home is burning

I fuck around with my Mom a good deal, popping out from behind corners, locking her out of the house for a couple minutes, calling her from airplane phones telling her that the plane is about to go down, engine problems and what not, and that I love her.

When Michael Jackson died, I was sitting in our kitchen reading about it on my laptop (No big deal). She entered and headed for the refrigerator to peel off the top of a yogurt and consume it, as is usually the case. I looked up from my computer and told her the news.

“Michael Jackson is dead,” I said nonchalantly, as though it wasn’t big news, figuring he had pretty much been dead for years and that it was a big deal, given that he was a bad father and a child molester.

She licked the refugee yogurt off the back of the yogurt lid and said, “I don’t believe you.”

I guess she thought I was fucking with her, that this was a good time to go on the defense and call me out as a bull-shitter.

“Well, you don’t have to believe me,” I said.

“I don’t. You’re full of shit.”

I started to get a little upset that she picked this very important moment in pop culture to not believe.

“He really did die, of a heart attack,” I said.

“Yeah right,” she said lifting the spoon to her mouth.

I swung my computer around to her so she could see the massive headline on CNN.com announcing his death. She inspected it for a moment, squinting a touch, looked up at me and said, “I still don’t believe you.”  

My family went to Hawaii for this week, leaving me to care for dogs and cats that I don’t care about. I think my Mom knew that when I said I would watch after them, that I wouldn’t actually do that great of a job, that I would encourage them to shit all over the house, all while blowing bong hits in their faces and blasting HBO On Demand on all the TVs. She thus asked our Polish Cleaning lady, Stana, to check in on me, feed the dogs if they weren’t being fed, do the laundry and pick up beer bottles. I thought it was funny that she asked me to watch the house, then she paid someone to watch over me watching the house.

My Mom was right to not fully trust me, as I yell at and push away the dogs more than I feed or pet them. Happy dogs around a bitter person don’t cheer them up; they piss them off. That is the case with me. I see their smiles, their floppy tongues hanging from their mouths, their carefree shitting, and I get upset, like “Why can’t that be me?”

I figured Stana’s presence on the scene would limit the amount of fun I could have in an empty house with a swimming pool and tennis court (No big deal), but much to my surprise she has been fairly adamant that I have fun and make the most of the situation. When my Friend Bob (not my Father Bob, that Bob is dead) showed up Saturday, she was there. She instantly noticed the beer and burgers in our hands and said, “Tonight you is finally havin’ fun. That is great. You enjoy.”

The next morning, after she picked up all the beer bottles and evidence of fun, and I stumbled upstairs to drink water and not feed the dogs. I found Stana in the kitchen cleaning up the party and after party. She took one look at me and said, “You is have fun last night?”

“Yeah. I had a few people come over. It was nice.” I replied, rubbing my eyes.

“Danny this is good. You is need have fun. You is havin’ people over again today?” Stana asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said.

“Danny. You is need make the most of life. Life is short and you is gettin’ old. You is need to be young and havin’ fun.”

It’s always important to heed the advice of an old Holocaust survivor like Stana. Old people know the boredom that comes with getting old. They are at the end of life and are thus more aware of death. They see the importance of packing as much into the beginning and middle as possible.

I grabbed a big glass of water, patted Stana on the shoulder and said, “Thanks for the advice Stana. I will.”

I then went back to bed.  

My littlest of little sisters Chelsea has always been a touch behind physically. She was born prematurely, which means before maturely for all you dumb asses out there that need me to walk you through everything. She came via cesarean section, the third out of three my Mom had, Tiffany being the only one to make it through the actual vagina instead of the fake one they built just below my Mom’s stomach. Since her arrival, life has physically, developmentally, socially and emotionally been an up-hill battle. One of her kidneys doesn’t work. She has a hernia in her stomach. She’s about as coordinated as a rhino playing checkers. She’s partially deaf in both ears. She is widely considered to be fairly defenseless.

She knows it too.

Chelsea: I’m a pussy.

Me: You certainly are what I wish I could eat again one day.

Chelsea: Look how skinny my arms are.

Me: [Looking at arms but not wanting to rock her confidence too bad, knowing that she has it hard enough, what with the premature shit and the death of her father] They aren’t that skinny. You should have confidence in yourself, do some push-ups, get buff, but not that buff. Buff chicks look like dykes.

Chelsea: I’m just weak. I mean, if someone wanted to rape me, they could.

Defenseless Chelsea thus decided to help herself feel more powerful and capable, more of a lean mean self-defending machine by taking a jujitsu class through her school’s physical education program.

Throughout the year, she has given updates about the class, and even tried some moves on me.

“Chelsea, I’m a 175-pound alcoholic with anger issues. I don’t think I’m the target market for your faggy jujitsu moves. Go try them on Greg,” I’d say and she tried to wrestle me to the ground.

