What Happens Next

"...You may be right

It's all a waste of time

I guess that's just a chance I'm prepared to take

A danger I'm prepared to face

Cut to the chase

What kind of difference can one person make?

Cut to the chase..."

–Rush, Cut to the Chase 

I needed a distraction. Something fun with the family that could shield me temporarily from work stress, from America slipping away, from grieving my best friend's passing, and from existential exhaustion. Feeling helpless and overwhelmed by it all, I just needed a break from how my brain has been reacting of late. 

The Santa Cruz Clam Chowder Cook-Off was upon us and never disappoints. It's a weekend full of yummy local chowders cooked up by both amateurs and professionals and held at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. And this year our oldest Beatrice worked the event, selling tasting kits and merchandise. 

Beatrice finished her shift and joined my wife Amy, her sibling Bryce, and me to start tasting the chowders. It's always a busy event, rain or shine, and this year the weather was fabulous. Within the first hour of tasting there was wall-to-wall people walking around, waiting in chowder tasting lines, or waiting to ride the amusement park rides. But mercy me the chowder is always a treat with dozens of chowder booths to choose from. After a few samples I'm always full. 

It was fun, and momentarily distracting, but my life nagged at me like a child pulling on my shirt on the verge of a tantrum. I looked up to watch the 100-year-old Giant Dipper roller coaster train race down the first precipitous drop. That's the trope, I thought. That the world is just a big, scary roller coaster without safety bars or straps, and we've got to hold on with all our might for fear of flying out and plunging to our deaths. 

Yikes, Kevin. What the hell?

There were so many people at the Boardwalk, that it was a little overwhelming at times, but we were still so glad that we went. Families and friends alike who all just wanted a break from whatever daily stress they face to have a little fun, ride some rides, play some arcade games, and eat some chowder (and a variety of amusement park junk food). 

But after the chowder cook-off, I was still full of existential exhaustion. Since my dear friend Robby passed, I've struggled more than I thought I would with his death, my own mortality, and what I've done with my life. Over the years, he'd always say to me, "You know, sometimes I wish this would all end, but then I think, I still really want to see what happens next. You know what I mean?"

I know, Robby. I do. And even at our lowest points, we still wanted to see what happened next. The difference you made in my life, and so many others, was indelible. 

Because of that, I just can't feel this way today. I'm still here and I can't feel like I don't and won't make a difference. You would tell me I have much work to do, just as my inspirational wife and children do. They are working hard to make a difference in the world around them. They proudly speak actionable truths that took decades for me to articulate and live. They not only want to see what happens next; they want to be the positive change of what happens next. 

And dammit, so do I. 

Superman's Love Letter

The last time I talked with Robby, he sounded good, but he had never been frailer. We talked about the visit we had just had together a week earlier with the five of us -- Robby, Greg, Craig, Rob, and me -- friends of over 45 years. He told me he was grateful for our visit and our friendship. 

He also wanted to again explain why he dug into Greg about our transgressions of the past. The times decades earlier when we'd come visit him and selfishly party it up like we were fraternity brothers on spring break, which we were all complicit in doing, including him. 

He was always the past re-hasher of things and that was okay. It was always his way of working through the continuous trauma of being paralyzed since his swimming accident in 1984. Going to visit him was our annual pilgrimage of doing the same.

During that last conversation, he asked me, "Did you watch the video I made yet?"

I hadn't. "No, not yet. I've been off Facebook for over a month now."

"Oh, I get it, but you should login and watch it," he said.

"I will."

But I didn't. I did remember the last night we were at his house, though. I had already been asleep for a couple of hours, but then I woke up hearing Robby and Greg talking in living room. I went to see what they were doing. Robby sat on the couch with sunglasses on and the big glowing grin he was known for, and Greg sat across from him in a chair. 

"What are you guys doing?" I asked.

"I'm filming Robby," Greg said.

"Yeah man, you're going to want to check it out. It's been about a year and half since the last time I did this," Robby said. 

"Night," I said, and returned to the bedroom and my air mattress. I smiled at them, but I was tired and had to head out early the next morning. 

