Objects and Rearview Mirrors

I don’t talk about my dad’s death often. Some years, the memories are vague after thoughts. Then there are times like this one. My mind locks onto the time of year. It transforms into an obsessive fixation. The myopic tunnel I fall into triggers my anxiety, and I trap myself in an endless cycle of what-could-have-been?’s and missed moments. It fucking sucks. It rips and tears until all I want to do is scream. The whole while knowing that yelling at the abyss does nothing. Yet, here I am, doing exactly that. Sure, I’m not yelling. I’m writing. Typing it out does put some detachment into play. I can make it not about me. Compartmentalize the whole damn thing. It doesn’t solve anything, but it gives me perspective. So here we go.

Richard stayed in bed. He’d been feeling lousy the day before. So much so, he ended up going home early from school. It wouldn’t have been an issue if his parents had two cars. They didn’t, and his father had to pull himself away from his mistress and children. They weren’t people. Honestly, it would be easier to rationalize if they were some flesh and blood temptations. No, it was Doug’s job. Richard didn’t doubt his father’s love for him and the rest of the family. However, when the job was involved, there was always tension, if not competition.
The car ride home had little conversation if any. Richard apologized for being sick. What he meant was he was sorry for taking Doug away from work. Nothing more needed to be said. Once home, Richard walled himself away from everything he didn’t want to deal with, a growing coping mechanism. After Doug came home at the official time, there was dinner, another petty and pointless argument, and eventually bed.
Back then, Richard wasn’t as addicted to caffeine. Sleeping aids were twenty years away. His internal alarm clock went off. It was six-thirty in the morning. His mother already asked him earlier if he wanted to stay home. He said yes. Besides being sick, Richard hated the school he was in. He missed his old school, seven hundred miles away. They had only settled into the area four months prior. It was the same old song and dance he played out for years now. A new town, a new school, and new people for him to meet and forget about by the next move. Even after four months, he still hadn’t made any friends. Aside from a couple of kids who deigned speak to him at lunch, the prospects weren’t good. Worse, the teachers he dealt with all had sticks up their asses. Most importantly, staying home also meant they wouldn’t have to call Doug away from work again. He could stay and be diligent, trying to prove himself to ideals even the gods wouldn’t test him on. It was six-thirty and the phone rang. They still had an old blocky telephone in the master bedroom. You heard it anywhere in the house. It stopped ringing, which meant his mother answered.
Have you experienced a moment of pure existential dread coupled with perfect clarity? Everything slows to a crawl. Your mind achieves understanding and insight far beyond what you are capable of comprehending. There is nothing else in that brief space of time where all possibilities are exposed to you in stark pictures. When the moment passes, it’s like a book was closed and stashed away. You are never allowed to see it again, and the only knowledge you keep from the experience is as long as you don’t move onto the next second of your life is, you can live in the bubble of what might and could have been forever. This is what Richard, age fourteen, experienced at six-thirty on a Thursday morning. It was February, 9th, 1995, and when the clock reported it was six-thirty-one, nothing was the same again.
His mom swung open the bedroom door.
“That was work. Your dad fell. Get up and dress. They’re coming to pick us up to go to the hospital.”
Mom moved on to his brother’s bedroom. The kid was five, but missed out on kindergarten that year due to his October birthday. Richard did as he was told. The sheer commanding authority holding back the panic in his mother’s voice left him little option. Half way through the paces, Richard made a decision which showed the kind of man he would become. He recalled how he felt lost at the hospital after his grandfather died when he was seven. All the adults did their best to keep an eye on him, but there was nothing for him to exert his energies on. The kid was anything, but patient, and if there was one thing the kid had, it was energy.
“Mom, you just go. I’ll watch Andy here so you have one less worry.”
They were the right words, even if they were selfishly motivated. Staying home meant the kid could play with toys and be easier to mind. Mom agreed. Twenty minutes later, a car came for her. She left. Richard turned on the TV. The kid moved around restlessly.
“What do you think happened to Dad?” the kid asked.
“Either something fell on him or he had a heart attack,” Richard answered.
Soon after, the school bus pulled up near the mail box. The side doors opened, and it sat there. Richard watched it. The bus closed its doors, and moved on. He knew he’d never see it again.
It was around nine in the morning when the car that picked up his mother returned. The boys share a glance. The fourteen-year-old and five-year-old exchanged a conversation without speaking. No matter how the dice landed, a nightmare was about to begin. Mom walked in the back door with a couple of women Richard didn’t know. They waited in the kitchen while Mom made her way through the dining room where her table, chairs, and ornate hutch sat. They were her birthday and Christmas presents from Doug. Richard stood as she approached. The kid watched from where he sat on the floor, but rose quickly to mirror his big brother.
“How’s Dad?” Richard asked.
Nothing needed to be said. It was written all over his mother’s face. Yet, they both knew until the words were spoken, there was hope. They clung to the last threads of he wasn’t fatherless and she wasn’t a widow and single mother. The veil had to be rent. To move forward, delusional kindness wasn’t an option, even for a second.
