home is burning

If you missed it:

Thank you all for coming. And thank you for all of your support during the last year and beyond. You have all given so much. You have displayed what friendship is all about—being there through the good and bad moments in life, though we could have used more lasagna and brownies. I am not God, even if I sort of look and act like him, but if I were on Heaven’s admissions board, you would all have my vote.

It’s easy to be sad at a Funeral. No matter how may times we say, “Heaven” and “He’s in a better place” and “We’ll see him again,” it still sucks. Funerals are especially hard if the person died at a younger-than-expected age.

My Dad died about 25 years or so earlier than we all expected him to after fighting an incredibly courageous battle with an incredibly rare, mysterious, and awful disease that both destroyed him physically and wore him down mentally. Having just ran two marathons in the month of October 2006, my Dad was at his peck physical condition, so none of us expected the disease to attack him so quickly and we certainly didn’t expect to be sitting in a church celebrating his life just two years after his diagnosis.

But he lived for 670 months and he only had Lou Gehrig’s Disease for 23 of those. The other 647 months he lived a great, healthy, productive, and fulfilling life. I want to remember those 647 months. I don’t want to remember him as a victim of an awful disease. I want to remember him for other things that made him who he was.

–I want to remember him as being impossible to hate. Our across-the-street neighbor Ralph hated just about everyone he met. I knew this was the case when he said, “Dan I hate just about everyone I’ve meet,” with eyes to suggest that I was include in that large club. He went on to say, “but I really like and respect your Dad. I could never find a reason to dislike him. Trust me, I tried.” I couldn’t either.

–I want remember his great sense of humor. When I came back from college for the first time, I walked up to him and cupped his man-boobs into my hand. I said, “Wow Dad, looks like you gained the freshman fifteen.”

And he shook my hands off of him and said, “That’s probably the only action you’ve gotten in college so far.”

It was.

–I want to remember him as a man who gave great advice. One time we were sitting in the kitchen talking, probably about the Jazz, and he passed gas. He looked at me and said, “Nobody’s perfect.”

–I want to remember him for supporting all of his children’s hobbies. He was always in the front row of one of Greg’s plays, or clapping the loudest at one of Tiffany’s snowboard competitions, or the first to hand Chelsea a bouquet of flowers after a dance recital, or coaching Michelle in soccer, or filling the fridge full of beer for me.

–I want to remember him for his ability to make light of awful situations. I remember visiting him in the hospital shortly after he had his trach. surgery. He looked at me and mouthed, “I was able to talk today.” I said, “My god, that’s great. What did you say?” He mouthed back two words that when combined form a R-rated word. I won’t say the word, but I will say that it rhymes with Duck Stew.

– I want to remember him as a man that never complained about anything. I would come into his room and bitch about things like, “Dad, Del Taco’s Inferno hot sauce isn’t hot enough,” or “Dad, girls don’t dress slutty enough in the wintertime,” or Greg would come in and complain about his job while my Dad sat there, connected to a ventilator, unable to move his body, with a smile on his face.

–I want to remember him for his ability to cover for me. He took Greg and I to the NBA All-Star game in Orlando (No big deal). John Stockton, Mark Eaton, and Jerry Sloan were all on our flight.

California has movie stars and Utah has Jazz players, so it was Salt Lake City’s equivalent of running into George Clooney or Jack Black.

Greg and I pretended that we had to pee about twenty times just so we could walk passed them. We came back from one excursion and my Dad was talking to Mark Eaton like he was a next-door neighbor.

He introduced Mark Eaton to me, and I could only think to say, “Wow, you have really big feet.”  It was the last thing I wanted to say to him. I wanted to commend him for his 15-point game he had against the Bulls three nights before and ask him what he thought the Jazz needed to do to become a championship contender, but instead I commented on his feet. But after my idiot comment my Dad looked at Mark and said, “He’s probably one of your biggest fans.”

–I want to remember him as a teacher, even when it came to the hard subjects. In the fifth grade he sat me down after finding a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition in my hiding spot, which was poorly placed on my nightstand next to a bottle of lotion. Instead of being upset, he sat me down and explained to me what sex was and how it worked. What he forgot to tell me was that I wouldn’t be getting any.

–I want to remember him for being a dedicated Father. I don’t remember him ever missing a birthday. He even stuck around for this last one of mine on September 17 and sang Happy Birthday to me as best he could. He cared about my birthday so much that he suggested I bring it up during this speech and remind people that forgot that it’s not too late to give me twenty bucks.

–I want to remember him as an explorer. One time our family was on vacation in Maui (No big deal) and my Dad suggested that Greg, him and I go to a beach down the road a bit. We got to the beach and admired the blue rolling Hawaiian waves for a bit, before my Dad say, “Come on, let’s go explore.”

In no time he had us trudging through Hawaiian shrubs before we landed on another beach. After spending about ten seconds adjusting my eyes, I realized we were on a nude beach. My Dad pointed forward to a pair of breasts. It was the first pair of breasts I had seen outside of a late night screening of Striptease. I looked over to him and said, “How the hell did you know about this?”

He told me that he had no idea that this beach existed…but I think he did.

The three of us sat down and watched two older naked women splash around in the shallow water when he turned to us and said, “God, women look so much better with their clothes on.”

–I want to remember him for knowing how to take it easy and enjoy life. We would always go boating and he was the driver. His shirt was always off and his full head of brown hair would flap in the wind as he gently pumped up the speed, took a sip from his beer and asked if we could turn up the Beatles. He wore a pink bathing suit that suggested that, in addition to all his other great qualities, he didn’t care what people thought of him.

One time I was in charge of putting sunscreen on his back. I did what Harvard Professors would call a really half-assed job and it burnt his back so bad it matched his ugly, pink bathing suit. After the Day was over, he didn’t complain, he just said, “Well, at least we got to water ski” as I did a half-assed job of rubbing aloe vera on his back.

My Dad was much, much, much more than a Lou Gehrig’s patient. He was a great number of things. So let’s not remember him as a tragic case of misfortune but rather as a man that lived a great life whereupon he greatly affected many of our lives in a really, really positive way.

Last week I was talking to my Dad and I said, “Okay Dad, you have thirty seconds to live. What advice do you want to give me and the rest of the world.” I encouraged him to tell the world to vote for Barack Obama or they won’t go to heaven, but he cleared his throat and said, “I have three things.”

1.) Your work is not done until the last bail of hay is in the barn.

2.) Don’t try to rule from the grave. There are some things you can’t control.

3.) It’s okay to have a cocktail before dinner and a glass of wine during dinner. 

Thank you all.

Greg wrote a beautiful obituary and managed to edit out all of my cock jokes:

Robert Wendell Marshall

The Day Of

Autumn in Utah is my Dad’s favorite time of the year. The leaves begin to change, making the trees on the mountainsides as colorful as a box of crayons in a black man’s hand. The weather hangs out in the in the 70s or 80s, never too hot, never too cold. Girls still parade around in summer dresses and short shorts, none of us looking forward to them bundling up in ski jackets and sweaters. It is the last warm breath of air before the snowplows and salt cover our icy roads. 

My Dad picked September 22, the first official day of autumn, to be the last day of his life. Just as the seasons begin to change, so too will our lives. We will lose our leader, our teacher, our Father, our friend. We will be forced to move forward, get on with our lives, pick up the pieces and start writing all sorts of depressing books. I’m planning on punching a fence and trying to ax down the cottonwood tree in our backyard.

Guest: Sorry about your Dad dying and what not. It’s tough.

Me: Yep, it sure is. [Eyeing an ax leaning against the wall near the back door] Could you excuse me for a moment?

Guest: [Watching as I pick up the ax, calmly walk towards a fence and punch it and then toward the cottonwood tree and smoothly begin swinging the sharpened death machine against it for twenty minutes, then walk back over to the back door, walk in and set the ax back down against the wall.]

Me: Now, what were we talking about?

Guest: About the death of your father.

Me: Oh that’s right. Could you excuse me for a moment? [Picking up ax and walking back over to the cottonwood tree.]

The week of his death looks to be a difficult gauntlet of torturous mourning. When someone dies we as a society don’t just rip off the band-aid; we insistent on gently tugging at it over a five or six day period. In the process, it sticks to our leg hair, wrenching some out, eventually leaving a gooey residue and a noticeable brandish in the area it once occupied. Even though we’ve had over two months to prepare for the official dying of my Dad, or the D-ing of my D as I call it, the event and subsequent events (dinners with relatives, viewing, funeral, or as I call it, the fun roll) will be harder than any of us are expecting. September 22, 2008 will be the hardest, even though it’s the first day of the best time of the year.