After we talked that last time on the phone, I still hadn't watched the video. Three days later I got a call from Robby's sister, Diana. Usually, she texts us if something's up with Robby's health, but a phone call meant something entirely different. I knew even before she said the words -- Robby was gone. 

He'd been quite fragile the past few years, his long-term paralysis taking its toll on his body. He'd been in and out of the hospital with brittle broken bones and various infections. He also struggled with chronic neurological pain. His traveling anywhere beyond the city of Chico where he lived had been over for many years. When we last visited him, he had turned 59. 

After our last visit two weeks ago, I wrote (again) about how Robby, broke his neck our senior year in high school. It was spring break, April 18, 1984, and he was a swimmer at a local swim meet. During one of the races, he false started three times in a row, which disqualified him from that race. On the third false start, instead following through on the dive, he went straight down on the back of his neck. 

Some of our other friends, including me, were at the coast for the day (which for us was a 2.5-hour drive). We tried to get him to skip the swim meet, but he really wanted to compete. There were no cell phones back then, so we didn't know what happened until my friend Charles dropped me off in front of my house where dozens of high school friends stood, many crying. After we learned what had happened, we fled to the hospital. 

He relived his accident every day since it happened. We relived it every time we were there with him or when we talked with him on the phone. His accident was a shared trauma for all of us, his friends. It was a shared trauma for our entire high school and our community. 

We were friends before Robby's accident, but our friendships were bound together forever because of it, and our pilgrimages to see him over the decades have been our collective catharsis of healing. He would've given anything to walk again. We would've given anything. Decades of love, laughter (lots of it), and tears were what willed our healing into being.

After I got off the phone with his sister and learned of his passing, I finally watched the video he'd made the last time we were all together, less than two weeks before. I cried. I watched it multiple times and cried again. It was a love letter to our friendships. He was grateful that we remained friends after all these years and that we kept coming to see him. It was classic Robby -- extroverted warmth, humor, sincerity, and of course, soundtracked to music. His sister was right: "He lived the biggest life anyone in his situation could have. Robby had a golden glow that I’m sure still radiates from him wherever he is."

Halloween of our senior year, six months before his accident, Robby dressed up as Superman. It was iconic because he was iconic. After his accident, he was trapped in 1984 forever while he lived the biggest life he could in the decades that followed. He'll always be Superman to us, and the last video he made for us was Superman's love letter to friendship.

Our hearts ache, but we see you standing there now, my friend and brother, and we love you.

Other past posts about and related to these friends of mine:

• Men of An Influencer Age
• Making a Dent
• Men of a Stand-up Age
• Men of a Vulnerable Age
• Endless Possibilities Actually
• Able-Bodied Grateful
• Men of Our Present Age
• The #MeToo Guys
• Men of a Women's Age
• Men of a Consequential Age
• Grown Men Friends and Fathers
• Like Men Knowingly Bound to Their Future
• Because That's How It Works With The Guys That Work
• Big Heart Love to My Class of 1984
• Men of An Unremarkable Age
• Being What Happens Next
• Daddy Day in Monterey

This Bad History

At first, the time capsule seemed appealing to her. The idea of it, at least, of putting things from her life today in 2020 in a box that would remind her of this life today 20+ years from now.

Her third grade teacher assigned the time capsule project to her class, we discussed it, she was onboard, and then we identified a box for her to use. The first thing she wanted to put in the box was the picture of our family on the beach wearing our coronavirus face masks that her Auntie Jill made, my wife's sister.

"What else do you want to put in there, Bryce?" I said.

Bryce, our youngest daughter, thought for a moment, and then she said, "The President."

"Our current president?"

"Yes."

I paused, sorting words in my head to choose them carefully.

"Okay, that sounds great. So, a picture of him?"

"Yes. A picture."

"Okay, you can help me pick one out. Why a picture of him?"

I couldn't help but ask. Both our daughters know how we feel about the current administration and they are also more aware of current events themselves than ever.

"Because of history," Bryce said, as if I should've already known the answer.

"Great, so what else do you --"

"Bad history," she interrupted.

"Bad history?"

"Yes, bad history. The virus, the president, no more school..."

Her voice trailed off. I could tell she was becoming upset.

"Okay, bad history. I understand. Let's figure out what else you want in the box."

"I don't want to do this anymore right now," she said.

