September 2008 Archives
Three days after we got home from our trip to South Dakota, I heard my phone chime to announce an incoming text. It was about three in the morning, and while I have a few calendar reminders that routinely ping my phone, there's absolutely no reason for that to happen at that time of night.
In short, if I was getting a text at that time, someone was sending me something personally, which means they were also up.
I pushed out of bed, pulled clothes on, and somehow found my phone. It was Mom.
On our way to town grandpa failing rapidly.
I shot a text at my sister, who bounced one back inside of two minutes. She was up.
Right.
I sat in front of my computer, looking at the phone. I knew I wouldn't sleep, so I flipped on one of my MMOs and ran around in the game while I waited for word that my grandfather had died.
The text came at a quarter to five, then the call. His breathing had simply gotten more and more shallow and then, finally, stopped.
I don't remember what I did after the call. I imagine I must have kept puttering around at that game until Kaylee woke up about an hour later.
((Just at this moment, it occurred to me that I haven't logged back into that game since that morning.))
I got her ready for school, headed to work, and waited for someone to tell me when the funeral was going to be.
No, I don't mean I simply sat there, but in my memory, the day is monochrome, punctuated by moments of Turneresque color during which I was talking to one family member or another.
Smaller memorial on Friday. Funeral on Saturday. Burial at his old church, so far out in the country it's five miles of gravel road to get there.
Right.
I made flight arrangements, using up most of my Frontier miles from two years of flying to see Kate. Kate would be staying in Denver, since her mom was coming into town, and of course Kaylee wasn't coming either.
I'm not sure about the rest of the week.
Friday, 5am, I'm at the airport. Boarded, fly to Omaha, rental car to Sioux Falls, then a drive to the farm with Bonnie and Reggie and the kids, the backseat filled with the sounds of Spiderman 3 on DVD. I rode shotgun, reading Little Brother and sharing the best parts with my sister as she drove.
We stop at the farm, wash off the road dust, eat some supper, and get ready to go. I'm one of the few in a tie for the Friday evening memorial.
His hands are so cold.
They polished his wedding ring.
It doesn't look like him. It doesn't look like him at all. His mouth is too wide, like the Joker without face paint - christ it's horrible. Mom's found one place you can stand and look at him and it looks okay; where you can't see his mouth. I stand there.
The flower arrangements behind the casket are roses, wheat stalks, and the tail feathers from ringneck pheasants. Perfect, really.
The ceremony started. Pastor speaks and asks anyone else who wants to do so.
My aunt gets up and talks about grandpa as a teacher.
My sister gets up and reads a poem, then pulls out a wicker basket filled with all the different types of candy he used to 'hide' in his candy drawer in the house, just at the right height for the grandkids. She passes it through the crowd.
She hands me the mic as she sits down, knowing I'll say something. I always do, don't I?
I try. I try my absolute damndest. It takes me six tries to get through the first sentence; to explain who I am and why I'm talking. Trying to talk, anyway. Dad isn't looking at me, and it's because I'm having as hard a time as he would have, which is why he had the good sense to stay sat down.
I talk about how he lived, filling up every day with stories. Laughing. Really living. That laugh of his, that chuckle. I think I repeated myself a lot.
I try to explain what he was to us, a grandfather only his 40s when I was born -- another parent, another kid to play with. A friend.
My friend.
There's some kind of snack service afterward. We stand in small circles and tell funny stories about my grandpa and any number of hunting adventures, mis- and otherwise.
When we get home, we pull out a huge set of dominoes and play Turkey Feet until we're gasping for air between laughs. It helps.
Saturday morning, we have to be in town at 9:30. This is the general service. It's more impersonal, I suppose. The casket is closed. The Masons do their thing after the pastor speaks, then we all exit outside.
He's brought to the door of the church, and the pallbearers will carry him to the hearse. That's us; the grandkids.
There are nine of us there, out of ten. We are grown now, with kids of our own, and we carry our grandfather, who taught us checkers and gave us rare coins on our birthdays, out of this life. The casket is heavy. We move through the crowd in a private bubble filled only with the sounds of shuffling feet a very quiet sobs. As a group, we pass a very dark milestone in our lives.
We drive to the cemetery on old county roads. The gravel, the barbed wire fences along the road, the summer-going-to-fall grass on rolling hills; all of it is home in a way that no other place will ever be.
We set the casket above the hole.
The honor guard comes to arms, turns to the treeline and fires their salute.
Gun smoke in an autumn grassland.
That was my granddad.
Tired of produce that tastes like styrofoam? Maybe you just miss having a garden in your backyard, like you did when you lived with your folks...
