It's been five months.
Here's a list of Tank's stuff. Of course, he shared furniture and appliances and dishes and pans, so they were left behind. And I'm convinced that if--a year ago--he'd moved to another house in Morro Bay, he would have ditched half of this stuff. If he'd moved farther--to Port Townsend, to Sandy--he would have ditched 90 percent of it.
86 books
Detective fiction: 17
Other fiction: 5 (including a gorgeous hardcover Joseph Conrad)
Word origins, quotes, writing, speaking: 12
Anti-religion: 6
LA waterfront: 11
Movies and showbiz: 7
Philosophy, history, science: 23
Controlling diabetes: 4
Jokes: 1 ("Beyond the Far Side")
There were two duplicates: "The Best of Sydney J. Harris" and Eric Hoffer's "Working and Thinking on the Waterfront."
62 items of clothing
T-shirts: 4
Woven-cotton shirts: 6 short sleeved, 1 long sleeved
Polo shirts: 4
Cotton-knit lounge pants: 5
Sweat pants: 4
Jeans: 1
Khaki shorts: 2
Khaki slacks: 4
Socks: 4 pair
Shoes: 4 pair (3 white tennis shoes, 1 gray tennis shoes)
Skivvies: 7 pair
Gloves: 2 pair
Belts: 2
Hats: 4 (2 baseball caps, 1 canvas bucket hat, 1 narrow-brimmed straw hat)
Bathing suits: 2
Scarf: 1 (bright red wool, fringed...probably packed inadvertently)
Fleece jacket: 1
Windbreakers: 3
Sweater: 1
Wall hangings
Poster (Lakers, a couple decades ago)
Poster (aerial view, Port of Los Angeles)
Posters (3, Tank's writing)
Wooden sign ("Live well, laugh often, love much")
Pencil drawing (small, matted, 1910)
Pencil drawing (framed, San Pedro)
Modern art (by Tank, on glass)
Modern art (by Tank, bark glued on styrofoam)
Sign ("Pay Attention, LL" by Tank, 3 feet by 3 feet)
Sign (Tow Away Zone on one side, an invitation to a party at Tank's on the other side)
Sign (Spencer's Market "proudly sponsors" Tank's radio show)
Painting (large, framed, yellow lawn chair and a bucket of red flowers)
Painting (framed, sailboat)
Blank canvas (1 foot by 2 feet)
Over-sized birthday card (from the Alexanders, 1 foot by 2 feet)
Media
Lots of cassettes, VCR tapes (movies, Tank), CDs (music, Tank on the radio), DVDs (movies, Tank)
Miscellaneous items
"Laugh Lots!" written on a piece of fencepost with black Sharpie
Paper (large stack, assorted sizes and weights)
Life magazines (about a dozen)
Duffel bags (4: 3 canvas, 1 leather)
Blankets (2, both small)
Towel (large, brown, embroidered with the word TANK and several small military tanks)
Frisbee (yellow)
Crockpot (olive green, without a lid)
Eyeglasses (2, readers, brown plastic)
Baseball glove (well worn)
Softball
Football
Rope (coiled, clothesline type)
Checkers game (plastic)
Chess game (plastic)
Picnic basket (wicker, small)
Utensil crock (blue)
Puzzle (in original package, "What Movie is That?")
Boom box (with a Gipsy Kings CD)
Large box of empty coffee cans with lids
Attache case (black with red-and-black-checked interior)
Paper cup filled with nuts and bolts
Tape (packaging, Priority Mail)
Tape (masking)
Tape (2, Scotch)
Tools (4, assorted)
Bird feathers (3, assorted)
Flashlight (in working order)
Ruler (NFL theme, plastic, 12 inch)
Wine corks in a gallon Ziplock bag
Metal bracelet ("Live well, laugh often, love much" on one side, "Live the life you have imagined" on the other side)
Tiles (about 4 inches by 4 inches; "Dance like there's nobody watching" on one, "Sing like there's nobody listening" on the other)
Bottle opener
Eggs (4, stone)
Eggs (2, plastic)
Dominoes game (very old, in box)
Box of white chalk
Box of crayons (only 6 left)
Shoelaces (45 inches, new in package)
Antenna ball ("76")
Electric razor
Bottle of Tums
Hospital bootie (1)
Ink-filled stamp with home address
Pen
Drawing pad (18 inches by 24 inches, spiral bound)
There were several items that had been gifts from one of Tank's kids, so those items were returned to the gift-giver. (One was a wall hanging that defined the word Dad, making reference to the guy who pushes you extra high on a swing, allowing you to see things that you might not have seen otherwise. Another was a pencil sketch--beautifully done by Anna C., who worked from a photo--of a young Tank working under the hood of a sports car.) There was also an American flag, which was sent directly to Peggy from the navy, and she kept it as her first-choice item. There was also a large sepia photo (with a rigid backing) of early San Pedro, which Tank told Peggy she could have.
To my mind, the most desirable possession of Tank's was the chunk of fencepost with "Laugh Lots!" written on it. I didn't get it, and it was no one's fault but my own. I was distracted...maybe by grief, maybe by the over-sized cookies Sally brought to the divvying-up event. Kelly got it, and it's displayed prominently in his house. "I love it," Susan gushed, when Sally and I visited recently. I thought about grabbing it, and running to the Fit, and driving until I crossed into Canada. But I took a deep breath and thought about the cool things I did score: a long-sleeved plaid cotton shirt that I can wear like a cocktail dress, a container of Tums that I keep in the glove box, the suitable-for-framing piece of tree bark, the three feathers to which Dan attached pens and keeps on his desk, and one of the Sydney Harris books, in which Tank wrote "Please return to: TANK." He included his address and offered a polite "thank you." The book smells of his house...like seawater, like sunshine.
Peggy made me a beautiful bracelet for my birthday. It has a don't-blame-don't-complain theme. When I wear it, I spend slightly less time blaming and complaining.
I was chatting with a friend recently, and I said--of a mutual friend--"He's never been allowed to be himself." Once we're adults, though, "being oneself" doesn't require the permission or encouragement of others (although many of us get confused and think it does). Tank--especially the last dozen years or so--was very determined to be himself, and he derived great pleasure from doing so. He didn't always manage it, of course, and a case could probably be made that "being himself" wasn't always in his best long-term interest. Few achieve and maintain the level of clarity that allows one to express the self of today without harming (to some degree) the self of tomorrow.
But even so... I always got the impression that Tank was trying to get the most from a moment by making it uniquely his own...by turning off the voice that told him what others expected, what tradition dictated, what was standard operational procedure, what was prudent. Tank understood that much of what we take to be mandatory is actually optional.
I know that my effusive praise of Tank sets him up for criticism. He would be the first to assert that his mistakes would fill the back of an F-150 to overflowing. And that--if lucky--one acquires wisdom with age, but one still makes mistakes at an alarming rate.
In addition to Tank's bulkier stuff, there was a huge box of story ideas, notes-to-self, and correspondence, which I divided among the four of us, shamelessly keeping the best for myself (sometimes, I made copies). Eventually, I'll blog about each and every scrap of paper. Like me, Tank was comfortable throwing away correspondence once it was read, so I was surprised when I found a Thoreau quote that I sent him, cut from a magazine and inserted in a letter. It reads: "There is no remedy for love but to love more."
I had a credit at Amazon.com, so I recently ordered five Simon and Garfunkel CDs, because I only had albums. I've been listening to them in the car, and today--it was inevitable--I suddenly heard the unmistakable first notes of "The Boxer," one of Tank's favorite songs. Besides its musical perfection, it's clear to me why Tank loved this song. After 9/11, when normal TV programming resumed, Paul Simon was the musical guest on "Saturday Night Live," and he sang "The Boxer." It's an ode to resilience. "In the clearing stands a boxer..." The song takes a while to end, with just enough lie-la-lie's to suit me. But this time, as I listened to the song end, I imagined Tank turning and walking away from me, with that football-injury gait, his arm up to wave a final time. As he waves, his face is already turned away from me, in a posture that would seem dismissive if it weren't so familiar and affectionate. Try thinking about that while you listen to "The Boxer." "I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains."
Monday, June 27, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
27 May 2011
Hi there! A few days ago, Sally and I sprinkled some of Tank's ashes on Nola's grave. About one-half cup, fyi. I sprinkled them at the headstone/grass boundary. So, if you visit, say howdy to Tank, too.
Yesterday, it was four months.
When my siblings and I visited Tank in November, when he had the brain biopsy, he was not always lucid (but he was always adorable). He sometimes became confused about time frames. Once, I was alone with him, and he said the following. (I wrote it down immediately, so I wouldn't forget. I'm copying it from my journal now.)
"I was with Nola the other day, and we were down by the docks. The dock was wooden, which is unusual nowadays. We were in a car. Your mom looked beautiful, in a dress, and a hat, but only one glove. Suddenly, I couldn't find her, and I looked around for her, but she was gone. Where could she have gone, I wondered. I opened the trunk of the car, and there she was. She got out, still with just the one glove on, and--suddenly--she jumped into the water! Right off the edge of the pier! But she can't swim! She never learned to swim! So I jumped in after her, and I tried to save her, but I couldn't. I just couldn't get to her, to save her. I couldn't reach her. Finally, I climbed out of the water, and I drove home without her. I wandered around the apartment--remember that little apartment where we lived in San Pedro?--but she wasn't there. I couldn't find her. She was gone."