"Okay, Sweetie. I understand."

I was surprised because I thought she'd really want to do this project. However, each time we brought up working on the time capsule, her face contorted into deep, quivering sadness. Like me, her father, Bryce feels her emotions deeply, and once they become overbearing, she can't help but to break down and cry. And that's exactly what she did.

"So, Bryce, you don't want to do this project now?"

"No," she'd squeak out between tears.

"Dad, can't you see she doesn't want to do it," her older sister Beatrice said. Bea is definitely her sister's defender these days.

"Okay, okay."

Both her mom and I sympathized with her. When I came back from working out this weekend, I stopped and tore off a piece of yellow caution tape from a fenced off building that included the word CAUTION on it. I did this because I had a new idea myself: what if we put things in the time capsule box that she never wanted to see again? Like a negative time capsule to be buried cathartically and never be seen again. I thought that maybe she might like this idea.

But when I shared it with Bryce, she shook her head.

"No, I'd rather do it the easier way," she said. "The first way."

"Oh, okay, so you do want to finish the time capsule now?"

Again, her face contorted slightly. "No, no I don't want to do it at all."

"Okay, then we'll ask your teacher for another project for you."

"Okay," Bryce said.

And so we're not going to make her do the time capsule project. We'll work with her teacher to figure out another project for Bryce. The dramatic changes to our children's lives have been enough bad history to fill a lifetime in their minds anyway, so there's no point for Bryce saving them for another day to relive again and again. She may not be to articulate this now, but that's going to happen with these memories whether we put things in a box or not. Until this bad history is behind us all, we just want Bryce and Beatrice to grieve for what's been lost and unearth as much goodness as they can from life each and every day.

Again with Now and Forever

"There's a feeling I get
When I look to the West
And my spirit is crying for leaving..."

—Led Zeppelin, Stairway to Heaven

We weren't there when she coded. She had gone into the hospital for what was supposed to be a routine procedure, and sometime during recovery, her heart failed. The first time nearly 10 minutes transpired before they revived her. Then her heart failed again. And then a few minutes later again.

That's when the hospital called me, early one evening over three years ago, two weeks after I had taken her back home to Oregon from California. This after a disastrous stay with my sister only months after my father died from battling cancer and failed treatment.

The surreal phone call had me frozen in place in our kitchen, the phone pressed to my ear as the Mama watched me intently.

"Yes, I understand," I remembered saying. "But what happened?"

"We don't know yet, but we've cooled her body temperature with ice to slow any permanent brain damage that might occur due the heart failure and loss of blood flow. We have her on life support now."

"Will she wake up?"

Silence on the other end. Then, "It's possible. We'll know when we start warming her up in about 48 hours. I assume you'll be coming up."

"Yes. Yes, I will. We will."

Two days later my sister, my wife and I were all there. Together we stood in silence around my mother's hospital bed. She lay swollen and silent, eyes closed, the only noise coming from the life support systems keeping her alive. I had just talked with Mom on Thanksgiving the week before, but my sister and her hadn't spoken since their falling out.

During our awkward silence around her bed, I wept. Not only because I missed our mom and I couldn't say goodbye, but I wept because her broken heart still trailed in pieces behind her since she'd lost her husband, and more recently since she wasn't speaking to her daughter.

I wept because I believed then as I still believe now that her broken heart gave up, that she wanted to go home to heaven and be with Dad.

A week later we told Beatrice about heaven. In the simplest of definitions, with loving language and expository words used sparingly if at all.

The Mama had finally made it home from Oregon, but I remained with my sister taking care of what had to be cared for. There I was, watching my family on FaceTime in front of our fireplace adorned with stockings and alit with Christmas moon lights, thinking of It's a Wonderful Life.

"What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down..."

Bryce babbled and ran back and forth across the phone camera's field of vision, calling for Amy's mom, and she answered back softly. Beatrice stood in front of the couch while the Mama knelt next to her. She held the little figurine of two mice that she fell in love with when we were up visiting my parents in June, Nana and Papa as all the grandkids knew them.

"Beatrice," the Mama said, "we want to tell you that Nana isn't sick anymore, that she's with Papa in a better place."

"Yes," I said.