On September 22, we will wake up at a reasonable hour, probably 8 or 9. We will all meet in his room centered in the heart of our house, the exact middle, my Dad’s mock hospital room. We will stand around. We will feed him, still through his feeding tube unfortunately. We will joke that the yellow Promote going into him is actually Eggs Benedict with a side of extra greasy bacon. My Mom will begin to cry and kiss my Dad. My Dad will be overwhelmed. He will have watery eyes. He will say that it’s so hard to say goodbye to his friends and family, that he cherishes everyone, and that we all made a difference in his life. He will question his decision and then remind himself how painful it is to be the same person mentally but trapped in a body he can’t use. He will say I love you. We will walk over to my Mom, rub her fragile cancer-worn back, and tell her this is going to be hard, but it’s also going to be okay, that we will be there for her, that she isn’t losing everything.

We will get my Dad in the clothes he ran the Boston Marathon in, at his request. The shirt is silver. The front reads, “Bob,” and has a small halo hovering above. The back reads, “Heaven Can Wait.” We will slide his orange marathon hat over hair that just recently began graying as to suggest that he was still young, that he was just turning old. Some of his proudest moments were spent in these clothes. He will remember how difficult running 26.2 miles was, and all the training and perseverance it took to finish the race. He will think that his battle with Lou Gehrig’s Disease was like running a different kind of marathon and that he had reached that point where he could no longer go on, no matter the amount of energy bars or cups of Gatorade he consumed. I will try to make him smile and want to make a joke like, “I wonder if a clown dies in his clown suit” while gently tugging at his running shirt, but I will keep my mouth shut, finally putting humor aside so we can all focus on this rare and unforgettable moment.

We will load him into his towering wheelchair with all sorts of contraptions that were supposed to make managing this awful disease easier. We will feel a sense of relief but also a sense of loss, knowing that this will be the last time we have to do this. Our transfer from bed to chair will be our best ever to reward him for everything he’s done for us over the years, the exceptional care he has displayed and given us. We will argue over who gets to drive him to the elevator and down to our backyard gazebo, where we will sit as a complete family for the last time, putting all differences aside, focusing on our coffee and the colorful mountains.

We will get there and all want to be talking, but be unable to come up with the right words, be unable to vocalize all of this. We’ve had a chance to say everything over the last year, so we won’t feel the need to force conversation. Conversation will eventually come. My Mom will be the noisiest, making everything so much harder by crying uncontrollably and trying to talk my Dad out of it. She will be numbed by the Klonopin her oncologist prescribed her to help her deal with the anxiety, but it won’t cover everything up. We will be rubbing each other’s backs and shooting each other this-fucking-sucks-but-at-least-we’re-trudging-through-this-shit-storm-together looks. I will want to chug a handle of vodka.  

The sun will hit my Dad’s face as though he’s the only person on Earth it’s keeping warm. His respirator hanging on the back of his chair won’t be making any alarming noises. It too will realize the magnitude of the moment and do us the honor of shutting the fuck up for once. It will meticulously push breaths of the freshest mountain air in to and out of his lungs, sending fresh oxygen throughout his once active body. The sound of the strident respirator will make will be unforgettable, both comforting and tragic. It will be the sound of our Father still living but also the sound of a long battle with a shit-kicking disease. It will be the sound of the ocean having a million orgasms but it will also be the sound an oil spill. Maybe it will make seagull sounds. Who knows? Maybe there’s a button on the machine that turns it into a dream machine, a dream machine specializing in seagull sounds. All the chirping crickets in our backyard will also shut the fuck up. They will all be watching from the weeds with respect, their little cricket hands saluting my Father. Though the respirator will do the brunt of the work, my Dad will find some mysterious strength in his diaphragm muscles to take in and push out a few breaths on his own, reminding the disease that it didn’t get everything, like a man who was robbed of almost all of his worldly possessions sitting on the lone cushion the robbers didn’t get, giving the world the bird.

My Dad will ask to be deflated so he can talk. We will fight over who gets to do it. The freshest mountain air that we just talked about will pass his vocal chords and give his voice a nice crispness we haven’t heard in over a year, before the Disease began it’s game-winning attack. We will be able to understand every word he says and won’t need to say that ugly, ugly word “what”.

He will ask for his youngest daughter, Chelsea. She will dance over and stand next to him. Her unexposed emotions will finally start to kick in and she will uncurl his brittle, skinny fingers and squeeze his had with her brittle, skinny fingers. She will stop thinking about school, and realize that she’s being taught a more important lesson, a mother f-ing life lesson. My Dad will say, “Chelsea you are a great kid. You are very smart and attractive. You will make a difference in the world. Keep your Mom company and never forget that I’m still here for you, even if I’m not. Keep up the dancing. Keep up the interest in school. Good luck learning to drive and good luck turning into a woman, both events I won’t be able to witness.” Chelsea will finally cry and say, “You’re not really going to do this are you?” flashing that last spec of both optimism and denial. My Dad will shake his head and say, “I am. But I love you.” Chelsea will understand.

My Dad will ask for Michelle, his second youngest daughter. She will already be crying. It won’t be a soft weep. It will be hard and painful, not only for her, but for all of us to watch. Her body will tremble will powerful sobs, her emotions banging against her rib cage. Michelle will finally give my Dad a two-armed hug, a hug she only displayed when she went through her drinking-alcohol-in-our-basement phase, and water his shoulder with her tears. My Dad will say, “Michelle, I wish you the best of luck. Good luck with your marriage. Good luck with your pregnancy. Good luck with everything. Go back to school when you’re ready. You are smarter than you think. You are a very gentle and kind person. I love you very much. Good luck.”  Michelle will cling to him for a while and my Dad will sit in his chair wishing he could lift his hand to rub his comforting fingers through her hair. “This fucking disease,” he will think one last time.    

My Dad will ask for Greg, his youngest son. Greg will be strongest person there, like he has been from the get go. He will cry, but he will be thankful that my Dad went on the respirator so he got to spend an extra ten months with his #1 conversation buddy. My Dad will say, “Greg, you are the new rock. You react with both emotion and logic, making you a rare commodity. You are the easiest person in the world to talk to and a great listener. You will use those skills to achieve more than the rest of us. I hope you always cherish the time we spent together, the US Open in New York, the trip to France, the countless times we battled it out on the tennis court, and other upper-middle class activities. You have shown both bravery and honesty in your life and I am proud of you for who you are. I love you.” Greg will cry but not try to talk my Dad out of his decision.

My Dad will ask for me, his oldest son. I will cartwheel over to him, rub his shoulder, and squeeze out one last “Danny Fart” for him to smell. I will thank him for all that he has given me and taught me. I will remind him of how a silly sport like basketball brought us together and thank him for always letting me beat him to build my confidence. My Dad will say, “Get a fucking job and lose ten pounds you bum and then watch after Mom and help her as much as she needs when you can. I know you think she’s crazy, but also realize that she’s your Mother and you are half her. You have given me much over the last year and lost several important things to help us get through this—a girl you loved, a budding career, your autonomy and freedom—but I want you to move forward without resentment towards me for putting us all through this, towards Holly for moving on with her life, or towards your Mother for putting so much weight on your shoulders. I think in the long run you will look back at this and think it was all worth it because I’m your fucking Father and it was your duty to care for me when I needed you the most. I’m sorry it happened when you’re only 25. It is now time to get on with your life and push forward without any excuses.” I will pinch his nipples and mess up his hair. He will defy his disease and give me a huge smile. I will grab his ears, giving him a final reminder that they are larger than most and I’m aware of it. I will look at him with an understanding smile and say, “Don’t watch me masturbate.” He will laugh as much as he can.

My Dad will ask for Tiffany. Tiffany will try very hard to not cry. The intense effort will redden her face and she will try to cover it with her hand. She will finally breakdown and explode like a virgin finally getting some. The rare exposed emotional explosion will cause us all to cry, even the saluting crickets in the bushes that you thought I forgot about. It all started with Tiffany and she is the leader. My Dad will say to her, “Tiffany, some of my best days in life were spent on the mountain with you, watching you carve through the snow with grace and ease. I always loved the mountains, and of all my kids, you were the only one that loved them as much as me. You will do great things in life and end up exactly where you want to be, even if you doubt yourself right now. You are beautiful and I love you.” Tiffany will cry and promise to think of him every time she is about to descend into a fresh batch of powder, beating all the tourists and wannabes to the punch.

