The End is Near

Karen called. She blurted something about Tom bailing. Out of his mind. In the street. Come quick. 

Christopher went.

He pulled up behind the fire truck, that had been parked behind ambulance, that had been parked behind the three cruisers. One of the officers was directing traffic through the remaining lane on the well-maintained road winding through a nicer part of town. For a time, Tom was given the other lane, twelve feet wide and however long it took to be contained. He was a wounded animal, frantic in a ditch, clambering up onto the shoulder.

The tumor that was to put the old dog down was showing the citizens who had strolled up their long driveway and past their manicured grounds to see what the commotion was all about what it meant to be impressionable. As in, how a person can change if you apply certain pressure, not from the outside, but from within. If you push on the Werneke’s area, smash the prefrontal cortex against the cranium, watch what you can make a man do. Incarnate fear. Give it arms to swing at this thing in his way, his son to those assembled but shapes and a sound to Tom anymore. Give it legs to heave the counterweight of a deputy who has hitched himself to Tom’s belt.

Forgetfulness is the least of his worries now. Words and concepts pale. The brute still feels. The brainstem is yet to be compressed. So, move limbs. Take us away from here. There is pain. There is fright. Danger. Flee. Tom will.

And Karen stands in the verdant lawn recapping diagnoses with a paramedic while Christopher comes upon the scene and says let him go. Let’s get him to the car. As those first responders would point to the glass in the road and Chris would note his father has lost his shoes as well as his mind, he could rationally observe it doesn’t matter. Tom is a dead man walking. Let’s not fret about cut feet. He needs to get home. He’s supposed to die at home, the home he designed and had built, not be restrained on a stretcher and transported to an ER, where he can be sedated, readmitted to a hospital, where he can be neglected. He’s a lost cause. It’s okay. Just let him go. Let me take him home again, to lie him down so that he can rise again with his broken brain atop that heavy brow and spend another night, one of his last, restless, mindlessly searching for relief like an ant skittering across the pavement in search of food.

In that moment, Chris feels possessive. Tom is his. He’s not yours, officer or otherwise. Any other interests in him have been mooted. You don’t need anything from him. He doesn’t need anything from you. He only needs to die. That’s all that’s left for him to do. Chris will deliver him to that final state if you would simply get out of their way. Which the police will do since this has not proved to be the kind of trouble for which they itch.

Like cowboys, they herded the stubborn steer towards its transport. When Tom becomes agitated and starts to unbuckle his belt and the police say No, no, Chris says let it go. Let him drop his pants. Maybe he needs to go pee. Can we please create a screen so the neighbors can't see? The assembled make clear they don’t take orders from civilians and Tom makes clear that undressing is a form of protest.

Chris grabs the discarded khakis and throws them in the car. Tom is near. One of the officers directs Chris to engage the child safety locks as though this is not his first rodeo, which makes  a lot of sense. The locks can keep more than children safe. 

Then it becomes: Get in the back seat, dad. The backseat, dad. Sir, get in the backseat with your son. The back seat, dad. Please! Please get in. We need to go. There you go. Thank you. Easy. Keep going, dad. Scootch! No no! In the car. I have your pants. Come on. In the car. There you go. We’ve got to go. There you go. Come on. That’s it. Lift your leg. The other leg. Life! Okay. Almost there. Okay. Good. I’m going to shut the door now. Watch your leg. Scoot back. Dad! Tom!

All this means something to Tom, but he doesn’t know why. Something is happening, but he doesn’t know what. He is hot and scared and stuck and cannot get out. He can’t stand up and this wall won’t move and where is he and he can’t and he can’t and he can’t.