The Mama continued. "Nana and Papa are now together in heaven where they will be forever."

"Nana and Papa are together," Bea echoed. "In heaven."

"Yes, sweetie. They love you very much and will always be with you."

As I said those words, I ached to believe them, as if my very presence in that moment depended on everything I learned as a child growing up in the Nazarene Church -- the many pictures of smiling Christs, arms always draped lovingly around children of all colors and nations, set in a meadows on warm spring days.

"They will always be with you, Bea." And I really wanted to believe that for me.

I watched as Bea's mind swirled and ticked, trying to understand what it all meant. She held the mouse figurine tightly and smiled. I took that as my answer.

For two people who've always questioned the edicts and redeeming value of Christianity, the Mama and me were quite comfortable telling Bea about the coloring book version of heaven.

Because we believe we'll be together someday in a better place. Because we already are -- the Mama, me, the B-hive and our family and friends.

Heaven is being with those you love. To hell with everything else.

Heaven is now; heaven is forever.

All this came back to me when I saw the post from a dear friend of mine who just lost her husband, both of whom have been battling cancer for years and the complications that unfortunately come with those battles. I touched my computer screen and wept for her and her family, losing her husband, her best friend, the love of her life and the father of her children and grandchildren.

I wept because I know how much she loved her husband. I wept because I still miss my parents. I wept because I imagined losing the love of my life and the mother of our two lovely little girls.

I wept because I know resiliency and healing are like continuous tides that eventually wash away our grief, while the footsteps of those loved ones who have passed before us remain permanently affixed upon our stairways to heaven.

Again with now and forever. Amen.


Heaven's Addendum

Their heaven wraps around the finger lake at sunrise
like a gold band forged now and forever.
I walk and cry and laugh and run along the paths,
Draw beauty of sky, trees, debris and water
deep into my lungs' tendrils that feed my heart.
I stop to pay homage to Kinkade and Sparks,
tempered (of course) by Hopper, Folds and Peart,
Bly and Kerouac, and Stein and Thompson Walker of late.
I thank God for my parents, for their love and suffering
when their bodies finally slowed to sudden stops
only four months and a day apart after a millennium.
Heartache leaves permanent scars of pleasure and pain,
but I thank God for my parents and their heaven,
for it will be there for me every morning I rise
promising more than until death do us part,
an eternal promise for my wife and us all.

Being Back Here

I couldn't get the song out of my head once it started. It was 2:30 in the morning, last night, the night before my Mom's last memorial, which was earlier today. (That's what strung out feels like, kids. We were up for hours last night...)

The song was Still Fighting It, a bittersweet reflection on growing up and having children of your own, by Ben Folds.

"It was pain
Sunny days and rain
I knew you'd feel the same things...
Everybody knows
It hurts to grow up
And everybody does
It's so weird to be back here
Let me tell you what
The years go on and
We're still fighting it,
we're still fighting it..."

Because at that moment, while I watched the Mama (my wife) hold and try to console an inconsolable stuffy Bryce (my youngest daughter), and Beatrice (my oldest) and me laid awake unable to sleep, I thought of my Mom and all the times she consoled and took care of me and my sister growing up, much of it without help with we were young children.

It's so weird to be back here...

Whether it be a cold, or the flu, or chicken pox, or allergies, or asthma -- Mom always took care of us and did everything she could to make it all better. Always.

Even the time I nearly ate an entire bottle of orange flavored baby aspirin and our family doctor at the time told Mom to make me throw it all up. Now that was a joyous memory. If you've tried to convince a young child to throw up for their own good, you know what I'm talking about. So no, I never did throw up that time, but fortunately it all worked out and all that yummy aspirin didn't affect me adversely.

I watched the Mama hold Bryce and remembered Mom and those are/were the memories that live now and forever in the tidal pools of my heart, a universe within universe within universe without forgetting once the "sunny days and rain" shared amid torrent and still water like glass.

Two weeks ago we said goodbye in Oregon, leaving Mom and Dad forever in the bay where they loved and lived in the end, where their souls reach to heaven...and today we said goodbye with local family and friends in Visalia where we grew up and where it all started for us, another tide rushing in to scatter memories from pool to vibrant pool...