My Dad will ask for my Mom, his wife. My Mom’s mouth will be a perfect upside down U, creating a sort of arrow that points to the genuine sadness in her eyes. My Mom will say, “Don’t do this Bob. Please. Please. Don’t leave me.” She was once an orphaned child who was then adopted by my Grandparents. They tried to adopt more to give her a sibling, but were unable to, making her an only child. The only-child thing and the orphaned thing created a sense of abandonment and loneliness that has always rested at the top of her soul. The loss of her husband will make her feel like a lonely orphan again, like she has no one in the world. My Dad will say, “Deb, I love you so much. I did from the second I met you. You are an inspiration to us all. Don’t give up the fight even though you now have to battle it for both of us. I know you were the sick one, the one with cancer that was supposed to go before me, but it didn’t work that way. I’m sorry to leave you, but I hope you understand and accept my decision without being angry. You now inherit the family that we created together, and that family will be there for you and help you through this. Hold our grandchildren for the both of us, and spoil the shit out of them. Re-marry if you must. I understand and don’t give a fuck since your tubes are tied. Take your mind off me. Start eating things other than yogurt and snow cones; you’ll need the strength to keep up the fight. Buy yourself anything you want. Don’t feel alone. Your kids, our kids, will look after you because they have inherited both of our kindness. Clean up your language so you don’t pass on the bad habit to others, like you did with that shithead, tit-fucker Danny. You are the bravest, strongest, feistiest woman I have ever known, but most importantly, you are a survivor that has never given up. Don’t give up now. I love you with all my heart.” My Mom will burst into tears and squeeze him so hard he will feel like his feeding tube is about to burst out of his stomach and onto the gazebo deck, where it will flop about like a surfaced fish. They will look at each other, having cleared their eyes of the blurring tears and thank each other for making 30 years of marriage so easy.

We will be silent for a moment and then I will break it and sarcastically say, “Jesus Christ we are a bunch of pussies. Look at us crying about the death of a loved one.”

Everyone will laugh (maybe), not because it’s that funny, but because we need to feel something else.

The Others will arrive.

My Dad has invited his best friend and running partner Tom Loken to partake in his last day. The two have ran along each other’s side for thousands of miles. They didn’t finish every race together—there was the occasional cramp or pulled muscle or bathroom break that separated the two—but my Dad wants him there when he crosses the finish line this time. Tom might even fall for the gimmicky shit and wear his marathon gear too.

Tom will walk onto the gazebo and shake his head in disbelief. “Man Bob, this all seems so surreal.” My Dad will agree. He will then miraculously lift his arms up and unhook himself from the respirator. The hole in his trach. will fill in. He will stand up and take a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity. He will be back to himself.

He will look at Tom and say, “How about one last run my old friend?” “You got it buddy,” Tom will say. They will run around the block three times, with Tom laughing at his side, saying, “Man Bob, this all seems so surreal.” 

My Mom’s oncologist Dr. Buys will show up. She will look professional and sad. Despite being a doctor that sees a lot of people die, she has rarely seen a friend die. She will bring a certain feel of reality to the whole situation, but my Dad will still be on his feet, fresh off the around-the-block-three-times run, dancing around us all with great enthusiasm and spirit. “Oh shit, that was an incredible dance move,” someone will say. “Man Bob, this all seems so surreal,” Tom Loken will say.

Soon everyone that my Dad has ever loved and has ever loved my Dad will start filling all the empty space around us. People will climb to our rooftop because it’s the only available vantage point. My Dad will yell, “I’m not done yet.” Everyone will clap and scream. “We love you Bob,” people will shout. He will throw both of his arms up in the air and spin around until he’s dizzy as confetti streams from the clouds above. He will run onto our tennis court (No big deal), which will also be surrounded by people he has loved and influenced over the course of his 55-year long life, and back flip onto the net after serving up an ace that Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal’s child couldn’t touch with a tennis racquet the size of a fishing boat. My Dad will begin tightrope walking across the net while juggling all sorts of poisonous animals. He will stop tightrope walking to begin a set of one-armed push-ups on the net. One spectator will say, “Bob is amazing. He can truly do anything.” He will then back flip off of the tennis court net and stick the landing so well that the judges have no score available for his step-above-perfection performance.

He will then run out to the crowd of friends and family that are now a thousand deep. He will maneuver through the crowd and kiss everyone on their forehead and remind them that they can make a difference in the world. He will tell jokes and shake hands in a way that will be remembered. He will pull all the sadness out of everyone’s hearts and wad it up into a soccer ball-shaped object that he’ll kick into outer space. Where it will end up, no one, not even him, will know. Maybe it will become a planet with a gravitational pull so strong that it pulls in all other sadness. Tom Loken will say, “Man Bob, this all seems so surreal.”

Eventually he will have to end his performance. He will tell everyone that they have made a difference in his life and he hopes he has done the same in theirs. They will chant, “You have” and “We’ll miss you Bob”, but he will remind them all that his spirit will live on in theirs and that life is about the relationships you form with other people and not about collecting things to fill the void. He will encourage each and every person to turn to their neighbor and hug him or her, regardless or skin color, body odor or other superficial things that don’t matter. Everyone will perform this requested hug and then agree that it was nice.

He will thank everyone for the love and support they have shown him, blowing kisses their way. He will then look at his watch and say, “Shit I really have to go.” Everyone will understand as they watch him walk back to his wheelchair, take a deep breath, and back flip into it. His body will go limp again, he will hook himself back to the respirator, and everyone will disappear. The crickets will start chirping again.

We will begin to push him off of the gazebo and out of the backyard. We will fight over who gets to man the controls. We will load him back into the elevator, his gateway to the world. Despite the small space, my family will all cram into it. He will make eye contact with us all at the same time, and, despite the watery eyes, we will all thank each other for all of this.

The elevator door will open. We will push him out. We will fight over who gets to man the controls. We will push him through my parent’s old bedroom, where my Mom and Dad slept near to each other over the years, my Dad snoring and my Mom fighting both cancer and the sound of my Dad snoring. He will look out the window and catch one last glimpse of Mount Olympus and all the colors the changing of seasons has created.

As we push him through his room, he will look around and notice that all the decorations have changed. He will look to the right and see his childhood in Pocatello, Idaho. He will watch himself playing games in the elm tree-lined street with all the neighborhood kids. He will witness himself sitting at the dinner table with his siblings, his favorite place on Earth, discussing all the day’s events. He will look at his dependable father, who always arrived at home right around five O’clock to emphasize the important balance between work life and family life, and thank him. They will eat meat and potatoes and his Father will remind him that there is no TV after six PM, that there are no other distractions in the world, that the dinner table with his family is the best place to be.

My Dad will look to his left and see his adolescence. He will see himself walking to football games and talking to his Bother Jim about some of life’s more confusing issues. He will see himself begin to take an interest in women, maybe kissing and finger banging a couple. He will see himself working long hours at his family’s nearby ranch, where he learned that, “Your work is not done until the last bail of hay is in the barn.” He will then watch as his family waves him off to Drake University.

He will look straight ahead and notice his adulthood. He will see a flash of random and formative events. That was college. The fuzz surrounding college will disappear and he will see himself asking my Mom’s hand in marriage on her parent’s back porch in Twin Falls, Idaho. Everything will stop as he watches her say “yes” as a tear of joy rolls into her mouth in which he promptly kisses. He will watch as all of his children are born and grow more and more capable. He will see himself helping them whenever they need it the most, but allow them to fight through their own trials and tribulations. He will watch them leave the house and begin to build their own lives. He will see him and my Mom sitting holding hands as she is pumped full of anti-cancer, AKA chemotherapy. He will notice that he never stops holding her hand, even through the hardest times. 

Suddenly a flash of light will pass him. It is him running all over the planet: in San Francisco across the Golden Gate Bridge at 2 in the morning, in Boston through a rainstorm with his friend Tom at his side, in St. George, Utah with towering redrock plateaus in the background reminding us that there is something more powerful and beautiful than us all, in Chicago through the hot dog-lined streets with cheering fat asses, and finally through our neighborhood and back into our driveway. He will stop and take a few breaths, look at the home he has built for his family, and walk through the front door. 

We will continue to wheel him forward and suddenly his chair will reach a dead end. It is Dr. Bromberg, his neurologist that will inject him with morphine and unhook his life support, and the team of hospice cunts. Dr. Bromberg will say, “Are you ready for all of this?” My Dad will turn around and see everything he’s ever done all at once. He will turn to Dr. Bromberg and shake his head “yes”, realizing that he’s lived a great life that he is thankful for. Dr. Bromberg will force a smile, but not fake the wetness in his eyes. “Come with me,” he will say reluctantly. 

