the morning of the day of his death, while he was very uncomfortable and couldn’t seem to find a position in bed that allowed him to relax, I never gave any thought to today being The Day. His breath was wet with fluid in his throat, which had happened before, and I thought it might be a few more days before he finally passed. (I subsequently learned that this is what they call the Death Rattle).

At about noon, Kate came home from work. About the same time that the hospice nurse Teri and home health aid Marie came by. I’d been sitting with Dad for about 3 hours that morning, so I took the opportunity to to take the dogs out for a walk in the woods behind our house.

After about 10 minutes, I was heading back and I heard Kate calling my name. I somehow just knew something was not right, but I also thought for some strange reason, that if I ran, it would cause dad to be dead when I got to the house. Nevertheless, I picked up my pace and walked quickly through the back door. Kate said, “He’s gonna go, Matt. Any minute now.” I was surprised but stayed calm, and we both sat down on the edges of the bed at Dad’s sides. His color was more pale than I’d ever seen, and his breathing was barely evident. Kate cried and stroked his face and head. I held his hand and gently rubbed his chest. After a few moments I could no longer feel any movement in his chest, and his hand was slack. I looked at Kate, then at Teri and Marie. Teri leaned over and put the stethoscope on Dad’s chest, then looked at the clock. She noted it was 12:32, and said, “I’m so sorry Matt.”

Kate and I stood up and held each other and cried. We’d known this day was coming, so it wasn’t a shock, but it made us no less sad.

Now, 4 days later, dad is buried, tucked safely into his grave on Friday morning. It was a lovely ceremony, and despite the circumstances, good to see my extended family and friends who showed to pay respects and give us emotional support.

But today is also Father’s Day. My first without my dad. And while I love being the center of attention, I wouldn’t mind sharing the spotlight for just one more day.

My wife, a woman of exemplary taste (in men) and superior intelligence, is what I would describe as your typical female, when it comes to communicating with friends. She can spend hours on the phone with Robin or Ellen, and later in the day, spend another hour yakking in person.

Myself, my phone conversations last less than 5 minutes on average. Even with the roughly twice-weekly calls I have with Blue Frog in Baltimore, who can blather on on just about any subject for what sometimes seems like an hour non-stop; except for him, generally, my phone conversations with my buds tend to be short, stupid, and, depending on the day, to the point, or totally pointless.

What do women talk about for such lengths of time? I know Kate and her friends are usually discussing (complaining/bragging) the kids or talking (complaining) about their husbands, as I sometimes hear one end of the conversation. But really!? How much detail does one need?

Oh yes, I know, as much detail as possible, you women-folk will reply. I’ve heard you XX-chromosoned types talking about things- talking about sex- and MY GOD you’re all a bunch of disgusting pigs! The details you go into! I’m positive that all my wife’s friends are fully aware of whatever bizarre proclivities or nuances I might have when she and I are engaged in the Horizontal Bop. I doubt it’s a pretty picture- hell that’s why there are light switches fergodsake- and I can’t help but think that sometimes, at some social function, I’ll be engaged in some witty repartee with one of Kate’s friends, and they’re looking intently at me, not hearing a word I say, as they mentally picture me as one half of the Beast With Two Backs, my face twisted in one hideous ecstatic distortion or another, wondering why in the hell Kate puts up with me.

But for men? If one of my friends’ wives had glow-in-the-dark nipples that could be tuned to shoot colored lasers, I wouldn’t know it. Me and my friends don’t talk about sex much, unless we’re bitching about the lack of it, or perhaps joking about how we’re developing Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from repeated manág-e-moi.

Details? Forget it. I don’t want to mentally-picture my friends naked, nor their wives- not even the hot ones. So forget about details of who likes it how, who’s got the flexibility of a gymnast, and who whispers or screams what.

Let’s be real men. Let’s talk about the game. Or let’s be old men, and talk about what part of us hurts.

As for you and the missus? I hear she’s pissed at you again.

“Hey, you can’t come on the course with a cooler. Sorry.” the ranger said to me as I loaded the soft-six cooler onto my cart.  It was filled with Arizona ice teas, so it wasn’t like I was trying to hammered out on the course. And it was 90 degrees. So what’s the harm?

I don’t know what made me say it- perhaps it was the Honeymooner’s episode I saw the previous night, but I quickly blurted out, “Oh, I have Monohematomia. I have to have liquids with me at all times. It’s only ice teas.” The guy seemed a bit taken aback, and said, “Ummm-uh, okaaay. No problem then.”

“Monohematomia? What the hell is that?” you might ask.

The answer, of course, is that it is an entirely fictional disease with no symptoms or meaning whatsoever.

But the ease in which this ploy worked, and the fact that the disease is fictional, gave me a guilt-free mind to ponder the possibility of making up some fake Monohematomia Society card to keep in my wallet. “Warning! The bearer of this card carries the gene for Monohematomia. Please take all applicable precautions.”  I could use it for the golf course anytime, and unless I ran into a Honeymooner’s trivia expert/golf course starter-ranger, I’d be golden. Genius!