Thank you for always being there, Mom. We were there for you as much as we could be in the end.

We love you.

Now and forever

We told Bea about heaven. In the simplest of definitions, with loving language and expository words used sparingly if at all.

The Mama had finally made it home from Oregon, but I was still here with my sister taking care of what had to be cared for. There I was, watching my family on FaceTime in front of our fireplace adorned with stockings and lit Christmas moon lights.

"What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down..."

Bryce babbled and ran back and forth across the camera's field of vision, calling for Nonna, and Nonna answered back softly. Beatrice stood in front of the couch while the Mama kneeled next to her. Bea held the little figurine of two mice that she fell in love with when we were up visiting my parents in June, Nana and Papa as all the grandkids knew them.

"Beatrice," the Mama said, "we want to tell you that Nana isn't sick anymore, that she's with Papa in a better place."

"Yes," I said.

The Mama continued. "Nana and Papa are now together in heaven where they will be forever."

"Nana and Papa are together," Bea echoed. "In heaven."

"Yes, sweetie. They love you very much and will always be with you."

As I said those words, I ached to believe them, as if my very presence in that moment depended on everything I learned as a child in the Nazarene Church -- the many pictures of smiling Christs, arms always draped lovingly around children of all colors and nations, set in a meadows on warm spring days.

"They will always be with you, Bea."

I watched as Bea's mind swirled and ticked, trying to understand what it all meant. She held the mouse figurine tightly and smiled. I took that as my answer.

For two people who've always questioned the edicts and redeeming value of conservative Christianity, the Mama and me were quite comfortable telling Bea about the coloring book version of heaven.

Because we believe we'll be together someday in a better place. Because we already are -- the Mama, me, the B-hive and our family and friends.

Heaven is being with those you love. To hell with everything else. Heaven is now; heaven is forever.

We love you, Mom and Dad. Now and forever. Merry Christmas.

The Most Important Thing

"One more song about moving along the highway

Can't say much of anything that's new

If I could only work this life out of my way

I'd rather spend it being close to you…"

--Carole King, So Far Away

So, how did we get here again?

We stood outside my parent's house in Oregon with Mom, her car I drove from Santa Cruz full of her and her little dog and much of her stuff, and waited for her friends to bring us a copy of her house key because the one we had didn't work. Twelve and a half hours of cramped but fairly smooth sailing on the highways and byways, listening to the sounds of the 70's and of my childhood, only to have to wait a little longer. (Thank goodness Ody keeps beating the Wreckers.)

She's so fragile, both physically and emotionally, grieving for the loss of Pop, or her well-being over the years battling with chronic illness and pain and a lifetime with meds. Going from my sister's house to mine and then back to Oregon over the past few months has been a mixed blessing, the emotional scars of family dynamics and a little dysfunction flaring up yet again.

And now we're here in their house where Pop passed away not even three months ago. The house is clean and tidy, their dear friends taking care of it while Mom was away. Most of her stuff unloaded from the car, tossed here and there for now until we can put it away, I sit and write, not feeling like we've gained anything from falling back, not even that elusive hour.

The incomprehensible burden of what we do next flattens me to the ground. But I have to get off it. I have to get off it and stand up and help Mom get acclimated to this interim world in Oregon, however temporary it may be. Getting her back to us is the optimal solution, but how to get there, I do not know yet.

I remember a car load from another time, a light blue VW bug that sputtered along, filled with a beautiful but battered mother and her two children and their stuff. A mother who's strength and courage survived over 12 years of domestic violence with two little kids to care for, my sister and me. A faithful servant of God for years, even in her moments of destructive doubt, inescapable grieving and her belittled will to live. She just reminded me of how good it is I'm here with her. I held her tightly in return. Sometimes that's all we need in moments like this, the assurance of warmth and safety in being held, just like she used to do for us back then.

The expository text may tell of how we get here, but the most important thing is that we're here. And what we do with it.

Of giving and loss

It's enlightening when you're three-year-old is such a sweet giver. Sure, she melts downs when she can't watch Wonder Pets, The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore or the Yo Gabba Gabba Christmas special -- two weeks after Christmas (please, I can't watch it anymore, help me, it's already January 8).

