I was sitting at my desk, eating pineapple out of a plastic container when I received an email telling me that my friend John had died in an accident.
We can never predict what thoughts will pierce our consciousness after being blindsided with such traumatic news, and I remember calmly thinking, "From now until the end of my life, pineapple will remind me of John dying."
I clutched the sticky fork and stared at my computer screen. The plastic handle shook in my hand so I put it down. Someone said something to me about a work thing. I don't remember what.
More thoughts invaded: That's crazy, he just posted to Facebook a couple of days ago. Oh, my god. His wife must be devastated. Should I call someone? Should I call my dad since he used to coach John? What should I do? I should do something.
I did nothing.
I sat and lectured myself as different emotions penetrated my consciousness. They came strongly, yet were muted by a foggy curtain of shock and then guilt.
Why hadn't I called him at least once in the past ten years? For God sakes, I was his best man. I could have easily put forth a little more effort than "liking" his photos of martinis and Halloween costumes on Facebook.
I felt so weak.
He had been such a positive spirit in my life. In high school, we discovered the Beatles together, ten years after their breakup. We plastered the locker we shared with stringy-haired photos from their later years, and John and I traveled to Seattle to watch a tribute show entitled "Beatlemania."
We hadn't yet grasped life's fragility. Death was for pets and old people and soldiers in Vietnam on the six o'clock news.
But when John Lennon died that Fall, together we experienced the cold injustice of a life cut short. It was supposed to be just, logical; it had been for our entire lives.
And now, here I was, sitting at work, cradling my head in my hands and feeling the same anger I'd felt thirty years ago.
There's something rich and enduring about relationships which began in childhood, with that small cabal of folks whose brains were percolating and hard wiring themselves right next to you on that bumpy school bus ride. Maybe no one else could relate to you, but by God, who cared? There's an invisible adhesive stronger than cedar pitch which binds you to these people forever.
Back then, my mom told me that death is part of life, and we must carry on.
I never liked that philosophy. Naturally, as biological organisms, we're built to survive and adapt in the face of physical adversity. The debilitating, raw agony must dissipate in order for us to function.
When someone we love goes away forever, life doesn't go on, at least not like it had before. Everything shifts, whether it's the memory of my mom in my daughters' smiles or the taste of pineapple from here on out.
It's a shift that can ache dearly, yet sometimes force a loud chuckle in a quiet room.
You were a good man and a great friend, John. I hope you know.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
You almost died. Shouldn't you be crying?
It happened exactly thirty years ago—Saturday morning, February 27, 1982, sometime between 7:30 and 8:00.
I'm going to tell you a story, but the thing is, I'm not sure it really is a story.
Stories generally have a beginning, middle and ending—this one has no ending and the climax occurred at the beginning.
Stories usually proceed along an ordered series of occurrences—in this case, each event spewed sloppily from a tangled mass of chaos and splattered, exposed on the slowly thawing asphalt.
My two college roommates and I shared a few traits back then, the most glaring of which was our communal naivete. Three worldly nineteen-year-olds, having never skied, had convinced ourselves of an exceptional aptitude to learn in the course of a few runs down the bunny hill and quickly advance to the more difficult challenges.
Whether the product of sound reasoning or youthful folly, we'd never find out.
Having opted to rent our equipment Friday night in Seattle rather than the more expensive ski fare at the resort area, we hurried back to the dorm room to try on our toys. Gary was first to cinch on his boots, surprised and amused at his lack of mobility when circling the small living room.
Mike briefly left and returned barefoot, clutching a roll of wool socks to achieve a more realistic feel for his dry run.
As our planet is divided between those who employ the "sock-shoe, sock-shoe" method and the others who roll with the "sock-sock, shoe-shoe routine," Mike revealed his preference, propping one fully socked and booted foot onto a chair as his other naked foot chilled below.
Shifting most of his weight onto his booted foot to wrench the buckles, the plastic shoe slid with a shuddering spasm off the chair and planted its heel into his exposed big toe nail.
Mike howled as crimson filled the underside of the nail and swelled the surrounding flesh. He hopped and swore, executing a highly-choreographed river dance of profanity.
His injury, necessitating an emergency treatment at University Hospital not uncommon to medieval barbers, had scratched Mike from our inaugural ski trip even before he could model that second boot. Trying his best to assuage our guilt through the fog of pain medication, he prodded us to embark without him.