On a happier note... A couple of months ago, my great-nephew E spent the night, and I suggested he fetch a stack of books from my study for bedtime reading. Among others, he brought the Dr. Seuss classic "Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?" Tank sent it when my son was born, almost 27 years ago. Inside, Tank wrote, "...To have a Mom like Polly. Her Dad." There's also a small drawing of a tank, of course. I said to E, "Did you choose this book because you knew it would make me happy?" "No!" he said, with a sweet smile. "I just chose it at random!" I smiled, too, 'cause I'd never heard him use that figure of speech before. I read it, and the others, and he wasn't sleeping yet, so I suggested he fetch more. "Why don't you read this one again," he said, picking up the Dr. Seuss book. "Okay," I said. He cuddled up next to me and said, "This time I chose it because I knew it would make you happy." Without question, some people are muchly much-much more unlucky than me.
When Tank visited my family in Dallas in about 2000, he was feeling pretty good. He and his wife had been living separately, but were meeting up in Dallas and traveling back to California together. He'd lost some weight, and had a lot of energy, and you know how it is: When you love yourself, loving others (madly, passionately, comprehensively, incandescently) is the easiest thing in the world. We were hanging out at home, and Tank suggested that he cook a meal for us. My husband poured wine for himself and for Tank, and that little gesture seemed to set the stage for the meal prep. The rest of us perched on bar stools while Tank whipped up something delightful with eggs, feta cheese, and barely cooked spinach. His gestures were broad, his laugh filled the large room, and he seemed completely relaxed and confident in that kitchen, pausing occasionally for a sip of red wine, and to hold us in his affectionate and openhearted gaze.
I've been talking with my sisters about the differences between Tank's death and Nola's death. For me, Nola's death felt like standing in the ocean, water to my waist, facing the shoreline, and being knocked over by a huge and unexpected wave. Suddenly, I'm in deep water, completely disoriented, my lungs filling. Then, darkness. When I regain consciousness, I'm lying in wet sand, and seaweed is tangled in my hair. I stumble to my feet, and eventually resume my young-adult life.
Tank's death also felt like standing in the ocean with water to my waist, but with my back to the shoreline. I see the huge wave as it approaches. Again and again, it seems to advance and retreat. Then, suddenly, it hits, knocking the wind out of me. I topple, tasting the briny water. Eventually, the sea calms, but I remain there in the surf, unable or unwilling to leave. I can look away from the ocean and see the white sand, the ice plant, the paved road...but I sit cross-legged in the warm water, awaiting his return.
With apologies to Joan, I'm glad that Robert Parker died before Tank did. I couldn't stand a conversation with one of my siblings that included the words, "Tank would have loved this book. He would have sent copies to all of us. A decade from now, he'd still be snatching up copies at used bookstores." It reminds me of the last line in "Catcher in the Rye" about "missing everybody." We told Tank things, and he told us things, and the agony of "missing" is fueled by every conversation we had, every laugh we shared, every letter we exchanged. "Tank would love this," I often think, and sometimes say aloud. (I also know that Sally would love a necklace made of peace signs and butterflies and daisies all strung together in a cheerful fashion, and that Kelly has the latest Jason Isbell CD and would share a lyric or two if I called him right now, and that Peggy is shopping for shoes as I type--maybe something a little Kardashian'd, but not too Kardashian'd.) Love and pain are as solidly linked as rice and beans, as jeans and T-shirts, as Laugh and Lots.
A couple of months ago, we divided Tank's stuff. I was fascinated by what he kept and what he didn't keep. I'll post a list later. Take care! Polly.
Yesterday, it was four months.
When my siblings and I visited Tank in November, when he had the brain biopsy, he was not always lucid (but he was always adorable). He sometimes became confused about time frames. Once, I was alone with him, and he said the following. (I wrote it down immediately, so I wouldn't forget. I'm copying it from my journal now.)
"I was with Nola the other day, and we were down by the docks. The dock was wooden, which is unusual nowadays. We were in a car. Your mom looked beautiful, in a dress, and a hat, but only one glove. Suddenly, I couldn't find her, and I looked around for her, but she was gone. Where could she have gone, I wondered. I opened the trunk of the car, and there she was. She got out, still with just the one glove on, and--suddenly--she jumped into the water! Right off the edge of the pier! But she can't swim! She never learned to swim! So I jumped in after her, and I tried to save her, but I couldn't. I just couldn't get to her, to save her. I couldn't reach her. Finally, I climbed out of the water, and I drove home without her. I wandered around the apartment--remember that little apartment where we lived in San Pedro?--but she wasn't there. I couldn't find her. She was gone."
On a happier note... A couple of months ago, my great-nephew E spent the night, and I suggested he fetch a stack of books from my study for bedtime reading. Among others, he brought the Dr. Seuss classic "Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?" Tank sent it when my son was born, almost 27 years ago. Inside, Tank wrote, "...To have a Mom like Polly. Her Dad." There's also a small drawing of a tank, of course. I said to E, "Did you choose this book because you knew it would make me happy?" "No!" he said, with a sweet smile. "I just chose it at random!" I smiled, too, 'cause I'd never heard him use that figure of speech before. I read it, and the others, and he wasn't sleeping yet, so I suggested he fetch more. "Why don't you read this one again," he said, picking up the Dr. Seuss book. "Okay," I said. He cuddled up next to me and said, "This time I chose it because I knew it would make you happy." Without question, some people are muchly much-much more unlucky than me.
When Tank visited my family in Dallas in about 2000, he was feeling pretty good. He and his wife had been living separately, but were meeting up in Dallas and traveling back to California together. He'd lost some weight, and had a lot of energy, and you know how it is: When you love yourself, loving others (madly, passionately, comprehensively, incandescently) is the easiest thing in the world. We were hanging out at home, and Tank suggested that he cook a meal for us. My husband poured wine for himself and for Tank, and that little gesture seemed to set the stage for the meal prep. The rest of us perched on bar stools while Tank whipped up something delightful with eggs, feta cheese, and barely cooked spinach. His gestures were broad, his laugh filled the large room, and he seemed completely relaxed and confident in that kitchen, pausing occasionally for a sip of red wine, and to hold us in his affectionate and openhearted gaze.
I've been talking with my sisters about the differences between Tank's death and Nola's death. For me, Nola's death felt like standing in the ocean, water to my waist, facing the shoreline, and being knocked over by a huge and unexpected wave. Suddenly, I'm in deep water, completely disoriented, my lungs filling. Then, darkness. When I regain consciousness, I'm lying in wet sand, and seaweed is tangled in my hair. I stumble to my feet, and eventually resume my young-adult life.
Tank's death also felt like standing in the ocean with water to my waist, but with my back to the shoreline. I see the huge wave as it approaches. Again and again, it seems to advance and retreat. Then, suddenly, it hits, knocking the wind out of me. I topple, tasting the briny water. Eventually, the sea calms, but I remain there in the surf, unable or unwilling to leave. I can look away from the ocean and see the white sand, the ice plant, the paved road...but I sit cross-legged in the warm water, awaiting his return.
With apologies to Joan, I'm glad that Robert Parker died before Tank did. I couldn't stand a conversation with one of my siblings that included the words, "Tank would have loved this book. He would have sent copies to all of us. A decade from now, he'd still be snatching up copies at used bookstores." It reminds me of the last line in "Catcher in the Rye" about "missing everybody." We told Tank things, and he told us things, and the agony of "missing" is fueled by every conversation we had, every laugh we shared, every letter we exchanged. "Tank would love this," I often think, and sometimes say aloud. (I also know that Sally would love a necklace made of peace signs and butterflies and daisies all strung together in a cheerful fashion, and that Kelly has the latest Jason Isbell CD and would share a lyric or two if I called him right now, and that Peggy is shopping for shoes as I type--maybe something a little Kardashian'd, but not too Kardashian'd.) Love and pain are as solidly linked as rice and beans, as jeans and T-shirts, as Laugh and Lots.
A couple of months ago, we divided Tank's stuff. I was fascinated by what he kept and what he didn't keep. I'll post a list later. Take care! Polly.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
2/9/2011
It probably goes without saying that this blog entry will have more to do with me than with Tank.
I'm at home, typing in my small study that is now crammed with Tank's stuff. There are boxes and bags on every surface. I'll go pick up a few things at random, and describe them. You know...for fun.
The first item is 1 of about 20 empty coffee cans with lids (SLO Roasted Coffee, decaf, "pungent flavored," 12 ounces). Before he died, Tank suggested I take them home so the little boys could stack them and then knock them over with a ball or beanbag. The cans are all exactly the same, and fit neatly in a cardboard box. The second item is a hard-cover book called "Origin of Sea Terms." I'll pick a term: "Isogonic lines" are lines (on a chart) of equal magnetic variation. I'll find one that's a bit more...conversational. "Shanghai" means enforced "volunteering" to raise a crew. As in, "I wonder how many times I can Shanghai Dan into taking me to La Puente for lunch because I need consoling." The third item is a fistful of neatly rolled rope (like clothesline) that I found in the trunk of his car. I wonder what emergency he anticipated, and what role the rope would play. Also, as I type, I'm wearing another of his hats. It's a well-worn off-white bucket hat with navy-blue trim and the the embroidered words "Morro Bay." I look like a chubby Gilligan.