He will take my Dad into the room that we made into a set for a Hollywood hospital drama. He will be pull him from his wheelchair and place him back on the hospital bed that looks more like Satan’s cock than a sleeping spot. My Dad’s wheelchair will disappear. We will all stand at the room’s double doorway, holding each other close, like we are in a rainstorm and need each other’s warmth.

My Dad will stare at us all. We will all smile at him and he will smile back at us. He will give us thumbs up as Dr. Bromberg walks to the double-doors, says, “He is so brave and so are all of you,” and closes them shut. 

Those vultures from hospice finally showed up. They clawed at our front door just below the “No Visitors” sign and we let them right in. One was a larger woman who is best described as being large. She had a beak nose and one of those neck fat pouches that I always want to pop with the prick of a pin. Her name was Sunny. Can you fucking believe that? Sunny. She kills people for a living and her fucking name is Sunny. I wanted to lift up one of her fat rolls and look all the millions of ball sacks that surrounded her vagina, a vagina that only gets wet when she is watching someone die. I decided that I would not call her Sunny because fuck that. She is Neck Fat to me.

The other was a Latino woman with a slight lisp, who is best described as being a Latino woman with a slight lisp. She was short and always talked about coping and grieving and told us all that it was going to be hard. “Wait, are you serious? The death of our father is going to be hard? Huh? I never thought of that. I’m so glad you came so you could pontificate “No shit” comments in your slight Latino lisp,” I wish I said. Her name was Silvia, quite a hard name for a Latino with a slight lisp to pronounce. I decided that I would not call her Silvia because fuck that. She is Latino Lisp to me. 

They are the masters of death. They smell of it. They look of it. I bet they masturbate to it. They probably hang outside a abortion clinics asking almost Mother’s to describe the death of their almost child. When they’re showing off photos I bet they say, “And here’s me standing next to this dying man.” I will look at them, smile and say, “You look so happy.” They will stare deeply into the heart of the picture and say, “I was. I truly was.”

Greg, Tiffany, my Dad and I were all there when they showed. Hands were shaken, their vulture claws cutting my palms, making masturbation impossible. “I’ll have to read myself to sleep instead tonight,” I thought, looking at my bloody palms. They walked to my Dad’s bedside, looked at his limp body and the respirator keeping him alive for these last few days, and their faces lit up like a couple of pirates finally finding that long lost treasure.

“Jesus Dan, they weren’t that bad. They came to help you,” I just thought.

“Yeah they were. They were fucking vulture pirates,” I just thought back.

I have been filming most of what’s been going on in the last couple of days because this is a unique situation and a great story, but also because my Dad asked me to, maybe so he can live on in a different form. Also, I’m at the bargaining stage in the grieving process so my thinking is, “Hey, I might lose my Father and be subject to watching him die over the course of two years, and lose my job and girlfriend in the process, but I’m going to make a fucking documentary about it. Granted most of it will consist of me bitching around my Dad’s aide Regina and telling my Mom that I’m moving on with my life and that she’s going to be so fucking alone after Dad dies that she will seriously consider suicide and no one will be there to try to talk her cancer ass out of it.” The next stage is depression. 

I told the hospice people that I would be filming.

“Oh, that’s great. Everyone has a different way of coping and grieving. The death of your Father is going to be hard,” said Latino Lisp.

“So what is it that you want hospice to do for you and your family?” Neck Fat asked me.

“Well, we want you to make our Father comfortable. His death shouldn’t be painful since he has already experienced the pain of losing the ability to do all the things he loves, from running miles upon miles through the streets of this little mountain town, to yelling the word “nigger” at the top of his lungs. We would also like some family support. This death is going to be hard, as I’ve just learned from Latino Lisp, and we’re going to need some counseling, someone to rub our shoulders and remind us that, though our Father is dead, blowjobs and cuddling after blowjobs still exists. Also, my little sisters, Chelsea and Michelle, hold everything in, Chelsea in her little dancer body, and Michelle in her little Native American, pregnant at 18-years-old body,” I said.

“Okay, we can help you with all of that. We are here to make you comfortable. The death of your Father is going to be hard. And everyone will grieve in a different way,” said Latino Lisp. “Is there anything else we can do?”

“Well, we will also require that you do some light filming,” I said.

“Some light filming?” asked Neck Fat.

“Yeah, I’m filming a documentary about all this and I’m going to need someone to film at certain times, so that’s where you Vulture Pirates come in.”

“We at hospice don’t really do any light filming. We give the family support and help the patient/the person we’ll later be masturbating to alone in our single room, rented apartments be comfortable and die without pain,” said Neck Fat.

“Well, the family support we need will entail some light filming. I’ll show you how to work the buttons and do the zoom shots so you can get close-ups of tears running down our faces.”

“We don’t do that. The death of your Father is going to be hard,” said Latino Lisp.

“Fine I’ll do everything. I’ll watch my Dad die. I’ll film. I do all the silly, cock-joke-filled writing. Do you also want me to change your tampons? Or do you store all of those up in your vaginas and then remove them when you get home to your single room, rented apartments and wring the blood out of them and into a nice cocktail that also features the heart of a baby?”

“So you mentioned that your little sisters need some help?” asked Neck Fat.

“Yeah, they do. Chelsea is maybe autistic, and by maybe, I mean probably. Family friends and neighbors assume that she’s retarded even though she tells some of the best cock jokes I’ve ever heard. She tends to focus on other things and keep herself overly occupied with dance and school and learning to drive and American Idol and shopping. She shuts out strangers and only talks to family members. When someone talks to her, she will not respond, but rather look at a family member and they will respond for her. She tells great cock jokes though,” I said.

“Well, it must be hard for her. The death of your Father is going to be hard, and we all have different ways of grieving,” said Latino Lisp.

I decided to call for Chelsea, thinking that she should come and meet the Vulture Pirates so if she wanted to write a poem or college personal statement about all of this she would at least be exposed to some pretty good ammunition. I called her name a few times and she danced up into the room. She entered. I was tempted to slam the doors shut so she was forced to be in the room and witness all of this, forgetting about her art history class for two shakes of a lambs cock.

“This is Chelsea. She is my sister. Chelsea this is Sunny and this is Silvia,” thinking that I’d tell her their real names later.

Chelsea looked at them and then looked at me.

“How are you doing with all of this Chelsea?” asked Latino Lisp.

She looked at me again, giving me a look to suggest that there was no fucking way she was going to answer them.

“Have you seen my calculator?” she asked.

“Chelsea, these people are going to help Dad die comfortably and give us some family support, and possibly do some light filming. Do you have anything of importance to say to them?”

“Have you seen my calculator? I need it. People keep moving all my shit around and I’m getting really sick of it. I need my fucking calculator,” Chelsea said to me.

“I know exactly where it is Chelsea. I buried it thirty feet below the Earth’s core last night between masturbation sessions,” I said.

“Really?”

“No Chelsea, I have no fucking idea where your calculator is. You need to keep track of your own shit. You’re 17-years-old.”

Chelsea danced out of the room to go look for her calculator, having just given a near perfect display of her refusal to face the reality of the situation.

“She is clearly shutting herself off from the situation. She is coping and grieving in a different way. People cope with things differently and there isn’t a right or wrong way to go about it so long as it helps you,” said Latino Lisp.

“So what about your other sister? Is she self-destructive?” asked Neck Fat.

Michelle had dealt with the whole dying father thing in a strange way. She initially turned herself into an alcoholic, but a loud and obvious alcoholic, unlike me, who does it alone in a spider-filled basement where I can’t be seen or judged. She would come home and pass out in noticeable places covered in vomit. Cars would be missing. She would reek of gin or vokda or whatever alcohol she was able to steal from my stash. One night Greg and I found her passed out in a running shower with all of her clothes on.  I told her to take her clothes off and put on some pajamas and she accused me of trying to rape her. She later tried to make out with Greg. She was a shit show for a while there, understandably and conspicuously.

She finally cleaned up her act around March, but replaced alcohol with marriage to her 36-year-old soccer coach, and took things a step further by getting pregnant two months later.

“Michelle is a recovering alcoholic,” Greg said. “But now’s she’s pregnant.”

“Has she received counseling? Sometimes counseling can help with the grieving process. The death of your Father is going to be hard, and we all have different ways of grieving,” asked Latino Lisp.

“Yeah her and her Indian Chief had a sit down at the last pow-wow,” I wanted to say.

“She has a good system of support though. She has her husband’s whole family to back her up, so she’ll be ok,” Greg said. He was right as always.