Maybe LocalHarvest is an option.
Many farms offer produce subscriptions, where buyers receive a weekly or monthly basket of produce, flowers, fruits, eggs, milk, meats, or any sort of different farm products.A CSA, (for Community Supported Agriculture) is a way for the food buying public to create a relationship with a farm and to receive a weekly basket of produce. By making a financial commitment to a farm, people become "members" (or "shareholders," or "subscribers") of the CSA. Most CSA farmers prefer that members pay for the season up-front, but some farmers will accept weekly or monthly payments. Some CSAs also require that members work a small number of hours on the farm during the growing season.
A CSA season typically runs from late spring through early fall. The number of CSAs in the United States was estimated at 50 in 1990, and has since grown to over 2000.
I'll be looking into this in the future. It looks look as though there are a few options in my area (notably Grant Family Farms), and as the organization grows, so do my options (not unlike internet broadband options, in that way).
Now I just need to figure out what to order... might need to make a phone call...
My granddad died today, at about 5 in the morning. I'll write more about this later, but for now, I think I'll just let the previous post (about our recent visit home) stand as testimonial.
I'm going to tell you about my trip home to see my Granddad. I'm doing this so I remember. Apologies now for shifts in verb tense and the like -- it's not the most edited of posts, and that's all right.
We left Thursday night, in Kate's car, because it's a little roomier. The plan was to drive to North Platte that night (four hours), stay at a hotel there, then finish the rest of the trip (another six hours) on Friday morning, and that's basically what we did.
Kate had her iPod wired into the car's stereo. The soundtrack for Dr. Horrible's Sing-along Blog made an appearance during each leg of the trip, as did songs from our wedding reception and an extensive exploration of Johnny Cash hits that fit right into the grass-over-sand of Nebraska. Kaylee turns out to be an excellent highway traveler; almost perpetually self-entertaining and quite able to get a laugh out of her friends in the front seat.
I drove most of the way on Friday (for some reason I was in the mood to drive). We got into Miller about three in the afternoon, and drove straight to the nursing home. My folks spotted us as we pulled up and walked out to greet us while we were still unfolding from the car.
We talked a bit outside and I got the current updates on Grandpa's health and Grandma's state of mind. (She has Alzheimer's, and it has progressed quite a bit since I've last seen her.)
I'm one of the first of the grand kids to make it into town (one of the reasons I set out so early), but I'm told nearly everyone will be here this weekend. Friday may be the first and best chance to talk to him on my own before interruptions and before he gets too tired.
He's in pain, you see, and he hasn't quite acclimated to the pain medication, so he dozes often and his speech is sluggish when he's awake.
Dad also tells me to be ready for what he'll say.
The facility is nice, and the staff is friendly and helpful and personable.
The commemorative plaques for those who have donated to the facility are permanently affixed to each door; the names of the room's occupants are printed on sheets of paper, attached with scotch tape.
"What's all this nonsense about you being sick?" I call out as I walk into the room.
He gestures at himself in his recliner. He's thinner -- mostly in his face and neck -- and paler. "I'm done," he says. He grips my hand as I sit down next to him. "I'm tired of this. I just want to be done."
I don't know what to say to that. He is tired, and he doesn't want to go out in a recliner, unable to walk where he will and go where he likes. He is stoic and unapologetic for his desire to see an end to things, and if nothing else, I respect his courage and honesty about it. Right now, he's not going to have a conversation with me -- he's trying to tell one more person in his family that he's ready to go; that he'd speed things up if he could.
Not that there's much more that could be done in that regard -- he's not on a respirator or any kind of machinery; the medicine given to him is for comfort, not longevity -- the cancer is beyond any available treatment even if he were strong enough for it, which he is not. We are playing a waiting game; a balance of comfort and control - quality of life over quantity. This is not when he and I can talk; he is speaking, and everyone else in the room is trying to convince him that they hear what he's saying.
I hold his hand, and introduce Kate and his great-granddaughter to him; Kaylee is shy on my lap, but says hello to him and holds his hand. Over a dozen great-grandchildren will see him this weekend (his great-great-grandson will play at his feet that evening), but he is charmed by this blue-eyed redhead, and tugs at her finger and gasps at her in mock surprise -- a game I remember from thirty years ago -- that I have played with her since she was old enough to giggle, not realizing who I'd learned it from.
I have trouble understanding him through the slur that the pain medication puts in his words, and we don't talk much, but I spend time with him until some of the rest of the family arrives, then make room for another cousin to take my seat.
I walk down the hall to my grandmother's room and visit her. She doesn't remember me, but admits that I look quite a bit like my dad, which is 'interesting'.
