A Matter of Life and Death

April 19th, 2009

April 19, 2009 — Disclaimer to my dear readers: Today’s topic is considerably more personal than the usual “big picture” perspectives offered here at TSJ. If you are disturbed by graphic descriptions of drug addiction, hospitals, dying and death, I would suggest skipping this article.

At Nick Adenhart’s memorial service, Pastor Greg Johnson described how death affects each of us differently, because of who we are and what life experiences we’ve had. It brought to mind my own relationship with life and death. This being my fifth decade of my life, naturally, I have been touched by death many more times than the young men and women sitting in church that day.

Adenhart was 22 years old when he died little over a week ago. When my Dad died a couple of years ago, he was 75. Adenhart’s death was a broken promise, cutting short a sky-is-the-limit potential before it had the chance to ripen. Dad’s life was also unfulfilled, although his was a long, broken path of pain, sorrow and far too many bitter regrets.

Not long after my acceptance into college, Dad became cocaine addict—a hardcore, butane-lighter-and-glass-pipe coke-head. One weekend I came home to visit and he took me outside. He asked me what kind of bugs were crawling all over the hood of the family station wagon, and then pointed out the same ones on his arms and chest. Another afternoon, during final exams, my youngest sibling called in a voice shaking from fear and crying. She’d blockaded herself in her bedroom after fleeing one of Dad’s violent rages. I was 70 miles away. We stayed on the phone for 2 hours, until she could hear Mom’s car pull into the driveway. Needless to say, I don’t recall how my exam went the next morning. Another unpleasant tale I know of only secondhand. Suffice to say that if the woman who happened to come by the house at just the right time hadn’t been a tough-as-nails Navy widow from Oakland, CA, my Dad probably would have been murdered for failure to pay off his substantial drug debt. Not that the enforcers would have necessarily left his body for us to find.

Eventually Dad got “cleaned up” physically; although what was left was a mere shell of a man. Long gone was the loving parent who taught me honesty and compassion, and most importantly, a no-excuses attitude towards whatever job was at hand. Mental toughness had been reduced to an attitude of petty resentment towards the rest of the world. As he aged, he clung ever more stubbornly to the trappings of independence. He lived alone. Barricaded himself in his apartment when he got sick, refusing all visitors or help. He fought a running war of letters with an upstairs neighbor over a bird feeder. “A matter of principle” he called their battles. Scores of people claimed his friendship and frequently voiced their knowledge of who he was. Oddly enough, though, I noticed Dad rarely mentioned any of them in conversation. No Greek tragedy could describe descent into hell that had become his life. And it seemed as though I had been designated as the audience.

He retained one singular passion from his pre-drug days. Fishing. Two artificial knees hadn’t stopped him from going on multi-day camping/fishing trips. Dad was a semi-legendary figure among riparian locals, who nicknamed him “Old Man of the River.” He would get depressed if he had to spend more than a week away from the river. Because walking was so painful, he often used a raft and preferred to row rather than use a motor. Despite his mobility limits, or perhaps in defiance of them, he insisted on traveling to locations as far removed from civilized comforts as possible. Every spring, he would go to Alaska to a place accessible only by float plane and river raft. For those who’ve spent time up north, fishing season is a time inundated with constant, freezing rain. The base camp accommodations were primitive tents, which he liked to refer as “The Palace.”

Here in these rugged, almost primordial conditions was where he felt the happiest. Being on or near running water seemed to soothe his soul. Concentrating on the multitude of delicate tasks at hand—reading the current, looking for fish signs, admiring the wildlife, making the perfect cast, feeling the messages sent to his fingers through the line—provided respite from the demons gnawing at his mind. No responsibilities, no disturbances, no threats, no expectations. The river was the one place where he could let go of the past and merge his spirit with the immediate and ever-changing moment. Sounds a bit like playing baseball.