“Richie, baby, Dad died. He–”
Richard became aware he held the TV controller. It flew across the room the next moment.
“Who did this?” he demanded. “Who kill—”
“No one. Richard, he had a heart attack.”
There’s only so much a young mind can handle. The next few hours blurred with small pauses. Mom called Doug’s mother. She called her brothers and sisters. Richard asked her where they were going. The only answer was back home, to Michigan where their family all lived. He asked another question; would he have to grow up now? There were people coming by. People he never met, and, in another day, would never see again spoke with him and helped watch the kid. Food trays covered all the available shelf space in the kitchen. All the while Richard waded in a quiet ocean. There was no way to turn around. He had no boat and the current pushed him away from all he knew, and towards a storm he wasn’t capable of facing.
Plans were made. He supplied input when asked. He remembered being asked if he wanted to go with Doug’s boss to deliver clothes for the mortician to dress the body. It would give him a moment to see the remains. Richard said no. He’d see them soon enough. By the end of February 9th, 1995, the next thirty-six hours of Richard’s life was planned out.
The next day, they arrived at the funeral parlor about a half an hour before the service. Richard was asked, but he declined to give any sort of words. Together with Doug’s boss and his wife, they went into the viewing room. Two years before this, Richard went to his grandmother’s funeral. The mortician botched the job. To this day, he doesn’t remember what he saw, only that it horrified him. He feared the worst when he walked in. In a way, it was worse. Doug appeared asleep, just that. It wouldn’t be until the next day, he started to appear more like an embalmed corpse. At any moment, Doug would blink his eyes open, having fallen asleep with his glasses on. He also looked years younger. The stylist trimmed away the grays in his beard and shaped it nicely. It was something Mom and the boss’s wife marveled over. Richard said nothing.
The oddest moment out of the whole service was seeing the principal and guidance counselor from the school show up. They were as shook up as anyone there. They were probably the last two new people to meet Doug. Richard remembered them talking to one another when he walked up to the school’s office, but that was a lifetime ago, and he wasn’t the same person he was then. Regardless of who approached them, before or after the service, the refrain was the same. Doug was loved by the people around him and he never not expressed his love and admiration for his family.
The one thing everyone agreed upon was the faster the wake and burial happened, the better. Doug wouldn’t want it dragged out. However, he died in Mississippi, and the family of three, who were once four, no longer had a reason to stay there. So not long after the service, the family of three, who were once four, sat in the backseat of a sedan. In the trunk sat their suitcases. They took what they needed most. For Richard, it amounted to a few clothes, a couple of books, a couple of cassette tapes with a player, and his Game Boy. Doug’s boss and his wife sat in the front. The kid sat between him and his mom.
For an hour and half, Richard watched frozen farms and towns pass by. It was in the mid-thirties in Mississippi, but in the sixties in Memphis. Their destination was the airport. Once there, Richard and Mom debated about getting out their coats. They wouldn’t have a chance until they reached South Bend otherwise. They decided against it, not wanting to deal with them on the planes. From Memphis, it was a connection flight to Cincinnati, where more baggage waited. First, there were goodbyes. Richard wished he could have known Doug’s boss and his wife longer. More importantly be old enough to understand the true gravity of their kindness. He wouldn’t see them again after that day in Memphis, but they would always be a part of him.
It was night when the family of three, who were once four, touched down in Cincinnati. The flights were arranged so they would meet up with Doug’s mother, his brother, and his sister-in-law. Richard was resentful over this reunion for reasons valid and childish. Grandma had met the kid once before, when he was but a few days old. The uncle and aunt never had, and Richard hadn’t seen them since 1987. There was so much pain in those few minutes for Richard and his mom. Bitterness which had nothing to do with their current sorrow. They kept it hidden as much as possible. This wasn’t the time, and it was doubtful there ever would be one. After nearing missing their connection, they headed for South Bend.
When Richard looked out the window over South Bend, he saw the golden dome of the University of Notre Dame from way above. Surrounded by fresh snow, the familiar landmark put him at ease. Soon, he’d be around extended family who knew how to express themselves. More to the point, Richard knew them. Mom and Richard already joked about not having their jackets when they disembarked in the frigid air of Cincinnati. Now, the jokes turned to needing to finding them in a hurry. They were in a real winter now. They cleared the gate and came upon something neither have forgotten. There in the terminal stood Mom’s family. It was a wonderful sight. It was a painful sight. As soon as the family of three, who were once four, emerged, they converged on them with his mother’s closest sister taking the lead. From the South Bend airport, it was a short drive north. As Richard crossed the state line into Michigan, he realized an eleven-year journey came to an end. Now back where he started, he closed one chapter of his life and turned to a blank page.