She continued to progress, or so she thought. Her jujitsu instructor then performer a swinging jump-kick to her self-esteem when he called her into his office and had a short discussion with her.

“Chelsea,” he said, “As we approach the end of this school year, I still feel like a couple of my students aren’t able to properly defend themselves. I think you are one of those students.”

Chelsea reported this back to me, that her fat, un-educated jujitsu instructor whom still probably had living parents and was in fact still living with his parents had needlessly lowered the self-confidence of the already helpless, like pulling a rug out from underneath a one-legged man.

I didn’t know what to say so I said, “Well Chelsea, you may be a touch unable to defend yourself, but you are able to purchase eggs and you are able to throw them, and you do have a brother that has nothing, so I say we get in the car, stop at Albertson’s and see if this asshole can defense himself against our yoke attack.” 

[email me for the X-rated version]

How are you supposed to spend Father’s Day with your Dad when you know it will be his last?

I didn’t know. With my Dad’s Lou Gehrig’s Disease, every day was Father’s Day. He was the main focus. What was I supposed to do? Wipe his ass better? Suction the secretions out of his lung with more precision? Turn on the TV for him with more spunk?

I thought about other things. What card should I buy?

I went to Target and scanned the greeting card isle. They had all the cards segregated into different categories. “For Dad from Son.” “For Dad from Daughter.” “For Step Dad.” “For Grandpa.” I didn’t see a category for sons that have been keeping their father alive for the last nine months, so I settle into the “For Dad from Daughter” section. I know I’m an asshole. I know I should take certain things in life seriously, that I shouldn’t jam humor into every hole. But who really gives a shit about greeting cards? People only tell other people when they get a funny or weird getting card any ways. You don’t hear someone say, “Oh Dan got me this greeting card that emphasized how much he loves me. I didn’t know until I got that card. I’m fucking so thankful for it.”

I looked around for a bit. I finally found one that had a picture of a daughter fishing with her father. You know the ones, where it’s just the two of them sitting at the end of a dock, using nature to finally have a conversation. There was a bubble coming from the daughter that read, “Daddy, what’s a period?” The Dad’s bubble said, “It’s the thing that comes at the end of a sentence.” Inside the card it read, “Thanks for always coming up with the right answers. Happy Father’s Day.”

I loved it. I stared at it for a few moments. I reread it. Then I thought, “Really? I’m a really going to give my father thanks for everything he’s done for me-all the basketball games he’s taken me to, all the lessons he’s taught me, all the time he’s given up so he could ensure that I live a great and comfortable life-with a fucking period joke? I started to look around again. I decided that I wouldn’t purchase the period card.

I finally found one with this weird, fat cartoon bear on it that sort of looked like me. It was really poorly written. It also used the word, ‘Daddy,’ which I found to be the accurate choice since I had never called him ‘Daddy’ once over the course of our 25-year relationship. That’s why I liked it so much.

The cover read, “Hi Daddy, Can you guess who’s my hero? I’ll give you a clue-He’s strong and he’s brave.” [Open card to reveal another, taller bear. This one is wearing a cape.] “He’s the best Daddy-you. Happy Father’s Day.”  

Inside I wrote a simple message:

Hey Dad,

I love you so much. Thanks for all you’ve done for me over the years and thanks for all you’ve let me do to you over this last year. I will see you soon and will be a part of your life as long as you have it.

Love,

DJ

Perfect in my mind. Sure it was sort of ironic because he couldn’t move his arms and what not, but the brave part was very true, and the part about him being the best Daddy.

In addition to landing the perfect card, I wanted this Father’s Day to run really smoothly. I envisioned a perfect day.

My Dad no longer had Lou Gehrig’s disease. He is healthy and plump like a king. His hair is brown and combed to the side, a style that symbolized that everything was in order. The Jazz had just finished beating the Jordan-led Bulls in the finals and Scotty Pippen’s head had exploded in the process. My Mom accompanies us with a full head of hair flowing well past her shoulders. She looks young and full of the charisma that made all of her children such interesting, funny, modest people.

We are driving in a suburban up a canyon that, despite it being June, decided to decorate it self in fall colors and turn the temperature to 72. The windows are down and wind flaps through the car. My Dad sits in the drivers seat. “Heaven” by the Talking Heads blares. Our two golden retrievers sit on my Mom’s lap and hang their heads out the passenger-side window, letting the acceleration of the car dictate the position of their tongues. Slobber streams from their mouths and hits Greg, who sits with his head out the window in the backseat, in the face. We all laugh uproariously and Greg wipes the slobber off his face realizing that nothing matters but being together. Tiffany can’t stop laughing and can only let it subside enough to reveal that she might piss herself. Greg and I egg on the laughter by singing, “Don’t go chasing waterfalls. Stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to.” The song finally brings the piss out of Tiffany. Chelsea and Michelle braid each other’s hair in the back, back of the car and talk about how they will be friends forever, no matter what. My Dad has a fat smile on his face, knowing that he’s done it, that he’s created a functional family that will create more functional families.