Peggy and I returned home last night from a three-day trip to Morro Bay. We left Salt Lake early Sunday morning and drove straight through. Time passed quickly and pleasantly. We laughed lots, and then we laughed some more. This is the Honda Fit's fifth trip in less than three months, and it continues to perform flawlessly (and get 35 mph). We talked nonstop, except once when I played "The Wonder of You" sung by Elvis Presley, because it reminds me of Tank. I'll share the lyrics:
When no one else can understand me
When everything I do is wrong
You give me hope and consolation
You give me strength to carry on...
And you're always there to lend a hand
In everything I do
That's the wonder...
The wonder of you.
And when you smile the world is brighter
You touch my hand and I'm a king
Your kiss to me is worth a fortune
Your love for me is everything...
I'll guess I'll never know the reason why
You love me like you do
That's the wonder...
The wonder of you.
After checking into Motel 6, we went to the Whale's Tail for dinner (fish and chips). After a long day on the road, Peggy still looked cute. We crashed at the motel and got an early start the next day.
I didn't ask Peggy if she chose her outfit that morning with the intention of honoring Nola; I just assume she did. She wore tight and slightly faded blue jeans, a fitted gray-and-white-checked cotton shirt over a gray camisole, and tennis shoes. She wore more silver jewelry than one might deem appropriate for that level of casualness, but she made it work. While I showered, Peggy walked on the beach. At the Hungry Fisherman, we shared eggs Benedict. In San Luis Obispo, Peggy shopped while I watched. Peggy drove north to Cayucos, and we walked out on the pier, which I'd never done before. It was a gorgeous day. It was fun, but it would have been so much better if we'd been able to tell Tank about it, and feel his glow of approval. Eventually, I'll need to get past that feeling.
We went to lunch in Morro Bay, at Dockside Too. I had a fish taco, Peggy had a steak taco, and we shared chicken taquitos (a favorite of Tank's). We found a small table right on the water, and relaxed with our tasty meal. There was a friendly yellow lab wandering from table to table. There was a man playing a guitar and singing: the Beatles, Peter Frampton, Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" ("I turned to look but it was gone..."). Peggy said, "This guy must be exactly your age." I tipped him, and we left.
I called Terry and told her we'd be by later. She had appointments during the day, so it was okay to wait and meet up for dinner. Peggy and I drove to an avocado orchard (and a little store) about five minutes up Highway 41. Sally had told us about it. So cool! I want to go again! A middle-aged woman shared so much information about avocados! Did you know that some types of avocados spend two years on the tree? We bought several varieties, along with other locally produced items (jars of pickled asparagus and spicy tarter sauce, bags of beef jerky and merlot-flavored candy), and the woman gave us each a ripe avocado for the road. Free!
We stopped at Spencer's Market, and then drove to Terry's house. She wasn't there yet, so Peggy and I had some time alone with Tank's...space. It was strange. We wandered about some, and sat and talked some. It feels less like Tank, and not just because most of his stuff is gone. We've always liked the place, and we certainly like Terry's decorating style. It's still beautiful and tasteful, but...it lacks Tank's energy and passion, the sound of his voice, the space taken up by his body. For me, it was eerie, but not necessarily sad (kind of sad, but not overwhelmingly so). It did not seem to me that Tank was...lingering here. I remember visiting Nola's apartment in San Pedro two months after she died. The air felt thick with her presence. There was this...viscosity. I felt like I needed to sit down because of an increased gravitational pull in the room. But...it wasn't like that with Tank. The air seemed lighter; the room seemed less occupied.
Tank never struck me as a believer in the mystical (which is probably one of the reasons I'm not a believer in the mystical). However, a month or so before he died, when he was talking about death, he said that he didn't think that this was it. He said he imagined that the day he was born he was plopped down on earth, and that the day he died he would be plucked back up. Using his fingers, he made motions as if moving a chess piece. He didn't speculate as to what or who was doing the plopping and the plucking, and where he (Tank) was before and would be after. He didn't seem to be pondering, and he didn't seem to be invested in the theory, but--rather--just thinking aloud. He certainly didn't believe in God, and this brief conversation in no way led me to think that he was edging toward a belief in God. Instead, I was reminded of that line from "Lord of the Rings:" "Death is just another path." I suppose that's possible.
Anyway...we loaded the rest of Tank's stuff into the car. Terry got home, and we hugged, and chatted briefly. She gave us a box of ashes (half of Tank's ashes) and the flag from the navy. She told us that last week she and daughter Katherine scattered the other half of Tank's ashes along the coastline, at several locations. That seemed to bring her peace, and resolution. We went to dinner at Dockside (as opposed to Dockside Too, which offers patio dining, and is behind Dockside). Terry and I had shrimp bisque, Peggy had a side salad, and Peggy and I shared shrimp and chips.
Neither Peggy nor I slept well that night. Before dawn, we hit the road. It felt okay to be leaving so quickly. The day was clear and warm, and we made good time: Atascadaro (breakfast), Paso Robles, Lost Hills, Wasco, Bakersfield, Tehachapi, Boron, Barstow, Baker, Primm (lunch), Las Vegas, Mesquite, St. George, Cedar City, Beaver, Fillmore, Scipio (treats), Nephi, road construction, and Draper. Mike met us at my house, with a bag of corn chips so that Dan and I could have guacamole for dinner with the Morro Bay avocados (thanks, Mike). Mike and Peggy grabbed a few treasures from the car, and headed on out.
I'm at home, typing in my small study that is now crammed with Tank's stuff. There are boxes and bags on every surface. I'll go pick up a few things at random, and describe them. You know...for fun.
The first item is 1 of about 20 empty coffee cans with lids (SLO Roasted Coffee, decaf, "pungent flavored," 12 ounces). Before he died, Tank suggested I take them home so the little boys could stack them and then knock them over with a ball or beanbag. The cans are all exactly the same, and fit neatly in a cardboard box. The second item is a hard-cover book called "Origin of Sea Terms." I'll pick a term: "Isogonic lines" are lines (on a chart) of equal magnetic variation. I'll find one that's a bit more...conversational. "Shanghai" means enforced "volunteering" to raise a crew. As in, "I wonder how many times I can Shanghai Dan into taking me to La Puente for lunch because I need consoling." The third item is a fistful of neatly rolled rope (like clothesline) that I found in the trunk of his car. I wonder what emergency he anticipated, and what role the rope would play. Also, as I type, I'm wearing another of his hats. It's a well-worn off-white bucket hat with navy-blue trim and the the embroidered words "Morro Bay." I look like a chubby Gilligan.
Peggy and I returned home last night from a three-day trip to Morro Bay. We left Salt Lake early Sunday morning and drove straight through. Time passed quickly and pleasantly. We laughed lots, and then we laughed some more. This is the Honda Fit's fifth trip in less than three months, and it continues to perform flawlessly (and get 35 mph). We talked nonstop, except once when I played "The Wonder of You" sung by Elvis Presley, because it reminds me of Tank. I'll share the lyrics:
When no one else can understand me
When everything I do is wrong
You give me hope and consolation
You give me strength to carry on...
And you're always there to lend a hand
In everything I do
That's the wonder...
The wonder of you.
And when you smile the world is brighter
You touch my hand and I'm a king
Your kiss to me is worth a fortune
Your love for me is everything...
I'll guess I'll never know the reason why
You love me like you do
That's the wonder...
The wonder of you.
After checking into Motel 6, we went to the Whale's Tail for dinner (fish and chips). After a long day on the road, Peggy still looked cute. We crashed at the motel and got an early start the next day.
I didn't ask Peggy if she chose her outfit that morning with the intention of honoring Nola; I just assume she did. She wore tight and slightly faded blue jeans, a fitted gray-and-white-checked cotton shirt over a gray camisole, and tennis shoes. She wore more silver jewelry than one might deem appropriate for that level of casualness, but she made it work. While I showered, Peggy walked on the beach. At the Hungry Fisherman, we shared eggs Benedict. In San Luis Obispo, Peggy shopped while I watched. Peggy drove north to Cayucos, and we walked out on the pier, which I'd never done before. It was a gorgeous day. It was fun, but it would have been so much better if we'd been able to tell Tank about it, and feel his glow of approval. Eventually, I'll need to get past that feeling.
We went to lunch in Morro Bay, at Dockside Too. I had a fish taco, Peggy had a steak taco, and we shared chicken taquitos (a favorite of Tank's). We found a small table right on the water, and relaxed with our tasty meal. There was a friendly yellow lab wandering from table to table. There was a man playing a guitar and singing: the Beatles, Peter Frampton, Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" ("I turned to look but it was gone..."). Peggy said, "This guy must be exactly your age." I tipped him, and we left.