“Now, how is your Mom?” Neck Fat asked.

My Mom had been running random errands throughout the week, detaching herself from the situation, instead of spending time with my Dad at his bedside, talking about the things they’ll miss about each other, and reflecting on how each of them has filled the other’s life with love, comfort and joy. She had been really emotional and intense. She was crying a lot and freaking out about small details, like what Chelsea should wear on his last day. She has remained fully medicated, with an Oxycontin patch on her back and several pain pills in her belly.

“Well, she has cancer and gets really intense and emotional in bad situations,” Greg said.

“And she’s fucking crazy. She’s been running errands all day instead of spending time with our Dad. She only eats yogurt and I resent her for always making me feel guilty for not doing enough when I’ve already given up so much,” I said.

“So she’s sort of detaching from the situation?” asked Neck Fat.

“Maybe that’s her way of coping,” said Latino Lisp.

“She’s on Oxycontin,” Tiffany said.

“She’s fucking crazy,” I said.

The Vulture Pirates sat confused, realizing that they had inherited a complex case of death, but it was still death and, like a horny man who hadn’t gotten any for a while, they weren’t going to turn down this opportunity to get up and in this shit.

To me, they weren’t necessarily bad people, but they represented the reality of the situation. They were a slap to the face, a splash of cold water to the balls. It was their jobs and it is a noble profession because most people couldn’t stomach the amount of death they digest, having to only face it a few crucial times in their lives. But still, fuck them. Anger needs a place to sleep and for me, it would be sleeping on their fat bellies. Fuck them. Fuck them. Fuck them. Fuck Neck Fat and Latino Lisp, the Vulture Pirates.

They said, “Okay, we’ll do our best to help you guys,” and left, but to me, these evil fucks were here to consume death like it was the only thing keeping them alive. They had given my Dad Lou Gehrig’s Disease and my Mom cancer.

I envisioned them as talking Vulture Pirates.

“Well, we can help you. Bob we will make you feel comfortable. We will be there on the date of your death on September 22. We will give you a sedative and some morphine. We will watch your doctor, Dr. Bromberg, unhook you from the machine. We will watch you struggle to breathe without your respirator as our mouths fill with saliva. We will watch your body twitch and your numb face fill with panic. We will be cheering and chanting things like “Go team Go”, our team being death, next to your twitching body. We will watch as your life flashes before your eyes. We will be getting hungrier and hungrier. You might make some sounds as you inch closer to death. We will laugh at these sounds and say, “pathetic asshole”. These sounds will be like a glass of wine before a meal. We will keep our eyes fixed on your heartbeat line on the monitor. We will be getting more and more excited as the beats become more and more spaced out. We will get our plastic-wrapped silverware out from our swampy vaginas. We will take out our bibs that, instead of having a crab or lobster picture on them, will have a picture of you dying on them, and tuck them into our shirts, mine just below my fat neck and Silvia just below the larynx that is the starting point of that Earth-shattering lisp. Your body will fill with CO2 and you will take your last pathetic breath. All of your bodily fluids will exit which will be our cue to pounce on you. We will be so starving at this point that we will dig right in. We will tear you to shreds and dip pieces of you into your bodily fluids to add flavor. This will be one of the greatest meals we have ever had. We will lick our lips and ask about dessert, eyeing your wife.”

They will then laugh for ten straight minutes.

Those fucking Vulture Pirates.

Sent to my Dad’s general doctor from his Neurologist Dr. Bromberg. 

—

Dear Dr. Wood:

Bob Marshall, accompanied by hi wife and caregiver, was seen in the Motor Neuron Disease Clinic on 16 July 2008. He is a 55-year-old gentleman being followed for ALS and was last seen 4 July 2008.

History of Present Illness: Mr. Marshall has been on fulltime artificial ventilation since November 2007. Prior to his being placed on a ventilator, he had episodes of shortness of breath. We had talked about ventilatory support prior to his going on the ventilator, including the fact that his weakness will progress, and at one point, he will likely make a decision to be taken off the ventilator. Since November, Mr. Marshall has become progressively weaker. This includes difficulty with speech, such that one could understand with great care and repetition, no arm movements, and inability to walk and now can only shift positions with his legs. He, therefore, needs fulltime care. He has been receiving excellent care, and there have been no medical complications.

On today’s visit, Mr. Marshall wanted to talk about when to be removed from the ventilator. He clearly stated that he has been thinking about this essentially fulltime. He is very frustrated and does not want to be totally dependent upon other people, even though they express their willingness to care for him. He, therefore, has decided that he wanted to be taken off the ventilator sometime during the summer.

I explained to him how he process would be accomplished. We would likely enlist the services of Hospice. He would be given sedating medication in high dose, such as benzodiazepam, and given morphine for any potential painful components. We would, therefore, be fully sedated and covered for any pain, and then the ventilator would be turned off. I would predict that he would pass away within minutes in comfort. Mr. Marshall acknowledged that he fully understood the process.

There was, understandably, a degree of reluctance on the part of his wife for Mr. Marshall to pass away. I emphasized that this should be his decision, and it represented a very courageous decision. His wife has a serious medical condition, and I reminded her that in the past, that if she had wanted to discontinue her therapy that he would have understood, and that I hope that she will understand if he wants to discontinue the ventilator.

Mr. Marshall also asked about organ donation. I had looked into this previously, and will respect to organ donation, the only organ he could donate ethically on the part of the hospital would be a kidney; if he were to do that, he would come in and donate one kidney and then go home, and then pass away as a separate issue. He could more easily donate cornea, skin, bone and tendon after he has passed away.

At the end of the discussion, I told Mr. Marshall and his wife that I would contact Hospice and determine the procedure in clear detail. I would also contact the Transplant Service and determine how the above superficial organs could be obtained. I would also be happy to see him in the clinic at any time or make a home visit.

I tried to make some suggestions for Ms. Marshall as how she might manage her feelings and those of their children.

Overall, more than 70 minutes were spent, all of it in counseling and coordination of care.

Mark B. Bromberg, M.D., Ph.D.

Professor of Neurology

The kitchen is the heart of every home because eating and surviving is the heart of human existence. Even though my Cancer Mom and Lou Gehrig’s Dad sit upstairs, my Mom eating yogurt and acting like her eyes are open and my Dad starring at the ceiling fan and wondering, “what’s the point,” the kitchen remains to be the heart of our home, even though none of us can cook anything but the very basics.

In the center of our kitchen is an island surrounded by stools to rest our tired asses on. A bowl of nuts and a few of Chelsea’s dance competition trophies sit next to a bowl full of questionable fruit under attack by fruit flies. The countertops are made of marble (No big deal) we recently had installed. We figured that if we’re going to watch our parents die, we might as well sit around a colorful marble table eating nuts while we do it.

I don’t eat the nuts because strangers, including some of the construction works that installed the marble countertops and other home improvements, often pick through the bowl, searching for that one nut that is better than the others. The almond maybe. The island is also home to a stovetop and oven, which are only used when we feel like fucking up soup or burning a Red Baron’s pizza.

The kitchen space is also occupied by a kitchen table with seven chairs around it, one for each family member. We will take one of the chairs out on to our tennis court (No big deal) and light it on fire once my Father dies. A 1980s chandelier covered in dust hangs above the table, reminding us that our cleaning lady Stana doesn’t do her job and we’re too lazy/distracted to care. Maybe if she weren’t so focused on arranging flowers and killing our cats, she would care more about the dirty lighting structure dangling above

On the kitchen table next to the island, at the heart of our heart, a fake Wheaties box with a picture of my Dad and running buddies/best friends finishing the Boston Marathon with the time 6:12:57, sits next to a few unlit candles and a bouquet of beautiful wet-stemmed flowers meticulously arranged by our cleaning lady Stana. Most visitors look at the Wheaties box and say, “That’s so cool. How did they do that?” I usually say, “Computers, I think.”

But I don’t find the Wheaties box to be that cool. To me, it serves as a reminder of how fast my Dad lost so much. He had qualified to run the race with a time of 3:35:55 in the St. George Marathon, so in between St. George and Boston (a six month period), Lou Gehrig’s had added three hours to his marathon time. On the other hand, it displays a great accomplishment in the face of adversity. This has provoked a conversation with myself, consisting of Me One and Me Two:

Me One:  I fucking hate this Wheaties box because it displays how much my Dad has lost due to this cum-sucking disease.

Me Two: But he finished, which is pretty remarkable for a man with Lou Gehrig’s to do.