And so we did. Early the following morning, Gary and I schlepped our rented skis, boots and tire chains to his Mustang which sat frozen in the parking lot down the hill from our high rise dormitory. The car fishtailed slightly as we accelerated onto the interstate and ascended the Cascade foothills into the mountains.
The sun projected a crystalline sparkle onto the lightly traveled road, buoying our spirits as we approached the ski area. Looming high above the tall snow drifts which obscured the shoulder and rendering any distinction between road and non-road impossible, an electronic sign proclaimed chains mandatory.
Gary pulled the Mustang as far off the freeway as he could. We exited the car and assessed our proximity to passing traffic which was uncomfortably close due to the snowdrift-clogged shoulders. We decided that Gary should pull forward about twenty feet to a slightly wider off-road space.
Remaining outside while Gary maneuvered forward, I noted a small, maroon pickup truck pulling off into our previous position. Gary crouched with the chains at the rear driver's side tire while I gazed down.
The last thing I remember before it happened was how cold the pavement smelled.
And the sound of a horn, low and close.
I looked up and absorbed it with calm clarity—no panic, not even an adrenaline boost.
The pickup driver was standing behind his door. He was looking right at me when the school bus hit him. But it looked like a light tap in the back. He'll be okay.
Gary and I pressed against the side of our car as the bus approached us; no escape. The huge vehicle skidded to a stop, pinning us against the car. My hands rested on the coach's grill, its driver gazing down upon me with a dreamy glaze.
So calm for a moment.
And then the screams. From Gary. From the kids in the bus. Oh my God, someone else was in the pickup and she's holding a little dog. She's screaming, too. Why is everyone screaming?
I looked down again. The man whom I believed the bus had barely nudged lay behind our bumper, next to the bus's front tire, his head flattened and bloody. His body formed a triangle with the bus and the car, enclosing Gary and me as if we were huddling for a touch football game.
Further mayhem. People. Everywhere. A man attempted CPR on the lifeless body, finally rising up, his blood-caked face betraying a mask of horror and heroism.
At length, my paralysis subsided and I extracted myself from the triangle, walking alone down the side of the freeway. I stared up at the brilliant blue morning sky and gazed directly into the sun.
You can go blind. I don't care.
You almost died.
If you hadn't moved the car, you'd be dead and not that guy with the girl with the dog.
You're only nineteen. You can't die. Oh, yeah? You almost did, you idiot.
Should you be crying? Should you be screaming? Should you be freaking out like everyone else is?
I don't know.
What if Mike hadn't hurt his toe? Would he have been killed?
I don't know. I'll never know.
You almost died. Did God have something to do with this? I don't know. Why would he kill that guy and not you? I don't know. Maybe he likes you better. Why should he?
It was thirty years ago. The last thing I remember is looking at the dead man's glasses. They were embedded into a pink slush which seeped out from the triangle as the morning temperature rose. It looked like a cherry Slurpee.
Like I said, this story has no ending.
I'm going to tell you a story, but the thing is, I'm not sure it really is a story.
Stories generally have a beginning, middle and ending—this one has no ending and the climax occurred at the beginning.
Stories usually proceed along an ordered series of occurrences—in this case, each event spewed sloppily from a tangled mass of chaos and splattered, exposed on the slowly thawing asphalt.
My two college roommates and I shared a few traits back then, the most glaring of which was our communal naivete. Three worldly nineteen-year-olds, having never skied, had convinced ourselves of an exceptional aptitude to learn in the course of a few runs down the bunny hill and quickly advance to the more difficult challenges.
Whether the product of sound reasoning or youthful folly, we'd never find out.
Having opted to rent our equipment Friday night in Seattle rather than the more expensive ski fare at the resort area, we hurried back to the dorm room to try on our toys. Gary was first to cinch on his boots, surprised and amused at his lack of mobility when circling the small living room.
Mike briefly left and returned barefoot, clutching a roll of wool socks to achieve a more realistic feel for his dry run.
As our planet is divided between those who employ the "sock-shoe, sock-shoe" method and the others who roll with the "sock-sock, shoe-shoe routine," Mike revealed his preference, propping one fully socked and booted foot onto a chair as his other naked foot chilled below.
Shifting most of his weight onto his booted foot to wrench the buckles, the plastic shoe slid with a shuddering spasm off the chair and planted its heel into his exposed big toe nail.
Mike howled as crimson filled the underside of the nail and swelled the surrounding flesh. He hopped and swore, executing a highly-choreographed river dance of profanity.