I called Terry and told her we'd be by later. She had appointments during the day, so it was okay to wait and meet up for dinner. Peggy and I drove to an avocado orchard (and a little store) about five minutes up Highway 41. Sally had told us about it. So cool! I want to go again! A middle-aged woman shared so much information about avocados! Did you know that some types of avocados spend two years on the tree? We bought several varieties, along with other locally produced items (jars of pickled asparagus and spicy tarter sauce, bags of beef jerky and merlot-flavored candy), and the woman gave us each a ripe avocado for the road. Free!
We stopped at Spencer's Market, and then drove to Terry's house. She wasn't there yet, so Peggy and I had some time alone with Tank's...space. It was strange. We wandered about some, and sat and talked some. It feels less like Tank, and not just because most of his stuff is gone. We've always liked the place, and we certainly like Terry's decorating style. It's still beautiful and tasteful, but...it lacks Tank's energy and passion, the sound of his voice, the space taken up by his body. For me, it was eerie, but not necessarily sad (kind of sad, but not overwhelmingly so). It did not seem to me that Tank was...lingering here. I remember visiting Nola's apartment in San Pedro two months after she died. The air felt thick with her presence. There was this...viscosity. I felt like I needed to sit down because of an increased gravitational pull in the room. But...it wasn't like that with Tank. The air seemed lighter; the room seemed less occupied.
Tank never struck me as a believer in the mystical (which is probably one of the reasons I'm not a believer in the mystical). However, a month or so before he died, when he was talking about death, he said that he didn't think that this was it. He said he imagined that the day he was born he was plopped down on earth, and that the day he died he would be plucked back up. Using his fingers, he made motions as if moving a chess piece. He didn't speculate as to what or who was doing the plopping and the plucking, and where he (Tank) was before and would be after. He didn't seem to be pondering, and he didn't seem to be invested in the theory, but--rather--just thinking aloud. He certainly didn't believe in God, and this brief conversation in no way led me to think that he was edging toward a belief in God. Instead, I was reminded of that line from "Lord of the Rings:" "Death is just another path." I suppose that's possible.
Anyway...we loaded the rest of Tank's stuff into the car. Terry got home, and we hugged, and chatted briefly. She gave us a box of ashes (half of Tank's ashes) and the flag from the navy. She told us that last week she and daughter Katherine scattered the other half of Tank's ashes along the coastline, at several locations. That seemed to bring her peace, and resolution. We went to dinner at Dockside (as opposed to Dockside Too, which offers patio dining, and is behind Dockside). Terry and I had shrimp bisque, Peggy had a side salad, and Peggy and I shared shrimp and chips.
Neither Peggy nor I slept well that night. Before dawn, we hit the road. It felt okay to be leaving so quickly. The day was clear and warm, and we made good time: Atascadaro (breakfast), Paso Robles, Lost Hills, Wasco, Bakersfield, Tehachapi, Boron, Barstow, Baker, Primm (lunch), Las Vegas, Mesquite, St. George, Cedar City, Beaver, Fillmore, Scipio (treats), Nephi, road construction, and Draper. Mike met us at my house, with a bag of corn chips so that Dan and I could have guacamole for dinner with the Morro Bay avocados (thanks, Mike). Mike and Peggy grabbed a few treasures from the car, and headed on out.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
2/1/2011
Many thanks to Peggy for writing the charming obituary. I hope she doesn't mind that I added that last line. Peggy is also submitting Tank's navy discharge papers, to get the flag. It's wonderful to be home, and to continue to hear from folks who loved Tank. The obituary is in the Salt Lake Tribune today, and should be in the Provo Herald tomorrow. I submitted it to the Daily Breeze in San Pedro, too.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
1/29/2011
Hi there. Maybe you thought I was done blogging. :)
Sally and I are still here, and we had a fun day. First, we went to ASAP print shop and ordered copies of photos of Tank. Terry had this great color photo of Tank sitting in front of a restaurant, all casual, all cute. Maybe two years ago. God, he's beautiful. He looks SO relaxed and mellow and present. I tumble into those feelings when I look at the photo. So, I had 120 copies made on photo paper. It's about 8 x 9 inches. I can't tell the copies from the original. I'll distribute them to Nola and Tank's kids, grandkids, siblings, nieces, and nephews, plus a few others I can think of. If you know someone else who might want one, let me know.
People in Morro Bay know Tank. When I picked the order up at ASAP, an elderly woman who worked there brought me the box of photos. English wasn't her cradle language, and she seemed nervous when she said to me, "Is your...husband...okay?" It should have occurred to me that the people there would know Tank, since he has a LOT of copies made. I said gently, "Tank's my dad, and he passed away the day before yesterday." She gasped, and turned away, sobbing. She walked away from me, to hide her feelings. It was poignant, and there was no one to comfort her, because the other employees were teenage boys, and I couldn't get to her because she was behind the counter. She gathered herself, and returned to the counter to talk to me about him. She wanted a lot of information, and clearly adored him. She asked how old he was, and I said 78, and she said "So young!" :) Dear, huh.
The middle-aged man next to me saw what was going on, and showed some curiosity and concern. What a friendly town! I opened the box and showed him the photo, and he said, "I know him! I've seen him around!" I have a feeling that if we stayed for another few days, that same scenario would play out over and over again.
In fact, when Terry and I were on the way home from the hospital on Thursday, right after Tank passed away, Terry wanted to stop at the liquor store to get boxes to pack up Tank's stuff. I walked into Bottle Liquor, and said to the young man behind the counter, "Do you know Tank Nelson?" "I sure do!" he said. He said his name was Nick, and he asked how Tank was doing. I told him that Tank had just passed away, and he looked startled, and maybe dizzy, and he grabbed the counter. "No!" he said. "No!" I was a little surprised; it seemed so deeply felt. "God, I loved Tank," he said. "You sweetheart," I said in a consoling tone, and a customer put his arm around my shoulder and told me he was sorry for my loss. "Tank was a good guy," the customer said. When I asked for boxes, Nick told me to take all the boxes I wanted.
Today after ASAP, Sally and I headed for Guadalupe, about an hour from Morro Bay. We had a terrific lunch at Larry's (I think it's actually called Guadalupe Restaurant), and after we asked our waiter if he knew Tank. He furrowed his brow, and we said something like, "A big guy, from Morro Bay, comes in here with his wife." He knew exactly who we meant, and recited their order. :) We told him of Tank's passing, and he talked about how friendly Tank was, and how much his mom and dad (the owners) liked Tank. We went next door to the Masatani Market, where Tank always buys Hershey bars after lunch. Mr. Masatani wasn't in, but his son was, and knew Tank, and referred to him as The Writer. The son took us back to Larry's, where his elderly mother was chatting with Mrs. Larry. The two women joined me and Sally and the Masatani son on the sidewalk in front of the building, and we chatted for about ten minutes. It was such a treat! They knew so many things about Tank, and asked questions, and offered condolences. Once, Tank wrote a column about the restaurant and the grocery store, which share a building on the main drag in Guadalupe. All of them were warm and affectionate and clearly moved by Tank's passing. Sally and I drove away, beaming.
We didn't exactly get lost on the way back to Morro Bay, but we did a lot of Unscheduled Site-Seeing. A couple hour's worth. We arrived just before the print shop closed, and we missed out on the farmers' market and True Grit, and that was okay.
The day before, we'd been at Terry's place, and she approached me and Sally with a serious look and said, "I'm afraid there will be no inheritance from your father." :) We tried not to giggle. I tried to arrange my face in a way that would suggest both devastation and resignation. "Say it ain't so..." Minutes later, she reported that there'd been something like 36 missed calls that day, and as many the previous day. People who heard the news stood out front looking dismayed and confused. Jim from Spencer's came to the door, and I gave him the cribbage board, and he hugged me longer and tighter than I would have predicted. He said he would spread the word, since there wouldn't be an obituary in the local paper. Surfaces in the house are covered with notes and letters and flowers and pies and fresh fruit. People keep calling. I've been thinking about how there are things that we inherit other than money.
Two of Terry's daughters flew in from Georgia today, and they're staying with her. We visited them briefly tonight. They were very sweet. Terry seems to be holding up very well, and the presence of her daughters seems to have calmed her. Sally and I boxed up everything of Tank's. Everything, really. We're bringing most of it home, but will need to return with a truck for a desk, a small table, and lots of paintings, wall hangings, and posters. One such masterpiece is a white piece of poster board on which Jack drew in black and red Sharpie. It's priceless, and Tank hung it in a place of honor. Nearby is a small photo of Elvis, Jack, and Carter taken at Kaycee's wedding. Cutie-pie's. The stuff we're bringing home is enchanting to me and Sally: a Laker poster from decades ago, a little gadget that prints Tank's name and address, three pairs of glasses, a flower arrangement made of shells that Elvis might like, a jotted-down Emerson quote about how every time you do one thing, you miss out on doing another thing. Treasures like that.
Did I mention that Terry arranged to have half of Tank's ashes scattered in Morro Bay, and the other half sent home with us to Utah? The box will be ready on Tuesday or Wednesday, and whoever picks up the desk and stuff will also get the ashes. It'd be fun to scatter some in San Pedro, too. Sally said that at the crematorium, they said that the longshoreman's union pays for the cremation. Nice, huh. Also, because Tank was in the Navy, we'll score a flag.