But from Christmas Day with Nonna to the week after when my unwell folks (Nana and Papa) actually made it here for a few days, Bea reveled in us opening our gifts, some of which she picked out herself, like my Santa Raider ornament and Bryce's toy cars, and like the earrings I had specially made for Mama titled "working them angels" after Mama and the B-hive via the artisan Katy Bransfield at Between Sun & Moon.

And just this last week when Bryce was having a nuclear meltdown during dinner, with both me and the Mama throwing our arms up in surrender, Bea did her best to make her little sister smile and laugh. It didn't quite work, but she tried, the misdirection helped, and we thanked her for that.

Bea's still got some work to do in other areas, but mercy she's fast becoming a smart little girl (again, only three, right?). In fact, nothing tops defining the ultimate toddler giver as what happened one night during the holidays. We had put Beatrice to bed (Bryce was already asleep), and about 10 minutes after that Bea called for Daddy.

I went up and said, "What's the matter, sweetie?"

"Take this," she said, reaching out her hand.

"Take what?"

"Take this."

She pushed her hand into mine.

"Is that a booger, Bea?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She smiled then laughed.

"Thank you, sweetie." Thank you. Really.

From sweet giver to learner of loss -- that's been a fascinating window on what it means to have to say goodbye to those we love. For Beatrice, that means our nanny/babysitter Elyse after two and half years and Nana and Papa after a few days of visiting over the holidays.

Elyse leaving was the biggest blow, but the one-two punch of her moving away and then my parents being in and out really took it's toll on Bea. Watching raw grief spill from a toddler who doesn't fully understand what she's feeling, but understands she doesn't want to say goodbye, cry-howling and red-faced, it's bittersweet for adults who have been there more than once, who've experienced it on more levels than wished to remember. We told her she'll see them all again, but it's no consolation in the moment of grief.

After surviving not quite a Christmas miracle, the lessons of giving and loss have been invaluable, even for an old Daddy who's been there, done that (and will again and again and again).

Happy New Year!

 

I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you hug me

John McCain gave an eloquent and gracious concession speech this week, and while I'm a Barack Obama supporter and part of the "yes we can" daddies-for-change bandwagon (imagine what that looked like), I know John McCain loves his country and truly believed he was the right person for the job.

But he lost. Decidedly.

How does one deal with that kind of loss at that level? Or any level? More specifically, how does a dad deal with loss and his family? We talk a lot about helping our children deal with losing, as Daddy Clay at DadLabs did recently, but what about the dads?

Whether it's losing the presidential election (kinda high-profile), or struggling families whose fathers (and mothers) are losing their jobs, or losing their homes, or divorcing, or losing one of their children, or losing the big company softball game, or no matter where the loss falls on the spectrum – how do we cope with our families and children?

I've never had a child until now, but one thing I remember clearly was the open communication my mother had with me when she divorced my father. That was key. My early experiences with daddies weren't so hot, so Mom was the provider and caretaker for a few years.

But when my later father (adopting step-father) suffered one physical loss after another, his courage and strength and "fighting back for life" overshadowed any sense of loss any of us felt for him. No anger or depression or withdrawal or chemical dependence. Just straight ahead "you can't keep me down" marching orders. That's inspiring.

Most of us have some knowledge of psychiatrist Kübler-Ross's proposed stages of grief:

Denial: "This can't be happening to me."

Anger: "Why is this happening? Who is to blame?"

Bargaining: "Make this not happen, and in return I will ____."

Depression: "I'm too sad to do anything."

Acceptance: "I'm at peace with what is going to happen/has happened."

What I didn't know was that Kübler-Ross herself never intended for these stages to be a rigid framework that applies to everyone who mourns (and of course that makes sense). I just read that in her last book before her death in 2004, she said of the five stages, "They were never meant to help tuck messy emotions into neat packages. They are responses to loss that many people have, but there is not a typical response to loss, as there is no typical loss. Our grieving is as individual as our lives."

Our grieving is as individual as our lives. Although I'm glad that more and more fathers are being responsible and sensitive and communicative and open to healing when there's loss. It does take time, but take time for your families as well. They're there for you just as you're there for them.

At least that's the case with the hip cats I'm hanging around. Give us a hug, Beck.