Cut to reality.

I woke up around eleven in the morning. I wanted to get up earlier so I could spend the whole day with my Dad. I had been practicing my ability to consume alcohol for most of the prior night, so I was hung-over and looked and smelled like shit. I looked at myself in the mirror and yelled. “Dan, you’re a fucking tard. No, you’re worse than a tard. You’re a retard, which means you are a tard again. That wasn’t funny you shit-eating tard.”

I gave myself a firm slap to the face and ran upstairs. 

“Hey Dad. Happy F. Day,” I said bursting into the room, hoping my mother wouldn’t notice my tardiness.

My tired mother, who had spent the night with him while my friends and I poured gin on our brains and puffed nicotine into our lungs the night before, didn’t take note of my tardiness but instead said, “Can you get him up so I can change his sheets?”

“Anything for my Father on Father’s Day.”

I walked over to his bed and pulled his limb body up to a sitting position.

Me: How are you doing?

Bob: [Nods head and gives a shrug]

Me: Well that’s good. What you been up to?

Bob: [Gives me a what-do-you-think-I’ve-been-up-to-given-the-fact-that-I-can’t-move-my-own-body look]

Me: You get any pussy last night?

Bob: [Jokingly shakes head ‘yes’]

Me: Me too.

I straighten his shirt that loosely hung from his withering, boney shoulders and reached over to a near-by dresser to grab his gate-belt, which is a thick, Easter-colored belt placed around his middle torso to assist in lifting and moving him. We also had a gate-belt in white, in which I preferred to the Easter-colors, not to be racist or homophobic.

“I hate the Easter gate-belt. It’s so faggy,” I said.

As I began to lift him from the bed and into the recliner my Mom began peeling the wrinkly sheets from my Dad’s sticky hospital bed. She seemed too tired to give a shit about anything but getting those sheets off. I focused most of my energy trying not to drop my Dad. I dropped him right on his ass.

My Dad, with all of his 130 pounds crumpled into a ball, was too heavy for my Mom and me to lift. I told her to get Greg, who was fresh off of fucking his boyfriend.

“Greg, get your ass in here. This is an emergency,” she piercingly yelled with all the strength in her cancer-filled body. 

Greg came limping in after five or six more yells.

“He better be on the brink of death for you to yell like that.”

Greg noticed that he was on the floor and finally reacted like it was an emergency. Dropping our Dad on the floor was about the worst, most painful thing we could put him through at this stage. He looked as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen him. His eyes were watery.

Happy Father’s Day. 

As we were pulling him off the ground, which required that Greg, my Mom and I all lift with all of our strength, I began brainstorming ways we could prevent this in the future. “We need to have two people now. Dad’s legs are weaker. He can’t stand on his own.” I knew the Hoyer lift was the next option. A Hoyer lift is a hang-man shaped devised that patients can be harnessed into and lifted from bed to chair, from chair to bed, from bed to coffin.

But he didn’t want to use the lift. When you have an illness that slowly starts destroying all the things you used to be able to do, you begin hanging on to whatever you have left. He had said good-bye to eating, to walking, to talking, to scratching his own nose, to turning on the TV and watching whatever he wanted, to fucking, to driving, to picking up his kids from school, to wearing boxers instead of diapers, to being treated like a father instead of a hospital patient. The Hoyer lift symbolized that things had gotten about as bad as they would get, that the disease had won, that there wasn’t any fight left in his boney little body. 

I didn’t think I should mention it. I knew that it was Father’s Day and that was the last thing he wanted to hear, especially since both of his sons reeked of used alcohol. I mentioned it anyways.

Me: We should start looking into getting you a Hoyer lift.

Bob: [Look of defeat in his eyes, knowing that the Lou Gehrig’s disease was winning]

Greg: No way. If it’s time for a Hoyer lift, it’s time for you to go.

Me: Jesus Greg. It’s fucking Father’s Day. Can we have one day where we don’t talk about death?

Greg: I know. What I meant to say was, ‘I love you Daddy and don’t want you to die, not today at least.’

After we finally got him back into the chair, a spot where his face no longer grimaced, I turned on the TV. Tiger Woods was leading the US Open and he was playing with a bummed knee. Many of the highlights from the Saturday round showed Tiger crippling to the ground in pain after smacking the ball 300 some-odd yards. He had Eagled the 18^th hole and was three-under par heading into the final 18 at Torres Pines. I turned to my Dad.