Last Sunday, when Kelly and I were with Tank at Bayside, while he was still feeling okay, Tank said, "They're making a new Bourne movie." :) "I love Bourne movies," I said. Kelly agreed. Tank said, "I like the music." We talked Bourne for a while. "I read that Matt Damon isn't in it," I said, and Tank and I shrugged, 'cause that wasn't going to stop us from seeing it, despite our love for Matt. A couple of years ago when I was visiting, I mentioned that I'd seen the third movie only once, and I left for a while (I might have been with Peggy), and when I returned, Tank had rented the movie from Blockbuster, and the three of us watched it. "They don't do random."
Also that Sunday, we talked about how fun it would be for Tank to visit Utah when he got to feeling better. Not ALL better...just somewhat better. I suggested that he stay for a good long time, like a month, and visit everyone, and not feel rushed. "You can live at my house," I said, grinning. "In the basement?" he asked, sounding oddly hopeful and excited (given the state of the basement). Sure, I said. Anywhere, I said.
It sure has been a pleasure hearing from so many people about their feelings for Tank, and their memories. Thank you.
While Sally and Terry were at the crematorium, I walked to the beach. Well, not all the way to the beach, but to some benches that overlook the beach, a couple of blocks from the house. I wore Tank's straw hat, which is half jaunty, half dapper. We're bringing the hat home, and we'll take turns wearing it (why don't I go first). I was sitting on a bench, watching the ocean, and an elderly couple sat down on a bench a few yards away. They seemed relaxed and unhurried, with a dog. They wore the full-coverage cotton layers that I'm used to seeing in Morro Bay on elderly folks. They wore hats. They seemed happy with each other...easy with each other. I thought, How lucky they are. To be alive, and to have each other, and that cute dog. To be in such a beautiful place, and to not be in a hurry to get somewhere else.
A funny thing happened today. My regular blog is at love-shall-not, but I hadn't been there for a while, and I went to loveshallnot instead. It's not a very active blog, and the only posting is the following Carl Sandburg poem, which made me cry. It's called "At a Window."
Give me hunger,
O you gods that sit and give
The world its orders.
Give me hunger, pain and want,
Shut me out with shame and failure
From your doors of gold and fame,
Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!
But leave me a little love,
A voice to speak to me in the day end,
A hand to touch me in the dark room
Breaking the long loneliness.
In the dusk of day-shapes
Blurring the sunset,
One little wandering, western star
Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow.
Let me go to the window,
Watch there the day-shapes of dusk
And wait and know the coming
Of a little love.
One more thing. At the Living Planet aquarium in Sandy, there's a wheel that you can spin to see the many things that can happen to a salmon. Elvis and I love that wheel. He climbs up to spin it, and I read (or now he reads) the fate of the salmon, based on where the wheel stops. We eagerly wait for the winning stop, which is Live to Reproduce. When we score that, I grab Elvis under the arms and spin him around in a circle (away from the wheel and then back to the wheel), and we squeal: "Live to reproduce!" It's fun, as you can imagine. But I was thinking about that with Tank the other day. There was a time when living to reproduce was the ONLY thing that mattered. I mean, even now, it's a fairly big deal. While in the hospital, I kept thinking of Tank's spawn. :) I know that living to reproduce isn't the challenge it once was, but, still...
I was thinking of Kelly today, and the last time he was at the hospital, before leaving for Utah. As I recall, he gave Tank's foot a little snuggle and said, "See you later, Big Guy." I can't SWEAR he said that, but it seems to me that he said that. I hope he doesn't mind that I mentioned it. It made me grin adoringly.
I hope this finds everyone well. Much love to Norma, as she recovers. Sally and I are probably going to head home tomorrow.
Sally and I are still here, and we had a fun day. First, we went to ASAP print shop and ordered copies of photos of Tank. Terry had this great color photo of Tank sitting in front of a restaurant, all casual, all cute. Maybe two years ago. God, he's beautiful. He looks SO relaxed and mellow and present. I tumble into those feelings when I look at the photo. So, I had 120 copies made on photo paper. It's about 8 x 9 inches. I can't tell the copies from the original. I'll distribute them to Nola and Tank's kids, grandkids, siblings, nieces, and nephews, plus a few others I can think of. If you know someone else who might want one, let me know.
People in Morro Bay know Tank. When I picked the order up at ASAP, an elderly woman who worked there brought me the box of photos. English wasn't her cradle language, and she seemed nervous when she said to me, "Is your...husband...okay?" It should have occurred to me that the people there would know Tank, since he has a LOT of copies made. I said gently, "Tank's my dad, and he passed away the day before yesterday." She gasped, and turned away, sobbing. She walked away from me, to hide her feelings. It was poignant, and there was no one to comfort her, because the other employees were teenage boys, and I couldn't get to her because she was behind the counter. She gathered herself, and returned to the counter to talk to me about him. She wanted a lot of information, and clearly adored him. She asked how old he was, and I said 78, and she said "So young!" :) Dear, huh.
The middle-aged man next to me saw what was going on, and showed some curiosity and concern. What a friendly town! I opened the box and showed him the photo, and he said, "I know him! I've seen him around!" I have a feeling that if we stayed for another few days, that same scenario would play out over and over again.
In fact, when Terry and I were on the way home from the hospital on Thursday, right after Tank passed away, Terry wanted to stop at the liquor store to get boxes to pack up Tank's stuff. I walked into Bottle Liquor, and said to the young man behind the counter, "Do you know Tank Nelson?" "I sure do!" he said. He said his name was Nick, and he asked how Tank was doing. I told him that Tank had just passed away, and he looked startled, and maybe dizzy, and he grabbed the counter. "No!" he said. "No!" I was a little surprised; it seemed so deeply felt. "God, I loved Tank," he said. "You sweetheart," I said in a consoling tone, and a customer put his arm around my shoulder and told me he was sorry for my loss. "Tank was a good guy," the customer said. When I asked for boxes, Nick told me to take all the boxes I wanted.
Today after ASAP, Sally and I headed for Guadalupe, about an hour from Morro Bay. We had a terrific lunch at Larry's (I think it's actually called Guadalupe Restaurant), and after we asked our waiter if he knew Tank. He furrowed his brow, and we said something like, "A big guy, from Morro Bay, comes in here with his wife." He knew exactly who we meant, and recited their order. :) We told him of Tank's passing, and he talked about how friendly Tank was, and how much his mom and dad (the owners) liked Tank. We went next door to the Masatani Market, where Tank always buys Hershey bars after lunch. Mr. Masatani wasn't in, but his son was, and knew Tank, and referred to him as The Writer. The son took us back to Larry's, where his elderly mother was chatting with Mrs. Larry. The two women joined me and Sally and the Masatani son on the sidewalk in front of the building, and we chatted for about ten minutes. It was such a treat! They knew so many things about Tank, and asked questions, and offered condolences. Once, Tank wrote a column about the restaurant and the grocery store, which share a building on the main drag in Guadalupe. All of them were warm and affectionate and clearly moved by Tank's passing. Sally and I drove away, beaming.
We didn't exactly get lost on the way back to Morro Bay, but we did a lot of Unscheduled Site-Seeing. A couple hour's worth. We arrived just before the print shop closed, and we missed out on the farmers' market and True Grit, and that was okay.
The day before, we'd been at Terry's place, and she approached me and Sally with a serious look and said, "I'm afraid there will be no inheritance from your father." :) We tried not to giggle. I tried to arrange my face in a way that would suggest both devastation and resignation. "Say it ain't so..." Minutes later, she reported that there'd been something like 36 missed calls that day, and as many the previous day. People who heard the news stood out front looking dismayed and confused. Jim from Spencer's came to the door, and I gave him the cribbage board, and he hugged me longer and tighter than I would have predicted. He said he would spread the word, since there wouldn't be an obituary in the local paper. Surfaces in the house are covered with notes and letters and flowers and pies and fresh fruit. People keep calling. I've been thinking about how there are things that we inherit other than money.
Two of Terry's daughters flew in from Georgia today, and they're staying with her. We visited them briefly tonight. They were very sweet. Terry seems to be holding up very well, and the presence of her daughters seems to have calmed her. Sally and I boxed up everything of Tank's. Everything, really. We're bringing most of it home, but will need to return with a truck for a desk, a small table, and lots of paintings, wall hangings, and posters. One such masterpiece is a white piece of poster board on which Jack drew in black and red Sharpie. It's priceless, and Tank hung it in a place of honor. Nearby is a small photo of Elvis, Jack, and Carter taken at Kaycee's wedding. Cutie-pie's. The stuff we're bringing home is enchanting to me and Sally: a Laker poster from decades ago, a little gadget that prints Tank's name and address, three pairs of glasses, a flower arrangement made of shells that Elvis might like, a jotted-down Emerson quote about how every time you do one thing, you miss out on doing another thing. Treasures like that.
Did I mention that Terry arranged to have half of Tank's ashes scattered in Morro Bay, and the other half sent home with us to Utah? The box will be ready on Tuesday or Wednesday, and whoever picks up the desk and stuff will also get the ashes. It'd be fun to scatter some in San Pedro, too. Sally said that at the crematorium, they said that the longshoreman's union pays for the cremation. Nice, huh. Also, because Tank was in the Navy, we'll score a flag.