The next day, at the cemetery, I was struck with a thought. It was just my state of mind at the time, so don’t read too much into it. Almost two years before, in March of 1993, my Mom’s mom passed away. After my freak out the day before over the mortician’s makeup, our parents opted my brother and I stay with friends of the family. So, I missed the burial. A day or so later, I wanted to go out to the cemetery to see the gravesite. It was another bitter cold Michigan winter of old. There was three feet of snow on the ground. The roads were a mess, even for a seasoned driver like my dad. He said no. Being a petulant twelve-year-old, knowing damn well what I was about to say would hurt him, I asked:

“So when will it be? Two years? Five?”

As people piled out of the cars for dad’s graveside service, I realized I had my answer; about two years. Though the tent to cover the open grave blocked the view, my grandma’s headstone peeked out. Sobering, no? It’s those little details that catch you when you least expect it.

For those who might be interested, Mom decided to have my brother go to his preschool classes the morning of the first service. One service was bad enough for a five-year-old. There was no point in making him suffer two. The second wake, held in Buchanan, Michigan, was short. The officiating minister didn’t know Dad went by his middle name. So instead of saying Doug, he kept saying Richard. I zoned out for the most part. As I said earlier, Dad’s body lost its life-like appearance. So, I focused on nothing. However, it was extremely fucking annoying to be in my “this isn’t fucking happening” space, and hear “Richard” every other minute. My head kept popping up to see who was talking to me. No one was, and well, awkward. Some minor family drama let itself out of the bag for a few minutes. I refused to be a part of it. Fourteen or not, I knew my limits, and that particular drama was absolutely my limit.

To this day, it amazes me how it all came together, the two funeral services, a day and six hundred miles apart. The endless compassion and charity of my dad’s boss and his family made it all possible. Everything was paid for by my dad’s boss. Everything. The services, the burial, our airplane tickets, and our eventual move. The services were the most complex thing. We had the first service in Corinth, Mississippi on Feb 10^th. We wanted to have the second wake and burial the following day. However, the earliest a plane could take the casket north was Monday. Once again, my dad’s boss and the friends he made granted us another mercy.  

After the Friday viewing in Corinth, their people personally drove him in a hearse to the funeral home in Buchanan. All we had to do was board the plane on time. I didn’t get a chance to thank and meet drivers. They travelled all night, and it wasn’t an easy drive being early February. To all who helped us twenty-seven years ago, whether it was God’s will as my mother claims or simply human beings caring about their fellows in their greatest time of need, thank you once again from the bottom of our hearts.

There are a few reasons why this has been on my mind a lot. This year I will hit the dreaded age of forty-two. Dad was two and a half weeks away from his forty-third birthday when he died. For those who haven’t done the math, he would have been seventy this year. I imagine, at seventy, he’d be completely bald. He was half way there at forty-two. If Mom allowed it, he would wear his beard Gandalf-style. I am sure with how much gray was in his beard (and how much is in mine for that matter) it would be white by now. He’d sit there, push up his thick-lensed glasses, still wearing that sardonic look I inherited. The other thing triggering this bout of nostalgia was the recent passing of the singer, Meat Loaf.