His injury, necessitating an emergency treatment at University Hospital not uncommon to medieval barbers, had scratched Mike from our inaugural ski trip even before he could model that second boot. Trying his best to assuage our guilt through the fog of pain medication, he prodded us to embark without him.
And so we did. Early the following morning, Gary and I schlepped our rented skis, boots and tire chains to his Mustang which sat frozen in the parking lot down the hill from our high rise dormitory. The car fishtailed slightly as we accelerated onto the interstate and ascended the Cascade foothills into the mountains.
The sun projected a crystalline sparkle onto the lightly traveled road, buoying our spirits as we approached the ski area. Looming high above the tall snow drifts which obscured the shoulder and rendering any distinction between road and non-road impossible, an electronic sign proclaimed chains mandatory.
Gary pulled the Mustang as far off the freeway as he could. We exited the car and assessed our proximity to passing traffic which was uncomfortably close due to the snowdrift-clogged shoulders. We decided that Gary should pull forward about twenty feet to a slightly wider off-road space.
Remaining outside while Gary maneuvered forward, I noted a small, maroon pickup truck pulling off into our previous position. Gary crouched with the chains at the rear driver's side tire while I gazed down.
The last thing I remember before it happened was how cold the pavement smelled.
And the sound of a horn, low and close.
I looked up and absorbed it with calm clarity—no panic, not even an adrenaline boost.
The pickup driver was standing behind his door. He was looking right at me when the school bus hit him. But it looked like a light tap in the back. He'll be okay.
Gary and I pressed against the side of our car as the bus approached us; no escape. The huge vehicle skidded to a stop, pinning us against the car. My hands rested on the coach's grill, its driver gazing down upon me with a dreamy glaze.
So calm for a moment.
And then the screams. From Gary. From the kids in the bus. Oh my God, someone else was in the pickup and she's holding a little dog. She's screaming, too. Why is everyone screaming?
I looked down again. The man whom I believed the bus had barely nudged lay behind our bumper, next to the bus's front tire, his head flattened and bloody. His body formed a triangle with the bus and the car, enclosing Gary and me as if we were huddling for a touch football game.
Further mayhem. People. Everywhere. A man attempted CPR on the lifeless body, finally rising up, his blood-caked face betraying a mask of horror and heroism.
At length, my paralysis subsided and I extracted myself from the triangle, walking alone down the side of the freeway. I stared up at the brilliant blue morning sky and gazed directly into the sun.
You can go blind. I don't care.
You almost died.
If you hadn't moved the car, you'd be dead and not that guy with the girl with the dog.
You're only nineteen. You can't die. Oh, yeah? You almost did, you idiot.
Should you be crying? Should you be screaming? Should you be freaking out like everyone else is?
I don't know.
What if Mike hadn't hurt his toe? Would he have been killed?
I don't know. I'll never know.
You almost died. Did God have something to do with this? I don't know. Why would he kill that guy and not you? I don't know. Maybe he likes you better. Why should he?
It was thirty years ago. The last thing I remember is looking at the dead man's glasses. They were embedded into a pink slush which seeped out from the triangle as the morning temperature rose. It looked like a cherry Slurpee.
Like I said, this story has no ending.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Childhood celebrity: Wake up, parents!
I'm going to try to not be judgmental here.
Yet another child star, Corey Haim, has died, after a long struggle with drug abuse. Add his name to the massive list of troubled actors and actresses who have suffered from or succumbed to the curse of youthful Hollywood stardom. Let's start in the 1930s and move forward from there.
• Judy Garland — died at age 47 of an accidental drug overdose.
• Robert Blake — in 2005, found liable for the wrongful death of his estranged wife.
• Ricky Nelson — plagued by severe drug abuse until his death at age 45.
• Anissa Jones (Buffy, from Family Affair) — died at age 18 from a lethal combination of cocaine, PCP, seconal and Quaaludes.
• Three members of the Eight is Enough family (Lani O'Grady, Willie Aames and Adam Rich) — all three shackled by addiction, including O'Grady's painkiller-related death in 2001.
• The entire child cast of Different Strokes (Dana Plato, Todd Bridges and Gary Coleman) — again, all besieged with legal issues, Plato overdosing and dying in 1999.
The list goes on. For every child star who clears the massive hurdle into adult celebrity, there's a wasteland of those who crash into it. For every Ron Howard or Kurt Russell, there are ten Macaulay Culkins, River Phoenixes, Lindsay Lohans, Leif Garretts or MacKenzie Phillipses.
