Part 1 (Wednesday): Singing the Jeff Buckley Version of ‘Hallelujah’ in the car while crying…
If you told me when I was 19 that I would *long* to move back in with my parents, I would have thrown a pumpkin into the air and shot it with a shot gun while smoking a cigar in a mini skirt, and then I would have laughed and told you you were fucking nuts. But, alas, a breaking heart will always call you home.
My father is the sickest you can be without being dead, or this was, at the very least, my belief a week ago. Today, a social worker named Andrea with a sympathetic face told me that I was incorrect. “The fact that he is rummaging through papers indicates to me that he may have 3 more months before he dies,” she directed.
“I need to ask you questions, but I don’t know how to ask them.”
“Okay. Let’s go in the other room.”
When someone is dying, one of the most important things you need to know how to do is completely feign ignorance of this ever-present fact.
Yes, Andrea. Let’s talk in the piano room! We wouldn’t want to interrupt dad from planning his fucking mountain-climbing trip by being all maudlin! Quick: let’s secretly discuss what breathing and eating habits indicate your inevitable demise… but we can’t just chat about it in front of dad. It would be such a shame if he knew he was dying. He might be upset and sell his ice skates and then he’ll never become the 64 year old ice skating champion he has always wanted to be.
Sorry to be thinking bitchy thoughts while you’re trying to help, Andrea.
We sit in the piano room and she tells me the truth. There are stages of death. Hospice people, medical professionals and social workers are used to seeing the phases. Rummaging around a box of papers high on Haldol and Morphine searching for your employment records means you have 1–3 months left yet.
“Well, he’s peeing blood so that’s bad,” I tell her.
“Right. That’s because his kidneys are failing.”
“How long can you go without kidneys?”
“It all depends on the person,” says Andrea. She looks concerned.
“Kidneys seem important,” I say, but I feel like a dumb ass. I’ve never really considered the hierarchical importance of a person’s internal organs. I mean, I’ve had them my whole entire life. Longer even. But apparently I don’t know the deal about how necessary they are.
After you are no longer able to sit at a table, Andrea explains that a few things are going to happen in a specific order, thus:
- You need a walker to walk.
- Then you need a wheel chair.
- You will breathe heavily.
- You will no longer eat very much (which he already isn’t).
- Your skin will get cold.
- Someone will charge you $20/ hour to bathe you.
- You will need round-the-clock care so that there is a person responsible for making sure you won’t die alone / no one forgets to give you Morphine and Haldol every 3 hours.
- Everything will get worse and worse until your heart keeps you alive while everything else about you is completely fucked up and in pain.
She also told me that people can hold on for major life events like a wedding or a kid you love coming to visit. I find myself admitting to Andrea that my final wishes are to be put to sleep like a dog and she looks at me like she’s worried I’m going to mercy-kill my father. I assure her I won’t, but she seems concerned. My mom says she doesn’t think putting people to sleep like dogs is a good idea because religious people wouldn’t like it. “To religious people,” she says, “it is the same as suicide.”
I get irritated because religious people don’t have to watch my vivacious father shuffling around in pain. They just get to boss people’s deaths around on no good-authority. I think about what a nice funeral my husband’s ex-wife’s dog had. I immediately decide, with some confidence, that some day I will probably just strangle myself instead of going through steps 4–8.
My mom interrupts this train of thought by askinig Andrea a question about “affordable cremation,” and Andrea gives her a list of convenient options in the Kentuckyana area. Mom feels tacky but Andrea reassures her that it’s a good question. “Advantage Cremation is only $720, plus a $100 delivery fee since they are coming from Oxnard.”
“That place got a 2-star review on Google, but there was only 1 review. I hope they’re not mixing people’s ashes up,” my mom says.
Andrea isn’t sure.
“I saw my husband’s ex-wife’s elderly dog be cremated,” I tell them for some reason. “The guy who did it was really nice.” I wish I were Johnny Depp so that I could afford to pay $5 million dollars to have my dad’s ashes launched into the sea by cannon, or maybe we could throw his ashes from a chopper onto Mt. Reneir. He climbed that mountain and he was proud of it. Instead, I was comparing dog-cremation prices to human-cremation prices. I think of the person who has to put the final outfit on my dad. I wonder if they’ll use the same blankets and maybe we can pet him or hold his hand like we did at the dog place.
After Andrea leaves, my mom and I go to the Ford plant to find out about the absolutely bullshit pension she is entitled to.
We went to dinner and she got sort-of-drunk on 1 glass of wine. I drove home and we held hands and listened to Jeff Buckley in the car. We only cried for a few minutes, but I wish the guy who cremated my husband’s ex wife’s dog would at least be the person putting the outfit on my dad. He was very respectful and tender, and I swear to God I will rip someone’s face off if they don’t do a good job being gentle with us that day.