We go back to the farm with my folks, and spend the evening going through some of the boxes of photos my grandparents have accumulated in the last six decades or more. Photos of my grandfather as the third oldest in a family of nine(!). Another of my great-great-grandfather, as a child. Photos of a young man in an army uniform. Dad tells me about things he's learned since my last visit about Grandpa's service in World War Two; it's a shared piece of detective work for him and I, as Grandpa will tell other visitors about his time in Europe, but rarely speaks of the time to his family; it seems he had command of 20 other men, and was a forward observer during the Allied offensive into western Czechoslovakia toward the end of the war. He used to tell us he never even saw the front lines; apparently that was because they were behind him.
I can't sleep when the house gets quiet. Dad and I stay up til midnight; I ask questions about my grandfather's more recent past. Dad answers anything he can and corrects incorrect assumptions I'd made here and there. I know him, perhaps, best of all the grandkids -- I've spent the most time with him, at least -- but it seems at times that I barely know a fraction.
By the time we're back into town in the morning, most of the rest of the family is there. Grandpa refused the pain medication 'patch' when it was brought in by the staff in the night, and it isn't until my dad talks to him and reassures him that it is not prolonging anything and just for his comfort that he lets them apply it. His schedule is now askew, and the first wave of medicine washes over him mid-morning instead of midnight; he's very drowsy. Few real conversations take place between him and anyone, let alone me.
In fact, he barely seems to know who, specifically, is there.
Grandma doesn't know me, or even if I look like family, but opines that I look strong enough to help her walk around the building a bit.
My sister arrives just after lunch, and the room's visitors magically clear when she arrives -- it's either consideration for her first visit, or a welcome excuse for those in the room to take a break.
I follow her into the room after a minute and find her bent halfway over his chair, within inches of his ear -- trust her to know exactly what she needed to do to get her words to him. She is just finishing when I walk in.
"-- we spent all our childhood with you," I hear. "We wouldn't be the people we are, without you. I love you."
She steps away, and another cousin walks in, and I walk with her out of the room. We hug.
"I'm so glad you could tell him that," I say, thinking of everything I want to say to him and somehow can't find the time or the words.
"No regrets," she replies, repeating a conversation we had not more than a week ago, before we knew any of this was about to happen.
We take a break from the visits, and go to the bed and breakfast that the family has taken over a few blocks away. I spend several hours catching up with cousins I haven't seen in years; over a decade in some cases -- since I moved to Denver. I and one of the oldest of 'my' generation -- beautiful and funny and (unbelievably) already a grandmother -- spend a half-hour in the kitchen cutting up vegetables for a salad and talking about some of my stories and why I always seem to write about someone losing a loved one.
I decide to walk back over to the nursing home. My dad comes with me and we talk about time lines and what's most likely with Grandpa's prognosis. We are not pessimists, he and I, but I think it's fair to say that we are realists.
I hope to talk to grandpa when I get there, but he's asleep when I arrive and needs help from the nurses when he wakes up -- I do my best to stay out of the way and let the professionals do their work (despite my aunt telling them from the doorway that I've had "Training" (a CNA for a year during college) and can help them).
Two hours go by, but having to move around the room with the nurses help has wiped him out and he is never fully awake in that time. I sit with him while the rest of the family stays down in the building's day-room and catches up with one another -- I'm not the only one who rarely makes it home. Bonnie walks in to find me sitting next to him, holding his hand and staring at the ceiling, tears tracking quietly down my cheeks. She tells me we're getting out of the building, informs the family, and off we go.
She takes me to the city park, where Kate and Mom have brought a couple of the younger kids, including Kaylee.
(I am not writing enough about Kate and her part in this trip, during which she somehow kept me facing the right direction at all times and kept me from misplacing everything from my wallet to my keys to my daughter. She is a rock throughout this whole recounting.)
As Bonnie expected, I spend the better part of an hour clambering over the the ladders and slides and rings and fireman poles and slides with my daughter and get things back into perspective. She and Kate visit at the side of the park, watching me and the rest of the kids playing.
We are a mid-western family, and that means when someone is sick, the rest of us eat. It's a logistical impossibility that we could have missed supper no matter how long we'd have stayed at the park. I visit a bit, and make the rounds of each cluster of relatives, then make my excuses and walk back to the nursing home to see Grandpa before it's time for bed.
I wait while he dozes (the mis-timed medication in the morning has thrown the whole day off), and when he wakes up he's agitated and needs the nurse. I step out while they work and visit my grandmother, who has also just woken from a nap.
She doesn't know who I am - the boy she babysat for well over a decade - and doesn't recognize my name when my aunt reminds her, but says "he looks pretty smart".