Last Sunday, when Kelly and I were with Tank at Bayside, while he was still feeling okay, Tank said, "They're making a new Bourne movie." :) "I love Bourne movies," I said. Kelly agreed. Tank said, "I like the music." We talked Bourne for a while. "I read that Matt Damon isn't in it," I said, and Tank and I shrugged, 'cause that wasn't going to stop us from seeing it, despite our love for Matt. A couple of years ago when I was visiting, I mentioned that I'd seen the third movie only once, and I left for a while (I might have been with Peggy), and when I returned, Tank had rented the movie from Blockbuster, and the three of us watched it. "They don't do random."
Also that Sunday, we talked about how fun it would be for Tank to visit Utah when he got to feeling better. Not ALL better...just somewhat better. I suggested that he stay for a good long time, like a month, and visit everyone, and not feel rushed. "You can live at my house," I said, grinning. "In the basement?" he asked, sounding oddly hopeful and excited (given the state of the basement). Sure, I said. Anywhere, I said.
It sure has been a pleasure hearing from so many people about their feelings for Tank, and their memories. Thank you.
While Sally and Terry were at the crematorium, I walked to the beach. Well, not all the way to the beach, but to some benches that overlook the beach, a couple of blocks from the house. I wore Tank's straw hat, which is half jaunty, half dapper. We're bringing the hat home, and we'll take turns wearing it (why don't I go first). I was sitting on a bench, watching the ocean, and an elderly couple sat down on a bench a few yards away. They seemed relaxed and unhurried, with a dog. They wore the full-coverage cotton layers that I'm used to seeing in Morro Bay on elderly folks. They wore hats. They seemed happy with each other...easy with each other. I thought, How lucky they are. To be alive, and to have each other, and that cute dog. To be in such a beautiful place, and to not be in a hurry to get somewhere else.
A funny thing happened today. My regular blog is at love-shall-not, but I hadn't been there for a while, and I went to loveshallnot instead. It's not a very active blog, and the only posting is the following Carl Sandburg poem, which made me cry. It's called "At a Window."
Give me hunger,
O you gods that sit and give
The world its orders.
Give me hunger, pain and want,
Shut me out with shame and failure
From your doors of gold and fame,
Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!
But leave me a little love,
A voice to speak to me in the day end,
A hand to touch me in the dark room
Breaking the long loneliness.
In the dusk of day-shapes
Blurring the sunset,
One little wandering, western star
Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow.
Let me go to the window,
Watch there the day-shapes of dusk
And wait and know the coming
Of a little love.
One more thing. At the Living Planet aquarium in Sandy, there's a wheel that you can spin to see the many things that can happen to a salmon. Elvis and I love that wheel. He climbs up to spin it, and I read (or now he reads) the fate of the salmon, based on where the wheel stops. We eagerly wait for the winning stop, which is Live to Reproduce. When we score that, I grab Elvis under the arms and spin him around in a circle (away from the wheel and then back to the wheel), and we squeal: "Live to reproduce!" It's fun, as you can imagine. But I was thinking about that with Tank the other day. There was a time when living to reproduce was the ONLY thing that mattered. I mean, even now, it's a fairly big deal. While in the hospital, I kept thinking of Tank's spawn. :) I know that living to reproduce isn't the challenge it once was, but, still...
I was thinking of Kelly today, and the last time he was at the hospital, before leaving for Utah. As I recall, he gave Tank's foot a little snuggle and said, "See you later, Big Guy." I can't SWEAR he said that, but it seems to me that he said that. I hope he doesn't mind that I mentioned it. It made me grin adoringly.
I hope this finds everyone well. Much love to Norma, as she recovers. Sally and I are probably going to head home tomorrow.
Friday, January 28, 2011
1/28/2011, Later
Both Dr. Kissell and Dr. Bagarry came by. Both looked concerned. Dr. Bagarry said that we had some options. They could treat Tank with antibiotics (assuming an infection), and attempt to get more information by doing an MRI and a lumbar puncture. Dr. Bagarry said, though, that at this point he was certain that Tank would not walk again. He said that he could treat the infection, and other things that popped up, but that it was a bad sign that the seizures had "pushed through" the seizure medication, and that they would probably continue to be a problem. He said that at the very best we could expect Tank to live for another few weeks, lying in bed, and perhaps talking some, and perhaps recognizing people, but probably not. The other option was giving Tank extra anti-seizure medication which would serve to keep him in a very relaxed and seizure-free state. Morphine would be given if he seemed to be in pain (but it probably wouldn't be necessary). Doing this, he would probably live for another day or two, and pass peacefully. He would seem to be sleeping, and--at the end--would experience "agonal breathing" (sp?), which is a sudden and more-labored breathing, that starts and stops fairly quickly.
Kelly wasn't there, and Terry was opting for the "comfort care." I didn't see the harm in antibiotics, an MRI, and a lumbar puncture (Dr. Bagarry said that they were all routine, and could be easily accomplished). Dr. Bagarry left briefly, and Terry and I spoke with Dr. Kissell. Terry asked him what he would do if it were his wife, and he took a deep breath and said, "I'd let her pass." I appreciated his frankness, and maybe I was overly influenced by his words, but I changed my mind, and voted for "comfort care." When Dr. Bagarry returned, he quickly accepted our decision. He told us that he had been Tank's doctor for a long time, and had been with him during the lymphoma/stomach/stent ordeal of several months ago. He said that most patients would not have survived that, and that he hadn't expected Tank to survive, but that Tank had been very strong, and very motivated. I asked him if the time since then felt to him like an unexpected gift, like something extra, and he said yes.
All the medical professionals left for a while, and Terry and I were tearful. I'm fairly sure Kelly wasn't there. Up until that moment, it seemed like maybe Tank would get better. Not all the way better, but somewhat better. Suddenly, it seemed like his home-visit with Mike and Peggy was in the distant past.
I called Kelly and told him to return to the hospital, and I called Sally and Peggy and gave them the news. All three readily agreed with the decision made by me and Terry. I didn't encourage Peggy and Sally to join us, but rather to remember Tank the way he was the last time they'd seen him. Of course, it was up to them.
I'm sitting here at the Motel 6 with Sally right now. We went to The Whale's Tail for dinner, and had fish and chips. It's right next to the Morro Bay Theater where True Grit is playing. About a month ago, Tank said he really wanted to see True Grit when it came out (he was at Bayside). Sally said that it had already come out, and he said that maybe he'd be able to catch it while it was still in theaters, or see it later on video. I think Sally and I are going to the matinee tomorrow, after the Farmers' Market, after lunch in Guadalupe. We're honoring Tank. :) Really.
Today, I grabbed something from Tank's home office and brought it to the motel with us. It's a cute sign that we've got propped up next to me. It's a little piece of old wood...maybe a chunk of fence post, about 15 inches by 4 inches, and 3/4 inch thick. It's sawed at one end, and jagged at the other end. He probably found it on a walk. He's written "Laugh lots!" on it, with a Sharpie.
Peggy is good at making me laugh, and one of the times we were talking that day, she accused me of wanting to be alone with Tank when he died, like I was alone with Grandma Fern. She called me a Death Hog. :) I told her I wanted a prettier name, like Death Princess...a name that sounded a little less fat. She said no: Death Hog.
The nurses started the Atavan (sp?) drip that would keep Tank from having seizures and would keep him nice and relaxed and comfy. The doctor described it as over-riding the fight-or-flight response, so the body didn't produce epinephrine (which would keep it in an agitated state). I didn't know how quickly things would proceed, so I asked Terry for a moment alone with Tank, to talk.
Soon, they moved us to another room, so that we would have more privacy. It was a room with two beds, but the other bed was empty. Kelly, Terry, and I sat with him.
Kelly fetched drinks and snacks, as required. I didn't want to leave, so if I needed something, Kelly would get it for me. Terry paid him the supreme compliment (perhaps unintentionally) when she said to me, "He's doing EXACTLY what Tank would do in this situation."
(Right now, Sally--in PJs--is getting drinks for us from the motel vending machine. Nice.)
Tank was resting comfortably. In fact, Tank spent the next three days resting comfortably. He seemed to be asleep, but could not be awakened. He was wearing a hospital gown, and his large bald head was warm and friendly. His right hand was the hand I wanted to hold, because the left hand had lost some feeling after the seizures. Well, it had lost some strength; I only assumed it had lost some feeling. I was usually able to score the chair by the right hand, and just sit there holding it.
I think that was the night Kelly found a BBQ joint nearby and brought us huge sandwiches and huge portions of fries. He always brought me diet Dr. Pepper on ice. He fetched endless frappuccinos for Terry. He told us stories about people he met outside the hospital.
That night, we watched NCIS. I don't remember actually watching it, but I was aware that it was on, and glad. Tank recently told me that when he got out of Bayside he wanted to buy a new car: a Dodge Charger. That surprised me, since Tank's always been a Ford F-150 guy. When I told Kelly about the Dodge Charger, he laughed merrily, and said that Jethro Gibbs from NCIS drives a Dodge Charger. :)
After NCIS, we watched The Big Bang Theory, not because Tank liked it, but because it was amusing. Tank liked TV in general, so it seemed okay to leave it on.