And something tells me there's a fairly ambitious parent or two behind each one. We hear these people say, "Oh, no, of course I'm not forcing her into it. She's wanted to act since the day she looked at her first glamour shot. You can ask her yourself...when she gets back from her botox appointment."
While a lucky, young woman may one day reach the summit and make it to the Miss America pageant, there are 500 other little girls whose parents insist on entering them in the local pageant. They compel these poor little kids to parade around the Airport Marriott conference room in full make-up, hoping their woman-child becomes the next Miss Meal Ticket.
It's hard enough to be a kid. How many of us would be willing to trade our current lives for the one we experienced as a thirteen-year-old? I'm guessing not many of us would.
So how about this: Imagine being a few years removed from your last television series, with no real prospects on the horizon. You're driving around one day, and decide to slip into a McDonald's for a quick bite of McSomething with Cheese. As you grab the white bag and walk out the door, a guy approximately your age blocks your path and asks, "Hey, Erkel, sign my Quarter Pounder box, will ya?"
And we wonder why these kids become such messed-up adults.
Yet another child star, Corey Haim, has died, after a long struggle with drug abuse. Add his name to the massive list of troubled actors and actresses who have suffered from or succumbed to the curse of youthful Hollywood stardom. Let's start in the 1930s and move forward from there.
• Judy Garland — died at age 47 of an accidental drug overdose.
• Robert Blake — in 2005, found liable for the wrongful death of his estranged wife.
• Ricky Nelson — plagued by severe drug abuse until his death at age 45.
• Anissa Jones (Buffy, from Family Affair) — died at age 18 from a lethal combination of cocaine, PCP, seconal and Quaaludes.
• Three members of the Eight is Enough family (Lani O'Grady, Willie Aames and Adam Rich) — all three shackled by addiction, including O'Grady's painkiller-related death in 2001.
• The entire child cast of Different Strokes (Dana Plato, Todd Bridges and Gary Coleman) — again, all besieged with legal issues, Plato overdosing and dying in 1999.
The list goes on. For every child star who clears the massive hurdle into adult celebrity, there's a wasteland of those who crash into it. For every Ron Howard or Kurt Russell, there are ten Macaulay Culkins, River Phoenixes, Lindsay Lohans, Leif Garretts or MacKenzie Phillipses.
And something tells me there's a fairly ambitious parent or two behind each one. We hear these people say, "Oh, no, of course I'm not forcing her into it. She's wanted to act since the day she looked at her first glamour shot. You can ask her yourself...when she gets back from her botox appointment."
While a lucky, young woman may one day reach the summit and make it to the Miss America pageant, there are 500 other little girls whose parents insist on entering them in the local pageant. They compel these poor little kids to parade around the Airport Marriott conference room in full make-up, hoping their woman-child becomes the next Miss Meal Ticket.
It's hard enough to be a kid. How many of us would be willing to trade our current lives for the one we experienced as a thirteen-year-old? I'm guessing not many of us would.
So how about this: Imagine being a few years removed from your last television series, with no real prospects on the horizon. You're driving around one day, and decide to slip into a McDonald's for a quick bite of McSomething with Cheese. As you grab the white bag and walk out the door, a guy approximately your age blocks your path and asks, "Hey, Erkel, sign my Quarter Pounder box, will ya?"
And we wonder why these kids become such messed-up adults.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Miss you, Mom
It's been twelve years—twelve years this week—since she left. Her name was Peggy Haywood, and she was my mom.
The phone rang early that morning; it was a Saturday. I could immediately sense the alarm in my dad's voice, as he explained that my mom was extremely lethargic and even a bit delirious. She'd had a cold all week, but it had worsened to the point that he asked me to meet him at the emergency room.
My mind raced, but time slowed as I drove that thirty miles to the hospital. Surely things couldn't be that bad, but why did he feel the need to call me? Oh, well. I'm sure she's just worn down, and she'll get some good medication and be as good as new.
My dad met me as I entered the E.R., and we quickly walked back to where she lay on a gurney. I had expected to be able to talk to her, to reassure her, but that wasn't what I encountered. Her eyes were wide open, but she didn't speak. I've never witnessed eternity reflected in a person's eyes; they seemed focused, literally, on everything. She didn't look at me; she looked far beyond me, and at that point I knew... I knew she was dying.
All I could do was choke out a few words, telling her she'd be okay, as they wheeled my mom into the Intensive Care Unit. Please mom, just hang in there. I'm not ready for this. After the gurney disappeared around the corner, the doctor approached my dad and me. My knees nearly buckled as she verbalized my fear; my mother's body was battling profound sepsis and her chances of survival were extremely slim.