Grandpa is in bed when I go back to his room, and the talk in the hallway is that he probably won't be gotten back out of bed in the morning - moving him around is getting to be too much for him. He is fast asleep when I go in to see him, and only stirs a bit when I take his hand.
I try to tell him something - anything - while he's still awake; one of the dozen things spinning around in my head.
I tell him we have to go back to Denver in the morning.
I leave the room defeated, and nod agreement when my aunt asks if I will stop in for one more visit in the morning before we go.
We are doing the whole trip back to Denver in one day, rather than the two it took to come out, so we try for an early start. Someone calls from town while we're having breakfast and tells us that Grandpa was awake and alert in the morning and wanted out of bed; his slight fever from the day before is down and he's feeling better. Good news.
We get into town by eight-thirty.
The room is mostly mine when I get there; everyone knows we're heading back and they want to give me time to say goodbyes.
Grandma is there as well, sitting next to him, and he is dozing.
She looks over when I sit down, and pats his hand and says "Russel, it's Doyce." By her expression, it is the most natural thing in the world for her to recognize me; hardly worthy of comment.
He stirs and looks me over. I take his hand, and once again, there's too much to say.
"We have to go back to Denver today." Banal trivia. It makes me angry with myself.
He nods and squeezes my hand. "I know," he murmurs.
I'm already breaking up a bit. I lean in, emulating my sister, who understands loss much better than I do. "I Wish I Could Stay." I manage, and sag back into my chair.
We don't say anything for a bit. I stopped to think of everything I need to say and it overwhelms me - mutes me.
But my granddad is the First Storyteller among a family of storytellers. I write, but he knows words. One more time, he helps me.
"It's a good life," he says, and squeezes my hand. I look up. "A good life," he repeats. He inclines his head toward mine, as though he's sharing a secret. "No bad parts."
There is no way you can encapsulate what this man has done for you. It is a hundred million moments that spill over you at once -- things he said, things he did, and things you only knew years later.
I stand up, and I lean in, and I tell him exactly what I'm feeling, and it is foolish and exactly right.
"I am so proud of you," I tell him, and I kiss his forehead, and hug him as best as I can. "So very proud of you."
And he chuckles, because it's silly, isn't it? But it's true, and in the end it is the most important thing I have to say.
No regrets.
We have a long drive home, and we started later than I'd hoped. We take a longer route home, also, because Kate has yet to see the Black Hills during the day, and after years of summer vacations, I feel I know it better than most. We drive by Wall Drug, and take a picture of Crazy Horse, and watch some mountain sheep climb a rock wall along a winding road, and drive from Wyoming into Colorado as the sun sets.
Kaylee is a trooper even during this much longer drive, and the last hour of trip she decides she will sing for us -- not Itsy Bitsy Spider or Twinkle Twinkle -- but new songs that she makes up as she goes, integrating everything she knows in the world into brand new tunes that are, I say with only a hint of bias or irony, genius.
"A duck on a bike is very tough," she sings, "and everyone's a hero in their own way..." Who are we to argue?
It's a good life.
No bad parts.
Over at House of the D, De muses about the nature of conflicts and scenes in a story.
Any scene with NO CONFLICT = DOOOOOOM.Two characters fall happily in love? One of them has a fatal disease. A mother and daughter quit arguing? The mother has called the men in white coats to come pick up the daughter and wants to keep her peaceful until the girl's sedated. The villain invites the hero in for tea? Strichnine, my friend. Strichnine.
I honestly think she may have just summarized the entire writer's bible for the Battlestar Galactica team.
Once faced with a rule like this, what is any writer going to do buy turn 'round and look at their own work with the shiny new microscope.
Result: In Hidden Things, I have two conflict-free scenes in the book; one with Gerschon, and one with Calli's mom.
Am I going to change them? No, not at this point; the scenes work as they are written -- they are pause-points in the narrative where both the reader and the protagonist get to take a short breather. (Also, any added wrinkles in the story at either of those points would require a number of additional scenes to address and resolve, and the story already feels 'done' to me.)
However.
There is a tiny bit of rumbling from certain quarters that it wouldn't really hurt to add a bit more.
"Tight narrative," say these voices. "Great pacing, but... I wish we knew a bit more about the secondary characters... perhaps about 75 more pages would help flesh that out?"
Now, to my mind, if you finish a book that's designed to have a sequel, and the reader wants more... well, that's exactly the response you want.
But if it turns out that those extra pages will sell an otherwise iffy publisher on the book, I'd for damn sure rather get those pages by adding a few more conflicts to the story, instead of filling in the cracks with extra globs of unnecessary exposition-mortar.