Then I thought some more. I pictured myself lying semi-conscious alongside the highway, the wreckage smoldering nearby. The EMTs have looked in my wallet and found my Monohematomia Society card  and are now all standing around trying to contact a medical expert on this unheard-of condition, so that they don’t do the wrong thing, as I lie there bleeding out on the shoulder of the interstate.

Hmmm, but what if I just keep it in my golf bag……….

I am disappointed at what has now become known as the steroid era. I believe that there is a certain tipping point that gets passed, and that is here “looking for advantage” becomes cheating.

There are those who say it’s not cheating if it’s not in the rule book. There are those who keep saying there was no rule against steroids in baseball’s rule book until 2003, but this is patently false. There were rules about illegal drugs and performance enhancing drugs. Though these weren’t mentioned by name, the fact is, possession of steroids was illegal (US Law) without a prescription, and thus were against baseball rules.

But this isn’t about the Rules. Any 10 year old knows the Rules. There are certain things you don’t do. You don’t hit girls. You don’t stiff-arm your friends in the face. You stop the game when your friend needs to tie his sneaker. And you don’t take drugs, especially to make you better than you really are. If you want to get better, you practice, eat your veggies and get enough rest. Maybe work out and have a coach teach you. But you work with what God gave you and whatever knowledge you can learn.

Steroids were cheating when the East German women swimmers showed up at the Olympics looking like Russian weightlifters in 1968, and it’s cheating now.

But what I find more outrageous about steroids is the question of why, especially in this economic climate, are our tax dollars being spent on investigating or prosecuting ball players? Is this something that is really under the purvey of the US Congress? Aren’t they supposed to be making laws and stuff like that? Why are we spending millions of dollars on listening to ballplayers and trainers testify in front of Congress?

If we’re worried about the artificial enhancement of our ball players, because it sets a bad example for our young boys, why don’t we start worrying about our daughters too? Why aren’t we hauling all these breast implanted actresses before Congress, so we can rail against their artificial enhancement and setting of ridiculous standards of beauty, which causes our teenager girls so much angst and suffering?

Yes, I know it would start looking like a GoDaddy.com commercial, but who’d you rather see testify? Sammy Sosa and Mark Maguire, or Carmen Electra and Pam Anderson?

There are those times in life when some mundane act comes to symbolize a metaphor for a larger or more important time in one’s life. Sometimes we realize it when it’s happening; sometimes we see it only in hindsight.

It’d been almost two years since I’d left the large rug company where I’d toiled for almost 12 years. I’d enjoyed those 12 years, and for the most part, was happy with the job and especially my co-workers who I’d come to regard as friends. But my boss and I never really saw eye-to-eye, and eventually we were making each other so frustrated, well, it was time to move on.

I went to what I thought was a better position at a large lighting company, but it turned out to be disastrous. The job wasn’t what had been presented to me at my hiring, and virtually every person I met at the company was at their core, miserable. The physical plant of the place was miserable, and it was in a miserable neighborhood, in the shadow of the Triborough Bridge, next to the power plant, aside the fetid Harlem River. After 6 months, I too was miserable, and left.

I’ve been running my own company for the past year or so, and while it’s gotten off the ground, and shows signs of being successful, I’d avoided looking backward to my old industry. I think I did this out of an ego-centric need to try to succeed without all those people I’d met along the way. At some point, however, I realized that these people, and all that industry experience were an asset that could help my company succeed. I’d built up 12 years of knowledge. Of connections. Of Good Will. How foolish was I to think that couldn’t help?

So I booked a trip to the main rug convention/show of the year, in Atlanta. I’d spend 3 days re-connecting with industry folks who I’d hoped would remember me. Meeting new industry bigwigs whom I’d hoped would throw some work my way.

I spent three weeks before the show doing my due diligence on who’s who at other companies. I called friends within the industry for connections and phone numbers. I wound up with a fair amount of appointments, and many “come stop by’s.”  I was encouraged.

Having been to about 20+ of these shows, I was very familiar with the layout and general deal of the the place. 4 floors of permanent rug showrooms and one floor of temporary exhibit rug dealers. My “base of operations” was a company’s showroom on the fourth floor for whom a good friend of mine works, and I’d be welcome to drop my bag in their storage closet. My old company has one of the largest showrooms located in a prime spot directly at the top of the escalator on the third floor.

I got to the show and received my credentials. It was strange not wearing my usual engraved magnetic name tag from my old company. I’d gotten used to the routine of pulling it out of my travel kit and affixing it to my lapel, then turning to the right at the top of the third floor escalator and strolling into the showroom, wishing everyone a cheery good morning.

But here I was, with a mundane plastic show badge, and as the escalator rose to the third floor, I had to stop myself from turning right, and sheepishly turned left to continue my progress up toward the fourth floor.

It was at this point I had  one of those moments. I was literally and figuratively at a turning point. I sucked in a breath and slowly let it out as I rose up, and then stepped off into my new future.