She passed away a few hours later.
I don't remember why, but I returned to my parents' house later on, alone. As I entered my childhood home, my mom was everywhere. Her partially opened purse sat next to her favorite recliner, her People magazines stacked neatly beside it. I collapsed into her chair and sobbed emphatically, just saying her name over and over and over again. I may have stayed in that chair for thirty seconds, or an hour or four hours; I have no idea.
At that point, things moved very quickly. Everyone was still in severe shock, but so many arrangements had to be made. The minister at her church asked if any of us wanted to say any words about her at the funeral. Really? You're asking me to sum up the person who shaped me into who I am, who devoted her very existence to her children, into a few words? My anger, of course was completely displaced, but it burned nonetheless.
A few days passed, and through the overwhelming sadness, I sat at my computer to compose something for the pastor to read. I knew I couldn't read it myself, no matter how brief it was. Her traumatic death still lingered heavily with everyone, but I felt compelled to write a simple poem to describe this remarkable woman:
You taught me what a friend is.
Then you were my first friend.
Crayons, open faced jelly sandwiches.
I insisted on planting a garden on the side of the house.
You painted a sign that said "Tim's Garden."
We played catch.
You got me that Daniel Boone hat that I had to have.
I wore it twice.
We talked.
You usually talked more.
I'm still not sure if you really were asked to sing in the Metropolitan Opera.
And that you had to refuse, saying, "No, my family comes first."
Your orange wedges always tasted best at my soccer games.
I wish I could have one more hug.
One more Christmas Eve.
One more People Magazine with the crossword puzzle already done.
One more time to tell you how much I love you.
I miss you, Mom.
The phone rang early that morning; it was a Saturday. I could immediately sense the alarm in my dad's voice, as he explained that my mom was extremely lethargic and even a bit delirious. She'd had a cold all week, but it had worsened to the point that he asked me to meet him at the emergency room.
My mind raced, but time slowed as I drove that thirty miles to the hospital. Surely things couldn't be that bad, but why did he feel the need to call me? Oh, well. I'm sure she's just worn down, and she'll get some good medication and be as good as new.
My dad met me as I entered the E.R., and we quickly walked back to where she lay on a gurney. I had expected to be able to talk to her, to reassure her, but that wasn't what I encountered. Her eyes were wide open, but she didn't speak. I've never witnessed eternity reflected in a person's eyes; they seemed focused, literally, on everything. She didn't look at me; she looked far beyond me, and at that point I knew... I knew she was dying.
All I could do was choke out a few words, telling her she'd be okay, as they wheeled my mom into the Intensive Care Unit. Please mom, just hang in there. I'm not ready for this. After the gurney disappeared around the corner, the doctor approached my dad and me. My knees nearly buckled as she verbalized my fear; my mother's body was battling profound sepsis and her chances of survival were extremely slim.
She passed away a few hours later.
I don't remember why, but I returned to my parents' house later on, alone. As I entered my childhood home, my mom was everywhere. Her partially opened purse sat next to her favorite recliner, her People magazines stacked neatly beside it. I collapsed into her chair and sobbed emphatically, just saying her name over and over and over again. I may have stayed in that chair for thirty seconds, or an hour or four hours; I have no idea.
At that point, things moved very quickly. Everyone was still in severe shock, but so many arrangements had to be made. The minister at her church asked if any of us wanted to say any words about her at the funeral. Really? You're asking me to sum up the person who shaped me into who I am, who devoted her very existence to her children, into a few words? My anger, of course was completely displaced, but it burned nonetheless.
A few days passed, and through the overwhelming sadness, I sat at my computer to compose something for the pastor to read. I knew I couldn't read it myself, no matter how brief it was. Her traumatic death still lingered heavily with everyone, but I felt compelled to write a simple poem to describe this remarkable woman:
You taught me what a friend is.
Then you were my first friend.
Crayons, open faced jelly sandwiches.
I insisted on planting a garden on the side of the house.
You painted a sign that said "Tim's Garden."
We played catch.
You got me that Daniel Boone hat that I had to have.
I wore it twice.
We talked.
You usually talked more.
I'm still not sure if you really were asked to sing in the Metropolitan Opera.
And that you had to refuse, saying, "No, my family comes first."
Your orange wedges always tasted best at my soccer games.
I wish I could have one more hug.
One more Christmas Eve.
One more People Magazine with the crossword puzzle already done.
One more time to tell you how much I love you.
I miss you, Mom.
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