I think Kelly drove home that night. Terry slept in a chair, and I slept for a few hours on the other bed. It was comfortable. I could hear Tank breathing. The nursing staff was wonderful. The new shift nurse always introduced herself (they were always women, usually middle aged) and every three or four hours she and a CNA would take Tank's vital signs, adjust his medication, clean him up, and change his gown and bedding. When they left, he always smelled like baby powder. He was always fresh and sweet-smelling and shiny clean.
I woke refreshed, and moved to Tank's side again. I think all of us were surprised that Tank survived the night. One nurse offered that she thought he would "go" at about 1 or 2 a.m., but he sailed on past. That morning, I think we had a visit from a social worker and a hospice volunteer, but Terry dismissed them both, even though Kelly pointed out that the social worker looked like Chuck Conners. Stephanie visited occasionally, offering hugs to all.
The days get mixed up in my mind, but one day Stephanie brought her little dog to visit. I had to walk to the courtyard to see Lucy the dog, and I left Tank alone to do so. Lucy recently suffered her own tragedy, and is healing, and is probably ready to "laugh lots" in her own little shi zhu (sp?) way.
I spent the day holding Tank's hand (and touching his face and head when no one was looking). It just seemed okay to touch him as much as I wanted to. I noticed that my hands look like his hands, but 25 years younger. The more I held his hands, the less I disliked my large, spotted, ruddy, wrinkled hands. How could I love his hands, but dislike my own? I decided to love mine.
Doctors came and went, always loving and encouraging, always sincere and serious, with plenty of eye contact and shoulder patting. Everyone agreed that things were proceeding as expected and that Tank was particularly strong. They were watching for signs such as a weaker pulse and a loss of color in the extremities, but those things hadn't happened yet. Tank's pulse was still irregular, and it was very interesting to me to monitor his pulse. :) I usually monitor Dan's pulse when I hold his hand. I've never hand my fingers on an irregular pulse. Tank's was strong, so it was easy to detect the irregularity. It was also fast (about 124, if they'd all been there), but it seemed to miss one occasionally, like maybe 1 out of every 6. I couldn't get enough of it.
Kelly brought huge amounts of food from the same good BBQ place. He brought biscuits from McDonalds every day. He brought diet Dr. Pepper from the cafeteria. Wednesday night, Kelly prepared to drive to Terry and Tank's to sleep but, before he left, he took a fistful of pooled coins and one-dollar bills and went to the cafeteria vending machines. He brought back a dozen items: chips, granola bars, candy bars, drinks.
That evening, they moved us to a new room. It was a private room with a shower, and more room for chairs. They brought in a cot. There was a big window, and lots of good light the following morning. The view was beautiful, with eucalyptus and magnolia trees.
Terry and I decided to spend the night again. She suggested that I go home, and I suggested she go home. She chose to sleep in a comfy chair, so I took the cot. I slept for about four hours, half awake and listening to Tank breathe. It was more gurgly than it had been earlier. You know that sound of coffee perking? A humid, bubbly noise? It sounded like that. Inhale, exhale, gurgle, repeat. He continued to be turned frequently, with lots of pillows tucked on one side, then the other. I used a pink swab to moisten his mouth occasionally, and applied lip balm. I kept the room neat.
Kelly had plans to drive back to Utah the next morning (Thursday). Terry hadn't left the hospital Tuesday or Wednesday, so she drove home to shower. I was alone with Tank, and it was quiet and peaceful. I'd been calling Sally and Peggy a couple times a day. Also, Sally was now on her way from Utah, and would arrive by early evening. I pulled a chair close, and held his hand. I noticed a slightly funky smell, and thought it was Tank, but then realized it was me. I was savoring my filthiness, though, and was unwilling to go home, or even to use the shower in the bathroom.
I think it was the previous day, Tank was occasionally making a slightly louder breathing noise. It seemed a little distressful, and the nurse showed us how to press a yellow button that would give him a little burst of Atavan to calm him. We'd done that a couple of times. The same nurse observed the little cries of distress, and said something that probably violated hospital protocol. She said that she didn't know what our spiritual beliefs were, but that some people thought that those sudden disruptions in an otherwise-peaceful sleep indicate that a patient is kind of standing on the brink between this world and the next, and that he's reaching out to someone he loves on the other side. :)
Terry was in touch with the crematorium during this time, making arrangements.
While Terry was home, I noticed the same erratic eye movement that had preceded the earlier focal seizures. Then, his whole body seized, to a degree somewhere between the grand mal seizure and the focal seizure. I pressed the yellow button to give the extra Atavan (turns out I pressed it nine times, although it gave only one dose...apparently my actions were recorded for the nurse to see). The nurse came in, and I think she gave him some morphine. They sometimes gave him a little morphine before they turned him, just in case it caused him pain.
Oh! Right after Terry left to go home to shower, Kelly arrived with breakfast for me, and to say good-bye. We chatted for a while. It was really a treat spending time with him, and it broke my heart to see him go. While here, he repaired the threshold at Tank and Terry's house, making it safer and more attractive. He'd spent a lot of time locating the correct grab bar for their bathroom, but then it became clear that it wasn't necessary to install it, so he put it in Terry's backseat, with the receipt. While trying to find Home Depot, he stumbled upon Carlock's Bakery, which seemed to me like a sign, and I encouraged him to buy treats for us. They were delicious. He hasn't spent time in San Luis Obispo County, but he got to know it quickly, and was able to find anything, even Rite Aid late at night, when Terry needed a prescription filled.
Terry got back right after the morphine injection, and we got her up to speed. We each settled in on each side of Tank, and I held his hand. I tried to stay present, and not get distracted, and to memorize each second of this time. His pulse was weaker, and still irregular. When Terry was out of the room, I peaked under the sheet to see his thighs, and noticed a new sallowness. Maybe I mentioned this earlier, but Dr. Lewis said that we should expect a slow "winding down." Terry and I continued to sit with him, and I kept holding his hand, appreciating its warmth.
It was very quiet in the room. I noticed Tank's breathing change slightly. Before, his lips were parted about 1/2 inch as he breathed, but now his lips were closed. The sound changed slightly, with a bit less gurgle. "I think this is the winding down," I said. "What?" said Terry. "I think this is the winding down." And sure enough...
It was very quiet in the room, and I had a chance to hug him and kiss him and touch his face and hands some more. So did Terry. Death came swiftly, and everything seemed to shut down in unison. He was there, and then he wasn't. I thought--not for the first time--of that final scene in "Gladiator" when Maximus dies, and he walks through the fields, and his fingertips graze the tips of the tall grass, as he moves toward his beautiful wife and child.
Soon, I called Sally, who was en route. In what seemed like a happy coincidence, she and Kelly were together in Bakersfield having lunch. Then, I called Peggy.
It was a pleasure being with Tank at the end. It was a pleasure being with Tank always.
Kelly wasn't there, and Terry was opting for the "comfort care." I didn't see the harm in antibiotics, an MRI, and a lumbar puncture (Dr. Bagarry said that they were all routine, and could be easily accomplished). Dr. Bagarry left briefly, and Terry and I spoke with Dr. Kissell. Terry asked him what he would do if it were his wife, and he took a deep breath and said, "I'd let her pass." I appreciated his frankness, and maybe I was overly influenced by his words, but I changed my mind, and voted for "comfort care." When Dr. Bagarry returned, he quickly accepted our decision. He told us that he had been Tank's doctor for a long time, and had been with him during the lymphoma/stomach/stent ordeal of several months ago. He said that most patients would not have survived that, and that he hadn't expected Tank to survive, but that Tank had been very strong, and very motivated. I asked him if the time since then felt to him like an unexpected gift, like something extra, and he said yes.
All the medical professionals left for a while, and Terry and I were tearful. I'm fairly sure Kelly wasn't there. Up until that moment, it seemed like maybe Tank would get better. Not all the way better, but somewhat better. Suddenly, it seemed like his home-visit with Mike and Peggy was in the distant past.
I called Kelly and told him to return to the hospital, and I called Sally and Peggy and gave them the news. All three readily agreed with the decision made by me and Terry. I didn't encourage Peggy and Sally to join us, but rather to remember Tank the way he was the last time they'd seen him. Of course, it was up to them.
I'm sitting here at the Motel 6 with Sally right now. We went to The Whale's Tail for dinner, and had fish and chips. It's right next to the Morro Bay Theater where True Grit is playing. About a month ago, Tank said he really wanted to see True Grit when it came out (he was at Bayside). Sally said that it had already come out, and he said that maybe he'd be able to catch it while it was still in theaters, or see it later on video. I think Sally and I are going to the matinee tomorrow, after the Farmers' Market, after lunch in Guadalupe. We're honoring Tank. :) Really.
Today, I grabbed something from Tank's home office and brought it to the motel with us. It's a cute sign that we've got propped up next to me. It's a little piece of old wood...maybe a chunk of fence post, about 15 inches by 4 inches, and 3/4 inch thick. It's sawed at one end, and jagged at the other end. He probably found it on a walk. He's written "Laugh lots!" on it, with a Sharpie.