"Find your obsession. Every day, explain it to one person you respect [...] and try not to be a dick." -- Merlin Mann, 43 Folders
More than once in the past, I've tried to figure out ways to combine my various blogs in some way. The heart of the problem is that I'm uncomfortable with importing six years of gaming-related posts into this blog (smothering the stuff that's already here), nor do I want to move THIS site over to Random-Average (which would marginalize anything that wasn't part of the vast Gaming Majority).
What I've hit upon as a semi-solution involves a certain amount of cynicism about how the internet works today.
Assumption 1: Very few people actually read the website.
Which isn't to say that no one reads what I'm saying, just that few people read it on the site. Instead, they get it via a newsreader.
Assumption 2: Newsreaders strip your 'branding'.
It doesn't matter if I have a certain color scheme on my gaming page and another on this page -- the background images, the header images... hell, all the sidebar stuff... none of that is really relevant to most people reading the page, because they're never going to see it.
The only thing that gets to you, the reader, are the words.
Basically, what that means is that I don't have to combine my blogs, I just have to combine the signal.
So what does that mean?
It means that through the wonders of technology, the RSS feed for doycetesterman.com is also going to broadcast any updates I make to random-average, and that any changes to doycetesterman.com will be included in the feed going out from random-average. The result: you only have to listen to one radio station to hear everything I'm saying. As far as the majority of Gentle Readers are concerned, I have combined all my blogging in one place, without me actually having to do so.
"If the work that really matters to you involves understanding a relationship between a handful of seemingly unrelated things and then figuring out the best way to portray, magnify, or resolve those relationships, then you're already doing creative work. Any time you make a connection between two or more axes that hadn't occurred to you 10 minutes ago, yes, you've done something creative. Seriously. This does not require your wearing a beret." -- Merlin Mann
I've spent a lot of time in my stories poking at certain ideas. Themes, I guess. None of this is really conscious on my part -- I tend to realize it after the fact or, at best, midway through the story.
"Oh, look at that, I'm writing about X again. Hmm."
For one reason or another, one of those "X" topics is the idea of loss; someone dealing with a death (either recent or not-so) and how they cope with it. In Strange Weapons, there's Michael's wife as well as Lora's former partner (whose memory lingers in a very palpable way -- he drives her car). In Hidden Things... well, the whole story is really about death and coping with it; after finishing the story I realized I'd broken up the book into sections that directly correlated to the five stages of grief. (Then I noticed I'd done the same thing with Strange Weapons.)
My feelings about this are mixed.
I think it's a tiny bit fascinating that the structure of grieving naturally (and unconsciously, I swear) integrates into the structure of the story -- I think it means that I'm exploring Calliope's grief in a real way, that her actions are following a pretty natural progression. That's a comfort; I think any writer wants to write true things, even if they aren't writing real things.
On the other hand, it's troublesome to me that I keep going back to that particular instigator. It's like I keep scratching a bug bite; I can't leave it alone. Obviously, the idea of personal loss is something that looms large in my subconscious, probably because it's such an unknown to me -- no one close to me has ever died in my adult life -- if I've never been in a storm, but I can see a number of them massed on the horizon and closing in, of course I'm going to write about storms.
Both my parents are healthy (and only 20 years older than me). I lost one grandparent when I was 10, but the other three (in their eighties) are all fine.
Until now.
During a routine checkup last week, doctors discovered a pretty major tumor in my grandpa's lung. Since then, tests have revealed the strong possibility that it's also spread to his liver. The major test results aren't back yet, but it could be very bad news about a very short time frame.
Now, the fact that the man's made it to 85 is a bit of a marvel in itself -- he smoked several cartons of Salem Menthols a week for 41 years, he had triple bypass surgery in his mid-sixties, and has generally been rode hard and put away wet his whole life. That's reality. The fact that I've had him around to pull my leg for coming up on 38 years is a gift.
And yet... and yet.
My world is tilted, these last few days. My wife and daughter are here, and loving, and healthy. My parents are strong, my sister is brilliant and funny. My work is going well, and my mental playground has all the best toys. Things are good; the platform of my life is solid.
But one pillar is trembling.
I've had a look at it a number of times; I've known it was eventually, inevitably going to give out, and I could see that time was coming -- I've done my best to shore up the remaining struts, and I know that things will be fine; the platform will survive.
But this pillar, man... this is one of the old ones. One of the first ones. One of the strongest ones.
It doesn't matter if I'm strong enough to withstand his absence. It's the idea - the undeniable, inescapable fact that he could fall. That he will.
That is what shakes the foundations, today.