When cancer appeared in Dad’s body, it was a particularly aggressive type that wasn’t expected to respond well to chemo or radiation. The surgeon was cautiously optimistic. This was major surgery, particularly for someone in his 70s. Nonetheless, it had been discovered at such an early stage Dad had the energy to feel uncomfortable and grumpy rather than pain-stricken and wasted. He was in excellent health and had plenty of family and friends around for emotional support. The surgeon saw us after the six-hour operation and tentatively deemed it a success.  Several hours later, though, the medical staff grew concerned. Somewhere inside, Dad was leaking blood and it didn’t seem to be abating. He was still unconscious, so they decided to take him back into the operating room.  This time, when the surgeon came out to talk to us, his face was strained. He had hoped to find one or two major leaks, which could be staunched. Not finding anything, there was nothing he could do except close back up and hope the bleeding would eventually dry up on its own.  He looked exhausted. I hugged the surgeon hard and said, “Thank you.”

In the three days following the surgery, Dad gained at least 50 lbs from all the IV fluids and medications. As he lay there unconscious in the ICU, he looked more like a beached whale than a human being. He had tubes coming out of every part of his body. The Old Man of the River, the tough old geezer who abhorred anything that might threaten his freedom, had been reduced to a pile of tethered meat. He died, thankfully, without ever regaining consciousness.

In Buddhist tradition, there is a ritual performed as soon as possible after the moment of death in order to liberate the eternal spirit from the corporeal body. At my Aunts’ request, the priest arrived with amazing quickness and invited anyone who wanted to join him in Dad’s room. Although a number of his friends were present, nearly all of them refused. I looked around as our small handful entered and noticed something. No one seemed willing to look at Dad’s body. They were lined up, backs touching the wall and heads bowed—as if in some surreal superstition they kept their eyes averted, reality couldn’t step in and take him away from us. I stood by the bed during the ceremony; it was short and quite beautiful. When it was finished, the priest indicated we could leave. I stood there for a few moments, watching the weeping mourners shuffle out of the room. I looked down at my Dad’s bloated and disfigured face. I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, which was still slightly warm. “Bye Dad,” I whispered. Then I too walked out.

As I made preparations for Dad’s memorial service, I decided to write a eulogy. I gave it to the service chairman and asked him to read it. I put a copy in my purse to bring along. In the glove compartment of Dad’s truck, I found an old ponytail elastic and used it to tie back a few strands of my own long, black hair. It was pink. A tiny shot of bright color in my mourning attire of matte black. With the testimonials winding down, I suddenly realized the chair wasn’t going to include the eulogy. I thought it over for a second, and then I stood up and walked to the podium.

Now this is a rather striking break in Buddhist funeral tradition. Immediate family members are the earthly representatives of Dad’s immortal spirit. Our job is to grieve and let others do the speaking. My breach was further highlighted by the fact that I am the eldest child and heir to the family lineage. Least of all should I be disrupting the ceremonial rituals.

When I reached the podium, I quietly told the chairman I’d like to say a few words. He looked at me blank-faced. Then he stepped away.  I looked around at the audience. My Aunts were looking shocked and a bit horrified at what I was doing.  I apologized for the impromptu speech and bowed in their direction. I looked down at my paper, took a deep breath and began:

I’ve been hearing a lot of really nice things about my Dad in the last few days. But to tell you the truth, he had a lot of faults too. For example, he was honest to a fault, he was loyal to a fault, he was compassionate to a fault, he was generous to a fault. That said, I suppose those aren’t such bad character flaws to have.

One thing that always amazed me was how his circle of family and friends never seemed to stop growing. Taking a look around this room, it’s obvious that Dad never cared about the color of your skin, the size of your bank account, or how long ago it was that you’d taken a shower. He had that uncanny knack of seeing past these superficial layers and right into the very heart of who you are. A rare gift, to be sure.

I have a theory about why Dad loved being around moving water—whether it was a surf-washed beach or flowing river. There is a zen term that describes this concept, koun ryusui, which translates roughly into “high clouds, flowing water.” It implies a world reduced to the very essence of “what is.” A reality stripped of all unnatural artifice, washed clean of emotional baggage—barely a whisper more substantial than nothing at all.

In this setting of transient ebb and flow is where I believe he was able to find the quiet spot inside himself. I truly believe that in this place, time stood still and the deep waters became as clear as glass. It was here that he found refuge from the pain of his aching body and the sadness of dreams yet unrealized.

Frequently, these powerful memories of my Father seem to be accompanied by the words of yet another great dreamer. And I find myself looking up at the sky and whispering. . . “Free at last! Free at last! Thank Heaven above, we are free at last!”

. . .Your friend in baseball.

Entry Filed under: Game of Life