Peggy is good at making me laugh, and one of the times we were talking that day, she accused me of wanting to be alone with Tank when he died, like I was alone with Grandma Fern. She called me a Death Hog. :) I told her I wanted a prettier name, like Death Princess...a name that sounded a little less fat. She said no: Death Hog.
The nurses started the Atavan (sp?) drip that would keep Tank from having seizures and would keep him nice and relaxed and comfy. The doctor described it as over-riding the fight-or-flight response, so the body didn't produce epinephrine (which would keep it in an agitated state). I didn't know how quickly things would proceed, so I asked Terry for a moment alone with Tank, to talk.
Soon, they moved us to another room, so that we would have more privacy. It was a room with two beds, but the other bed was empty. Kelly, Terry, and I sat with him.
Kelly fetched drinks and snacks, as required. I didn't want to leave, so if I needed something, Kelly would get it for me. Terry paid him the supreme compliment (perhaps unintentionally) when she said to me, "He's doing EXACTLY what Tank would do in this situation."
(Right now, Sally--in PJs--is getting drinks for us from the motel vending machine. Nice.)
Tank was resting comfortably. In fact, Tank spent the next three days resting comfortably. He seemed to be asleep, but could not be awakened. He was wearing a hospital gown, and his large bald head was warm and friendly. His right hand was the hand I wanted to hold, because the left hand had lost some feeling after the seizures. Well, it had lost some strength; I only assumed it had lost some feeling. I was usually able to score the chair by the right hand, and just sit there holding it.
I think that was the night Kelly found a BBQ joint nearby and brought us huge sandwiches and huge portions of fries. He always brought me diet Dr. Pepper on ice. He fetched endless frappuccinos for Terry. He told us stories about people he met outside the hospital.
That night, we watched NCIS. I don't remember actually watching it, but I was aware that it was on, and glad. Tank recently told me that when he got out of Bayside he wanted to buy a new car: a Dodge Charger. That surprised me, since Tank's always been a Ford F-150 guy. When I told Kelly about the Dodge Charger, he laughed merrily, and said that Jethro Gibbs from NCIS drives a Dodge Charger. :)
After NCIS, we watched The Big Bang Theory, not because Tank liked it, but because it was amusing. Tank liked TV in general, so it seemed okay to leave it on.
I think Kelly drove home that night. Terry slept in a chair, and I slept for a few hours on the other bed. It was comfortable. I could hear Tank breathing. The nursing staff was wonderful. The new shift nurse always introduced herself (they were always women, usually middle aged) and every three or four hours she and a CNA would take Tank's vital signs, adjust his medication, clean him up, and change his gown and bedding. When they left, he always smelled like baby powder. He was always fresh and sweet-smelling and shiny clean.
I woke refreshed, and moved to Tank's side again. I think all of us were surprised that Tank survived the night. One nurse offered that she thought he would "go" at about 1 or 2 a.m., but he sailed on past. That morning, I think we had a visit from a social worker and a hospice volunteer, but Terry dismissed them both, even though Kelly pointed out that the social worker looked like Chuck Conners. Stephanie visited occasionally, offering hugs to all.
The days get mixed up in my mind, but one day Stephanie brought her little dog to visit. I had to walk to the courtyard to see Lucy the dog, and I left Tank alone to do so. Lucy recently suffered her own tragedy, and is healing, and is probably ready to "laugh lots" in her own little shi zhu (sp?) way.
I spent the day holding Tank's hand (and touching his face and head when no one was looking). It just seemed okay to touch him as much as I wanted to. I noticed that my hands look like his hands, but 25 years younger. The more I held his hands, the less I disliked my large, spotted, ruddy, wrinkled hands. How could I love his hands, but dislike my own? I decided to love mine.
Doctors came and went, always loving and encouraging, always sincere and serious, with plenty of eye contact and shoulder patting. Everyone agreed that things were proceeding as expected and that Tank was particularly strong. They were watching for signs such as a weaker pulse and a loss of color in the extremities, but those things hadn't happened yet. Tank's pulse was still irregular, and it was very interesting to me to monitor his pulse. :) I usually monitor Dan's pulse when I hold his hand. I've never hand my fingers on an irregular pulse. Tank's was strong, so it was easy to detect the irregularity. It was also fast (about 124, if they'd all been there), but it seemed to miss one occasionally, like maybe 1 out of every 6. I couldn't get enough of it.
Kelly brought huge amounts of food from the same good BBQ place. He brought biscuits from McDonalds every day. He brought diet Dr. Pepper from the cafeteria. Wednesday night, Kelly prepared to drive to Terry and Tank's to sleep but, before he left, he took a fistful of pooled coins and one-dollar bills and went to the cafeteria vending machines. He brought back a dozen items: chips, granola bars, candy bars, drinks.
That evening, they moved us to a new room. It was a private room with a shower, and more room for chairs. They brought in a cot. There was a big window, and lots of good light the following morning. The view was beautiful, with eucalyptus and magnolia trees.
Terry and I decided to spend the night again. She suggested that I go home, and I suggested she go home. She chose to sleep in a comfy chair, so I took the cot. I slept for about four hours, half awake and listening to Tank breathe. It was more gurgly than it had been earlier. You know that sound of coffee perking? A humid, bubbly noise? It sounded like that. Inhale, exhale, gurgle, repeat. He continued to be turned frequently, with lots of pillows tucked on one side, then the other. I used a pink swab to moisten his mouth occasionally, and applied lip balm. I kept the room neat.
Kelly had plans to drive back to Utah the next morning (Thursday). Terry hadn't left the hospital Tuesday or Wednesday, so she drove home to shower. I was alone with Tank, and it was quiet and peaceful. I'd been calling Sally and Peggy a couple times a day. Also, Sally was now on her way from Utah, and would arrive by early evening. I pulled a chair close, and held his hand. I noticed a slightly funky smell, and thought it was Tank, but then realized it was me. I was savoring my filthiness, though, and was unwilling to go home, or even to use the shower in the bathroom.
I think it was the previous day, Tank was occasionally making a slightly louder breathing noise. It seemed a little distressful, and the nurse showed us how to press a yellow button that would give him a little burst of Atavan to calm him. We'd done that a couple of times. The same nurse observed the little cries of distress, and said something that probably violated hospital protocol. She said that she didn't know what our spiritual beliefs were, but that some people thought that those sudden disruptions in an otherwise-peaceful sleep indicate that a patient is kind of standing on the brink between this world and the next, and that he's reaching out to someone he loves on the other side. :)
Terry was in touch with the crematorium during this time, making arrangements.
While Terry was home, I noticed the same erratic eye movement that had preceded the earlier focal seizures. Then, his whole body seized, to a degree somewhere between the grand mal seizure and the focal seizure. I pressed the yellow button to give the extra Atavan (turns out I pressed it nine times, although it gave only one dose...apparently my actions were recorded for the nurse to see). The nurse came in, and I think she gave him some morphine. They sometimes gave him a little morphine before they turned him, just in case it caused him pain.
Oh! Right after Terry left to go home to shower, Kelly arrived with breakfast for me, and to say good-bye. We chatted for a while. It was really a treat spending time with him, and it broke my heart to see him go. While here, he repaired the threshold at Tank and Terry's house, making it safer and more attractive. He'd spent a lot of time locating the correct grab bar for their bathroom, but then it became clear that it wasn't necessary to install it, so he put it in Terry's backseat, with the receipt. While trying to find Home Depot, he stumbled upon Carlock's Bakery, which seemed to me like a sign, and I encouraged him to buy treats for us. They were delicious. He hasn't spent time in San Luis Obispo County, but he got to know it quickly, and was able to find anything, even Rite Aid late at night, when Terry needed a prescription filled.
Terry got back right after the morphine injection, and we got her up to speed. We each settled in on each side of Tank, and I held his hand. I tried to stay present, and not get distracted, and to memorize each second of this time. His pulse was weaker, and still irregular. When Terry was out of the room, I peaked under the sheet to see his thighs, and noticed a new sallowness. Maybe I mentioned this earlier, but Dr. Lewis said that we should expect a slow "winding down." Terry and I continued to sit with him, and I kept holding his hand, appreciating its warmth.
It was very quiet in the room. I noticed Tank's breathing change slightly. Before, his lips were parted about 1/2 inch as he breathed, but now his lips were closed. The sound changed slightly, with a bit less gurgle. "I think this is the winding down," I said. "What?" said Terry. "I think this is the winding down." And sure enough...
It was very quiet in the room, and I had a chance to hug him and kiss him and touch his face and hands some more. So did Terry. Death came swiftly, and everything seemed to shut down in unison. He was there, and then he wasn't. I thought--not for the first time--of that final scene in "Gladiator" when Maximus dies, and he walks through the fields, and his fingertips graze the tips of the tall grass, as he moves toward his beautiful wife and child.
Soon, I called Sally, who was en route. In what seemed like a happy coincidence, she and Kelly were together in Bakersfield having lunch. Then, I called Peggy.
It was a pleasure being with Tank at the end. It was a pleasure being with Tank always.
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