Dad came home one afternoon with a cassette tape. He showed it to Mom, who got excited. I was seven at the time, and my tastes in music were mid-80’s country with some 80’s pop and rock. When Dad placed the cassette in the big family stereo, I was greeted with something I never heard before, a two-minute intro. I looked over to Mom and asked when the singing began. Mom laughed and said it was coming. When it did, I witnessed a new side to my parents.

Until then, their music was thematically bland, but not boring. I still listen to it nowadays. However, it was controlled. Now here was something different from all of that. I am not someone to warm up to music, even as a child. The instrumentation, the singing, and depth screamed white noise at me. It took me awhile, but I was able to break through the noise barrier and enjoy Bat Out of Hell. The cassette was the ten-year anniversary release of Meat’s first album.

We had a few singers we didn’t argue over. Meat Loaf was in the top three. When Bat II was released in 1993, I can still recall Dad’s excitement when Anything for Love’s video happened to come on MTV. Much like with Bat I, I had to listen to it a few times before I got it, but once I had, I was right there with my father, blaring it. It was one of our few common threads aside from Star Trek and the Chicago Bears.

Dad died, but I still had the music we loved together. I even got to see Meat Loaf in concert in 2002, which let me feel I accomplished something for the both of us. Interestingly enough, I went to a Bears-Packers game the previous November at Soldier Field. It was the last game before they put in the spaceship. So that was another tick off the Doug and Richie bucket list if there ever was one. I didn’t get to see Jim Steinman perform with Meat Loaf live though. I would have loved that. When Steinman died last year, I knew it was a matter of time. Then three weeks ago, my wife woke me up.

“Meat Loaf died,” she said. “It’s on the news.”

“Huh? What? No way,” I said, making my brain go from sleep mode to consciousness.

“Yeah,” she replied.

I spent a few days listening to his albums. The good ones, mind you, I have limits. Some thirty years of songs and styles, trying to write about what I felt. It wasn’t until I started this, I found the thread to tie the thoughts together. I wrote previously how my wife’s grandmother was the latest in a long line of deaths for me to experience. The first was in 1987 with the death of my Dad’s father. This was followed by my mom’s mom in 1993. Dad in 1995. My remaining grandparents, and a friend in 2003. I’ve seen the deaths of two of my cousins, two aunts, two uncles, and I know the list will only grow. To say I am jaded by it is no big stretch. It’s a comfort when something like the death of a singer can spark the feeling of loss within me.

Old feelings ride up. They take me where they will. There isn’t much of a choice. I try to find the good in the gloom, and try to see misunderstandings under the lens of maturity. It works sometimes but for the most part, I hide away, trying to catch and put them back where they belong. The whole time trying not to think of how much he and I are alike, and in my own way, act out I Am a Rock by Simon and Garfunkel, one of Dad’s favorite songs.

There is one other thread Dad and I have in common. One we weren’t aware of. I speak of writing. He wrote poems and short stories. He gave it up in his late thirties. He was very much the kind of person who believed if he couldn’t do something perfectly out of the gate, then it wasn’t for him. Somewhere between 1989 and 1990, he submitted a piece to somewhere. Mom and I don’t remember the specifics. He wasn’t published so he assumed it was a scam or he wasn’t good, and he was done. I’d just like to take a moment and say how fucking asinine he was for that.  I love him but God damn, what a self-indulgent and bullshit mentality to have. Thankfully, I managed not to fall into that mind trap. I pushed, and pushed, not giving up at the first blow. Now here I am, a published book, a blog, and at the end of this long diatribe feeling infinitely better than I did when I started it. Thanks to the abyss known as the internet. As a gift to those who stuck around to the end:

THE WITCH’S CRADLE IS GOING TO THE PUBLISHER!!!!!

THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE!!!

Editing note: I wrote this on February 8th with the intention of editing and publishing it the next morning. Well, it’s nearly nine at night, and I am finally done. While working, I realized I left out one of the funniest and most ironic parts of this story.

Dad was accustomed to flying. Being a draftsman and manufacturing engineer, he often hit the trade shows in different parts of the country. Neither Mom or I were comfortable with flying. We said we’d never do it. So, imagine the much-needed laughter when Mom and I realized the best and only way to get to Michigan was to fly. God, we needed that laugh. In the end he got us on a plane, like he always said he would.

PSS: Whoever made the album art for Bat II, I love you! Don’t sue me! XD