Me One: Yeah, well it was great that he finished, but I was just saying that extra three hours it took him to run the same distance sort of displays how quickly the Lou Gehrig’s Disease worked on his body.

Me Two: Sounds like you were in denial when you thought that up, like, maybe during the race you were thinking about what he used to be like instead what he is now, under shitty, life-changing circumstances.

Me One: Listen, I was just saying that it is a fairly tangible example of how fast the disease progressed.

Me Two: Do you even know what tangible means?

Me One: Able to be touched.

Me Two: But you can’t touch that example.

Me One: You could if you wrote it on a piece of paper and touched that piece of paper. Listen, we’re getting off topic. The point is, fuck the fake Wheaties Box. The time was way worse than one he would have ran if he didn’t have the disease. We don’t need it.

Me Two: I think it’s fine. You should just be proud and not look at the negative. It’s like looking at a team’s record the season after they win a championship.

Me One: Did that team get Lou Gehrig’s Disease the next season?

Me Two: They did if they were the 1937 Yankees.

Me One: That was pretty funny. You’re funny.

Me Two: Me One, you are also Me Two, so we are the same thing, so you’re pretty much calling yourself funny, you egocentric cum shot blooper.

Me One: Listen. I have an idea?

Me Two: What?

Me One: Let’s put our differences aside and destroy that fucking Wheaties Box.

Me Two: Back to the Wheaties Box? We’re not destroying it. It’s part of our memory of our father at this point. By destroying it you are telling the terrorists (Lou Gehrig’s Disease) that they have won and that you are a pussy and can’t face the truth and have to hide behind insecurities and promises that you’ll never be able to keep. The Wheaties Box stays and there is nothing your fat ass can do about it.

Me One: [Grabbing and cracking open Wheaties Box] I’m doing something.

Me Two: Stop. Stop. Stop. You can’t. You won’t.

Me One: [Eating cereal from box] I have. We don’t need a reminder that Lou Gehrig’s was here. Our Father’s life was 97 percent not Lou Gehrig’s Disease and only 3 percent Lou Gehrig’s Disease, so why should the 3 percent control all of our home decorations?

Me Two: Fine, destroy all the remembrance of the disease, like a family putting a retard in a home three states away. 

Me One: Listen, I’ll let you keep the box so you can pull it out and look at it years from now if you really want, but trust me, you’ll want to remember him a different way.

Me Two: Give me the fucking box. I’ll remember him how I please and refuse to destroy evidence just because it is painful.

Me One: I just farted.

Me Two: Me too.

Tiffany and me took my Dad up to visit my Mom as she received intravenous immunoglobulin (IVIG), which is used to boost her immune system so it can continue the battle with fag-head cancer. My Mom was doped up on all sorts of sleeping medication. She had a yogurt in her left hand and a plastic black spoon in her right. The spoon sat dipped in the yogurt, my Mom too weak to lift it to her face. I asked her if she needed help with the yogurt and she would open up her eyes, say “no” and attempt to lift her arm to her wrinkled face.

She was really out of it.

We needed a rousing conversation, one that would wake her up and make her look alive. It was already depressing enough having my Dad there in his wheelchair, only six days away from death.

Tiffany and I looked at each other and knew exactly what to talk about.

“So, Dad’s had sex with eleven different women Mom,” Tiffany said.

“Dad’s a fucking Stallion Mom,” I said.

My Mom’s eyes opened for a second as she acknowledged my Dad’s number and then she closed her eyes again. “Oh,” she mumbled.

I shot Tiffany a should-we-go-there look. She shot me back a fuck-yeah-go-there-Danny look.

“So Mom what’s your number?” I asked, figuring that we would have to pry this inform out of her confused chemo brain, that she wouldn’t offer it up without a fight.

Just as I finished pronouncing the “ber” in “number” my Mom’s eyes shot open. “Seven,” she said just before slamming her eyes back shut.

“Seven? Jesus both of our parent’s were sluts,” I told Tiffany.

“Yeah, I expected two or three, just like Dad,” Tiffany said.

“Wow. I can’t believe it. You are two slimy, terminally ill sluts.”

My Mom opened her eyes and began trying to lift the spoon to her mouth. “The first was Billy. He was a little pencil dick that didn’t love me back,” she said just before finally making contact with the spoonful of yogurt. 

Given that I will no longer have the privilege of asking my Father any more questions after the September 22 unplug date, I have been bombarding him with questions I’ve always wanted to raise. He usually hears a questions, like, “Did you and Mom fuck before marriage?” or “If you had known how crazy Mom is, would you still have married her?” or “Did you and Mom ever go through a secret abortion, like before you were ready to have kids?” or “Which position did you conceive Greg in? Was it a sort of gay position? Is there such thing as a gay position during heterosexual intercourse?” and rolls his eyes. I get an answer about 50 percent of the time. I guess there are some things that will be taken to the grave. 

Today I decided to ask him how many women he’s been with.

I had no idea, but had a guess. My Dad is a good looking, fun guy, but he’s also a softy. He doesn’t seems like the type to use sex as a recreational hobby, but that to him sex is a very emotional, sensitive interaction and thus should only be preformed with that someone special, ruling out one-night stands or accidental fucks or rape. I knew he had only one or two other serious girlfriends before finding and falling in love with my Mom, so I figured that he had it with them. But my Dad and Mom met and, because my Dad was so into my her, asked her hand in marriage within three weeks of knowing her. A quick meet and engage usually implies that the guy is desperate, that he hasn’t had much sex and marriage is the only guaranteed path to pussy. This practice is common amongst religious people who think letting their sexual instincts out of the cage before marriage is a sin. Given these variables, I figured my Dad had had sex with three, maybe four woman.

I asked the question, “So Dad, how many women have you been with?”

He smiled and gave me a you-invasive-little-shithead look.

“Come on Dad. Jesus Christ. You’ll be dead in a week. Why are you holding back? Let loose and answer my question. How many women have you stuck Lou Gehrig’s Jr. in?”

He paused and looked at the ceiling with as big of a smile as his disease allowed. He was inflated and thus unable to speak, so we were left with lip-reading, blinking, clicking, or head nodding as a mode of communication.

Tiffany, my older sister, was feeding him at the time. She is usually really reserved when the topic of conversation is sex. I get, “Danny, that is inappropriate,” or, “Don’t ask that. That is none of your business,” a lot. But she was fully engaged in this topic, figuring, hey why not.

“Come on Dad. We won’t tell Mom,” Tiffany said.

He continued to stare at the ceiling.

“Ok. Dad. This is ridiculous. You know what, since you won’t answer me, I’m going to just start counting and when I’ve reached your number, give a little nod, blink or click and we’ll know. I promise I won’t tell anyone, especially Mom.”

He finally agreed and I began, figuring I would only have to count off a few numbers.

“One.” No reaction. “Well that was obvious, given that Tiff and I are standing here giving you shit and asking inappropriate questions.”

“Two.” No reaction. “Yeah You’re not a loser or anything.”

“Three.” No reaction. “Really Dad? That was my guess. Mom, plus two prior girlfriends.” Tiffany acknowledged that three was also her ballpark guess.

“Four.” No reaction. “Shit Dad. You’re almost as big of a stud as me. I guessed Mom, plus two prior girlfriends and maybe one accidental fuck or one-night stand.”

“Five.” No reaction. “Okay, do you realize what you’re suppose to do? You need to nod or move or blink or click or something when I get to your number.” He mouthed the words, “I know.”

“Six.” No reaction. “Stop fucking with me.”

“Seven.” No reaction. “Okay, are you counting blow jobs and finger bangs?” He shook his head no.

“Eight.” No reaction. “Jesus, you’re getting into slut territory.”

“Nine.” No reaction. “Wow, I feel like a real loser now. I’ve got to start fucking more. I should just sit around picking your brain for the next week because apparently you know how to get women, something I’m really fucking bad at. We should have gone out to the bars more, as sort of a Father/Son bonding experience. And here we were out playing tennis and basketball like a couple of nerds.”

“Ten.” No reaction. “Double-digits. There should be a plaque in your honor. You should not be remembered for all you achieved in your life: your newspaper businesses, your successful marriage, your raising of five children, your owning and paying off of your dream home. You should be remembered for your higher-than-expected number.”

“Eleven.” He nodded his head. Reaction. “Wow. Eleven. Shit. I’m in shock. I’ve got to get to work and catch up with you before you die. Wow. Eleven. Shit. Unbelievable. Wow. Shit. Eleven.”

Tiffany chimed in, “Holy shit Dad you were a stud. We had no idea. Eleven.” 