“God damn. That Tiger is amazing. I can’t believe what a fighter he is. I mean, to have a sore knee and still be winning one of the most prestigious tournaments on one of the hardest courses in the world. My God. He has gone through so much and still remains strong.”

My Dad looked at me like I he had just watched a sample clip from the “Biggest Ass Hole in the World” awards ceremony. “And the nominees for biggest ass hole in the world are, Dan Marshall for his Father’s Day Tiger Woods rant.” Here he was, having been thrown the biggest curve ball of all, having experienced going from a marathon runner to a permanent hospital patient, having gone from breathing on his own to not, and his son was marveling at Tiger God Damn Woods fucking golf performance.

“And the winner is, Dan Marshall.”

Later in the day, Greg finally drove his boyfriend home. Chelsea had already left for a dance camp in Boise, Idaho, where she hoped [she] wouldn’t get raped.

My sister Tiffany came over, as did Michelle. Michelle was about to leave to Taiwan with her soccer coach turned husband. She would be gone for a long time. We really weren’t sure how long. They are trying to “bring soccer to the girls of Taiwan because many of them don’t get to exercise,” in his words. He reeks of pedophile and now he was taking our Michelle halfway around the world to start a girl’s soccer league. This made my Dad’s eyes flood with tears. He felt so hopeless, like he failed as a father, like he didn’t do all the things he could have to prevent this from happening. And now he had to watch this from his wheelchair, unable to move his own body, unable to stand up and shake the living lord out of Michelle and tell her to go back to school.

Over all it was a pretty bad showing for Father’s Day.

Eventually Greg, Tiff and I decided to turn things around and drive my Dad up Millcreek canyon for the walk we had promised. I was slightly pissed because I wanted to watch the end of the US Open, wanted to watch Tiger dazzle and amaze me once more. But I turned off the TV reluctantly. We loaded my Dad into the car. Greg was singing Christmas songs to emphasize how nonchalantly we had approached Father’s Day this year. Tiffany sat shotgun and I drove.

We arrived at the parking lot. A handicap parking spot was available. We are so fucking lucky sometimes. It was hot outside, around 90 I bet. Several other families were also treating their fathers and grandfathers to some nice fresh air. But all those families can go fuck themselves. That’s right, go fuck yourself families, what with your fully functional Fathers and your smiles, and your laughter, and your hiking boots, and your backpacks. The only thing hanging from our father was a thirty-pound breathing machine. But we loved them more than they loved theirs. I imagined a game show:

Host: Ok, so how many times have you wiped your father’s ass in the last year?

Me: 298

Other kid: Zero.

Host: Ok, Dan wins that round.

 —

Host: How often did you visit your father in the hospital in the last year?

Me: 37 straight days with no break.

Other kid: My Dad wasn’t in the hospital. We drove past one together though.

Host: Dan wins that round.

=== 

Host: How may times have you kissed your father, rubbed his sweaty forehead and told him you would do anything in your power to keep him alive, to keep his quality of life up?

Me: Every night for the last nine months.

Other kid: Zero

Host: Dan wins again.

You get the idea. Sort of a silly way to think of things, like it’s a game or something.

Towards the top of Millcreek, there is a road that is gated off. This is our spot. Just last summer, my Mom and Dad would walk our dogs up there every night. They would stay on the road while our two rambunctious golden retrievers ran in and out of the swift-moving river. They would shake off right in front of us, and ensure we couldn’t get mad by flashing us a smile. Assholes.

We steered my Dad’s chair onto the road and began heading up. It wasn’t the suburban ride up the canyon that I was hoping for, but it was nice to get some fresh air and to talk to Dad.

I envisioned us being treated to some words of poignant wisdom from our Father. I imagined him solving all of our personal problems with a simple line of logical speak. I envisioned us all stopping in front of some shit-eating family and circling around our Dad for the world’s longest and loudest, “I love you Dad” chant. I envisioned a lot of hugs, a lot of shoulder rubs. Fuck maybe we’d get half way up the mountain and the fresh air and togetherness would be the perfect mixture needed to cure Lou Gehrig’s disease. That’s it. He was going to walk back down this mountain. We would push his chair into the river and later on the he would come walking up here with my Mom and watch as the dogs ran into the river sweaty nose first to play on the chair like it was a toy instead of device used to get my Dad’s limp body around town.  

My daydream was interrupted by a Tiffany scream. “Fuck, you ran over my toe. Shit that hurt.” We stopped. My Dad wanted to be deflated so he could talk. This was the start of the miraculous turn around, I thought.

Tiffany deflated him, even with the hurt toe.

“The chair is running out of batteries fast. We should turn around and head back.”

Fucking Greg. Greg didn’t properly charge the chair, so it ran out of battery power. We were epic shit heads on this our Father’s  last Father’s Day.

I didn’t know what to say so I said, “Well at least we can make it home in time to watch the end of the US Open.”