“You’re a fucking stallion, a true, pure-bread stallion,” I said still shaking my head in disbelief. “Eleven.”

He looked at me and nodded his head in agreement before returning his gaze back up to the ceiling. He mouthed “Eleven” and smiled as big a smile as his disease allowed.

My Dad isn’t a religious man. He grew up going to a Baptist church in Pocatello, ID, but religion didn’t stick with him and has never been a definitive part of his life. He believes that when one dies his or her spirit melts with all the other spirits, living or dead, of the people they knew and loved. He believes that your spirit is comprised of your experiences, your personality, the lessons you have learned, your traits, your ideas, etc. After a person dies, he or she passes on certain aspects of their spirit to people and it combines with their spirit. The exact same piece will not be passed on to everyone. Each is customized. He doesn’t believe that there is a Heaven or a Hell. In his mind, a dead person is not sitting in Heaven with eight supermodel virgins deciding who GETS to swallow this time, but is rather is alive in the people they cared about, guiding them through difficult times. He thinks that praying is weird and only done to comfort the person praying.

That is what my Dad believes.

Since the death date was set for September 22, 2008, we have received an overwhelming amount of love and support. We have like ten lasagnas in our freezer that we haven’t even thought about eating, mainly because we don’t like lasagnas and everyone assumes we do. I always think of the scene from Pulp Fiction where Jules, played by Samuel L. Jackson, asks the guy to describe what his boss Marsellus Wallace looks like, and then the guy tries to describe him. Jules interrupts and says, “Does he look like a bitch?” The guy says “No”, then Jules says, “Then why you got to try to fuck ‘im like a bitch?”

You know the scene.

Well, when someone brings over lasagna I want to have a similar conversation, but replace “Bitch” with “Garfield the Cat”:

Me: [Trying to act as bad ass as Jules] Now describe to me what my family looks like.

Lasagna Bringer: What?

Me: Say “what” again! C’mon, say “what” again! I dare ya, I double dare ya mother fucker, say “what” one more goddamn time! Now describe to me what my family looks like.

Lasagna Bringer: Well, they look pretty tired and worn down, like they’ve been through a lot in the last few months.

Me: Go on.

Lasagna Bringer: And they look hungry.

Me: Does my family look like Garfield the Cat?

Lasagna Bringer: What?

Me: [I look at my brother Greg and roll my eyes, and then fire off a bullet into Lasagna Bringer’s left shoulder]  Does my family look like Garfield the Cat?

Lasagna Bringer: [Holding wound] No.

Me: Then why you got to try to feed ‘im like Garfield the Cat?

Don’t get me wrong. I like lasagna, but I like the lasagna of my choosing, like if I’m in a nice Italian restaurant and spot a really good looking lasagna on someone else’s table, and then order it. But I don’t like other people’s lasagna.

In addition to the meal support we have also received an unworthy amount of religious support. Just like everyone assumes we like lasagna, because maybe their family can’t get enough fucking lasagna, everyone assumes that my Dad believes in whatever religion they are and thus they come speaking their religious banter. If they are Mormon, my Dad is Mormon. If they are Catholic, my Dad is Catholic. If they are Baptist, my Dad is Baptist. If they are Jewish, then my Dad is Jewish and thus is also rich and witty.

Unlike lasagna, you can’t stick religion in a freezer; you have to digest it, even when it’s not of your own choosing. And my Dad has had to digest an overwhelming amount of lasagna he doesn’t want.

Religion answers all of the unanswerable questions. It also provides comfort and support in the most difficult of times. Death is one of life’s difficult times. If the Family Feud question was, “Name life’s most difficult times” the top five answers would probably be: 

1. Death
2. Debilitating injury
3. Divorce or a breakup after a serious, long-term relationship
4. Trying to give up masturbation
5. Watching Sarah Palin speak

Take that Republicans.

Death is a time when religion and spirituality steps in and tries to massage your knotted shoulders. At times it feels good, but at others it’s too deep and you wince with pain. 

Our family has received hundreds of letters of support, most of which at least mention certain religious aspects. My Mom recently received one that also contained a laminated “Jesus Card” with a profound passage from some book of something on the back. The front hosted a picture of Jesus surrounded by sheep holding just one in his arms, because when he’s not turning something into something else, like water into wine or sin into forgiveness, I guess he spends the rest of the time holding sheep. I think the picture to be a bit obvious and offensive, like we are all a bunch of aimless sheep following him around and once and awhile he reaches down and picks one of us up. So, I initially scoffed at the “Jesus Card” before flipping it over.

The back contained a message in small font, probably like 4 point or so. I looked at it and said, “Jesus give me the strength to read this tiny font,” and then read it. It was titled “Desiderata”, which I assumed meant sheep shit, but actually means “Desired things” and went like this:

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others, even to the dull and ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble, it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is, many persons thrive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the grass and the stars, you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its shame, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

–Max Ehrmann

Sure there was some bullshit in there. Phrases like “You are a child of the universe” always make me cringe, but it had some good points. When I finished it I didn’t say, “total bullshit”, but I did turn it over, look at Jesus holding a sheep and say, “faggot”.

The thing that made me not mind this piece of spiritual advice was that it only mentioned God once and doesn’t tell you who he is but rather excepts that everyone conceives of Him differently. The rest of it seems to be pretty precise in explaining how to deal with difficult life issues without involving God, which I think humans forget they can do. Not every important life message needs to be built into a story about Jesus and one of his groupies.

Plus, it didn’t suggest prayer, so it was more like the good part of a massage to the shoulders.

However, around 95 percent of the letters my Mom and Dad receive are religious and are more like the painful part of the massage, because they don’t, or at least my Dad doesn’t believe in any of it. These are a bit more mythological and abstract and make a lot less sense. (Note: I go through all my parent’s mail because I am fascinated by this whole my parents are dying thing). A few excerpts:

To my Dad: It has been an honor and a pleasure to know you. As your time on earth comes to a close, a new journey begins. Your life has been fulfilled to the best of your ability. The love in your marriage, the joy of your children, the obstacles of life, you have conquered them all with honor. Now your journey begins walking through the curtains toward the Kingdom of Heaven. You are going home. Your life on earth will be over but your eternal one begins. Seeing your Heavenly Father should bring you and your family great joy and splendor. There will be no more pain and suffering in your earthly body. Your spiritual one will be watching over your family from above, until they join you in the Kingdom of Heaven as one. Have a wonderful spiritual future with our Heavenly Father. [Note: There is no way I want to see my family in Heaven.]

To my Mom: Everyday, throughout the day, you, Bob and the kids are in my thoughts and heart. I pray for a miracle for Bob and a cure for you. I hold you in the light knowing that we all come from love, and we all return to love. [Note: I think “coming from love” is a subtle sexual intercourse reference.]

To my Mom: I wanted to tell you that you and Rob are in my thoughts and prayers. [Note: My Dad has never, not once, gone by Rob.]

To my Dad: I call you brother for that is what you are. You my brother and I your sister, for we are each sons and daughters of a kind and loving Heavenly Father.  Though we have crossed each other’s paths for only a few moments you have left your footprints on my heart. You gave me strength to run a difficult race when I had never run a race before. You have taught me that while we are running this race called life endurance is loving, serving, and being happy no matter the obstacles we are faced with. Thank you for your example. May the Lord be with you, embrace you, and lift you during these difficult times. [Note: My Dad can’t move any of his limbs, so he is nearly impossible to lift. I’m seriously, you like need to be trained and shit. Maybe we could have a physical therapist come and train God how to lift him, because if you don’t know what you’re doing, you’ll drop him on his ass. Also, this letter came with a picture of the woman who sent it. I held it up to my Dad and said, “Do you know her?” He shook his head no.]

[Note: Look at me mocking the very people that love us and are trying to make us feel better. I’m such a dick.]

Almost every note and letter contains the words “thoughts and prayers” somewhere. In fact, the cover of one read, “In my thoughts, you are there…In my prayers, you are there…” It’s almost as bad as Yoda saying, “My thoughts, you are in. My prayers, you are also in.”

To me, having my Dad and my Mom and the rest of the family in someone stranger’s thoughts and prayers is like a guy masturbating to a total stranger he spotted on the subway: it only makes the masturbator (the person praying) feel good, but doesn’t do shit for the person being masturbated to (the person being prayed about). In other words, these people are masturbating to my father and it’s sick and it’s wrong and he has Lou Gehrig’s Disease and I’m not going to stand for it, those sickos. 

Fuck I wish I could explain things and not use a masturbation analogy.

Anyways, when things are incredibly hopeless, like my Dad’s situation (his arms will never work again, he will never clap, he will never slap me, he will never high-five me, he will never eat another steak, he will never drink another milkshake, he will never finger bang, ever, ever again), people can only think to pray. A woman in one letter said, “I feel so bad. I don’t know what to do except pray for you Bob.”

I understand that people pray and it makes them feel better, but my Dad doesn’t think it does anything for him. A pastor from some random church recently visited and, when she was leaving, said, “Bob, I will continue to pray for you all the time.”

After she left the room, my Dad looked at me and said, “That is such bullshit. Do you think that she actually is praying for me, or just saying that?”

“She is praying for her benefit, not for yours, because she thinks it makes a difference, when in reality it just makes her feel better because she can say that she has at least tried,” I answered.   

My Dad agreed and asked if I could help him go to the bathroom, and with the help from God placed his cock in the urinal.

Sometimes the praying-related stuff we receive is just ridiculous. One day my Family received a package in the mail that made me wince in pain.

It came while my Dad was in the hospital. I’m not sure which day since we stopped checking the mail for a few weeks, what with all the cancer and Lou Gehrig’s Disease and lasagna flowing through our house’s veins. But there it was, in this poorly constructed package comprised of two manila envelopes, a shit load of tape and no return address.

The package was strange enough to produce a “What the fuck” response and make me shuffle past all the bills, letters, Victoria Secret catalogues and checks for one million dollars and tear it from it’s slap-dick packaging right at the mailbox. 

I was expecting a t-shirt from a friend of the family who ran the Chicago Marathon and knew that, just one year earlier, my Dad ran the same race. Or one of those annoying little inspirational books about living the simple life written by some Midwestern housewife, called something stupid like, “A Midwestern Housewife’s Guide to Simply Living Simply.” 

I noticed after my initial tear that it wasn’t a shirt or a book.  It was more fragile, as implied by all the bubble wrap.  A piece of art perhaps? Maybe a small plate with the words, “Never Give Up” on it?  Or a framed picture of a tree with a message that reads, “Friendship never stops growing.” I tore again. It wasn’t any of those things. 

Instead it was a brass object meant for hanging that read: When life gives you more than you can handle: pray.

My jaw dropped to my cock, which hangs to the floor. My Dad was in the hospital with a disease that was only going to get worse, a disease that would eventually kill him, the only question being when. My Mom was crying all the time and was destine to lose the person she loved, wishing cancer would take her first so she didn’t have to stomach this dose of bullshit. And we were just supposed to get on our knees, mumble some words to ourselves and hope for the fucking best, when there was no such thing as the fucking best.

The most baffling thing about it was that this person, whoever it may be, totally ignored our believes, assuming that we not only prayed, but were so proud of the fact that we prayed that we were willing to hang something on the wall to advertise it.

Little did they know that our family hasn’t been to church in years, that we are good, honest, carrying, loving people, that just simply don’t practice things like religion or tennis, even though it’s right in our backyard. (Note to make joke better: we have a tennis court in our backyard (No big deal), just like we have Mormonism in our backyard, both of which we don’t use). My Dad believes in the abstract, but sort of understandable spirit thing. My Sister Tiffany and my Brother Greg have nothing to do with any sort of religion. Chelsea is angered by people that believe in God, calling them “sluts” and “whores” for some inexplicable reason. My Mom sort of believes in God, but also believes that, “If there was a God, he wouldn’t do this to us.” Michelle has her head up her now 37-year-old soccer coach’s ass and that ass happens to be farting Mormonism into her ears.

And me? I think religion can be good, but divides more people than it brings together. And I don’t like the idea of someone praying for me; I don’t really want anyone thinking about me when they’re on their knees unless they’re blowing me. Also, a line from the Ingmar Bergman movie Winter Light, really stuck with me. One character asks, “Why is God silent?” and the other character responds, “God is silent because God does not exist.”

So I don’t practice anything. In fact sometimes I mock religion. I recently sang my own variation of the song “What color is God’s skin,” that went like this: “What color is your cock? What color is your cock? Is it orange? Is it green? Is it yellow? Is it blue? Every cock’s the same in the good lord’s mouth.”

Fuck, if there is a God at the gates of Heaven he will look at me, slap my face with his black hand and say, “Get your nigga ass to Hell you heathen. ‘Every cock’s the same in the good lord’s mouth?’ Jesus mother fucking Christ.”

But if God did exist and I was so sacrilegious, don’t you think he would have sent me a “fuck you” message by now, by say, killing off my Father 25 years before his time…oh wait.

I showed the wall decoration to our neighbor and good friend Ralph, the only other known atheist in our Mormon-filled neighborhood. He took his hat off of his baldhead, grabbed the piece of brass from me, read “When life gives you more than you can handle: pray”, looked up and said, “ Could you imagine if you ACTUALLY believed this shit.”

Ralph hit the bulls-eye. 

Could you imagine if you believed that praying actually worked, that it actually did something, that God was sitting up there listening to you and just you, ignoring all the world’s problems like genocides, starvation, hurricanes, and Kobe Bryant.

Things would be great.

I could melt to my knees and say, “God give me the strength to handle all these problems and rebuild my life once I see my Father take his last breath. And give my Father the strength to cope with his decision to die and allow him to do so peacefully and without regret. And give my Mom the strength to handle this situation without using pills to solve her problems. And give my brother Greg the strength to admit that he’s not really gay, that he wasn’t biologically driven to prefer cock, but that it was his choice and thus he can decide to not be gay, turning it off like a light switch. And give my sister Tiffany the strength to move on with her life and find happiness, wherever that may be. And give Michelle the strength to make her own decisions and not be brainwashed by a pedophile’s cock. And give Chelsea the strength to finish high school and get into college without the guidance of her Father. Give us all the strength to bond together and get through this last push and, after it all goes down, give us the strength to not be sad or angry but rather remember the man that brought us all together and taught us how to be kind and caring people full of life and love and the love of life. Amen.”

And then I would stand up and smile, and let God get to work as I thought about what I was going to use to get drunk.

But I don’t believe in it all. I do believe that other people here on Earth-you know, the real ones that you can touch and see-look after you and help you in real, tangible ways, but not that there is a magical being floating in the ether.

Believe me, if I thought that would work, I would use it. My Dad would use it. If I thought I could tap his forehead like they do in those religious videos where people can cure others by merely touching them, I would be tapping my Dad’s head until he tap-danced. I would be on my knees all the time, keeping Greg company, and when people asked if I needed anything, I would say, “I need knee pads because I’m praying so fucking much. God bless you and know that you are in my thoughts and prayers.” 

My Mom has a slightly crazy friend named Joan C. that lives in Maryville, WA. She is a fan of a column my Mom used to write for a paper up there and has been in correspondence with her for years. Her letters are my favorite to read because they are really, really sweet and sincere, but sound like they are off the desk of a woman with Alzheimer’s. Here are her recent letters:

—

Dear Debi,

I’m watching a SOAP-can you believe it. Kind of fun to continue doing. I hope you’re still battling the battle! I am too despite one melanoma and one to go. Will get the results on Fri.

Watch out for the Boogey Man.

Love,

Joan

—

No wonder you feel awful and sad. You are only experiencing the worst possible scenario anyone could dream up. Fear, grief and depression are pretty much overwhelming. Do you have some one you can talk to, like a friend, a church counselor or even a therapist?

Antidepressants are really helpful.

You have been so great about managing the difficulties in your life-you see I know how tough you really are-don’t tell me can’t.

A few weeks ago I was having a glass of red shiraz sitting on the lawn. My little grandson (20 months) was sitting on Sara’s lap and throwing rocks. Suddenly he threw toward me. It flew up and it came down in my wine glass. There was wine and glass all over me. Yes, I’d rather take a bath in champagne.

Love,

Joan

Dear Debi,

I have been thinking of you and Bob and hope that life is treating you with kindness.

It’s really hot here today. I can barely think. Every morning when I get up the thermometer says 60-62 degrees and I have to turn on the heat-by noon I’m opening the windows and guzzling iced drinks.

Oh well, I don’t know which is hotter-outside or in.

Much Love,

Joan

Dear Debi,

I keep trying to write my last will and testament with no success. I think I’m cooked.

I wrote the tiniest note to the Seattle Times and Post Intelligence. Their reply was not exactly gracious. How bizarre is that. They are swatting a fly with a mallet. We are having the tiniest fracas possible. Escape is my modus operandi. One, I may go to Italy-or just take an ice cold shower and turn into an avalanche.

Love,

Joan