As Chris starts the engine and yells out the passenger window he’s leaving and please make sure Karen drives his car to her house so he isn’t stranded at their house tonight, Tom starts hitting the door. He pries at the handle. He fumbles with the buttons. He bangs on the window. It’s as though Chris has invited the struck beast into the car instead of leaving it on the side of the road to twitch and die. As he searches for the window lock and considers running red lights and yells the most soothing lies imaginable over his shoulder--that it’s going to be okay, that Tom’s safe, that he’s going to get some sleep soon--and as Chris conjures fantasies--that the door is broken, that they’re going to the mechanic, that Tom’s childhood friend is going to meet them at the mechanic, that his childhood friend is telling Tom to sit down please--Chris senses this is it. The end is near. The end of the shared torment that is Tom’s life. Chris is in here, locked up with his terminal father, the entrapped bear. And he won’t quit. He won’t leave. He won’t win. But this is what it is to lose graciously. This is how love loses, death wins, yet somehow hope remains. Because, whether these endings are final is an open question. 

Letter to a Well-Intended Person

Dear J.,

Thank you for your condolences. I want to recognize the time and effort C---'s staff and members have put into my parents’ lives. My father considered L. a good friend and source of consolation to the end.

I received your voicemail on June 30. You alluded to concerns for my father’s care and your desire to express them to me. I called you back within the hour and left a message of my own, but we were not able to connect before you took your sabbatical. Had we spoken then, I would have relayed some of the following. 

Recently, I went to my parents’ house and noticed one of their hall closet doors had been removed. It had been in need of repair for years, but it still worked. When I asked my mother what had happened, she said that on a recent visit you had noticed the door was broken, tried to fix it yourself, and, in the process, it had come off completely. Larry came by subsequently to see what he could do and quoted her $150 for a new set of doors. It’s hung again, but it remains malfunctioning.

The analogy was so strong. 

Anyone who knew my parents knew they were broken. I grew up maintaining them as best I could; it was my life’s mission. While I did not fix them and am still painfully learning the extent to which they cannot be fixed, I helped keep them functioning. I kept the peace. I loved them. I sacrificed for them in ways that altered my life’s course. Besides the years I have given them, the suffering I have endured because of them will take more. 

You stressed to me, more than a decade ago, I needed to be prepared to “leave and cleave.” I remember you encouraged me to set boundaries, foreseeing how disruptive my broken parents would be to my fledgling marriage. As you predicted, I struggled keeping them at a healthy distance. They clung to me, and I dragged them along.

As they aged, more people began to see them as helpless. They had been in desperate need for a long time, but their needs became more superficial as their hair thinned and wrinkles deepened. Out of compassion, many people offered them a hand. My parents clung to them, too. Well-intentioned people saw something they could fix, so they set to work.

At some point in the course of the repairs, it became evident to these strangers they lacked the tools and the capacity to make my parents right. They had drastically underbid the job, and it was jeopardizing their other commitments. So they packed up and, on their way home, would call me to express their concerns as though I was the rightful owner and was being derelict.

I was and am well aware. No one knows better than me that something is wrong with my parents. No one has ever done more for or cared more about them than I have. I was there before the service call, and I’ll be there after the repairmen drive away. I cannot fix my parents any more than the strangers could. My parents cannot be replaced. If only it were that simple.

Rather than make a point, I’ll close with another story rife with analogical meaning. The doctors were unanimous: there was no cure for my father. Having already taken his cognition and coherence, my father’s brain tumor was staking claim to his mobility. When I visited him at the nursing home one evening after work, I found him on his hands and knees. He was naked, pawing at his mattress. He was in a puddle of urine. I bent down, lifted him into a nearby wheelchair, and toweled him clean. I dressed him with the help of a nurse aid and wheeled him to dinner. He sat stooped, barely able to look up. For twenty minutes, I offered him food. For twenty minutes, he refused. The last thing he ever said to me as he swatted at the spoon I offered him was, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” I said it was okay. I said he looked tired. I wheeled him back to his room. I hoisted him up, and I laid him down. I laid down, too, and watched my father sleep. I stroked his stubbly cheek. I did what I could, and it wasn’t enough to save him.

Sincerely,

M.

Eulogy - Final Draft

If you were ever the recipient of one of Scott’s emails, you know he was loquacious. We’re about to prove the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

It’s been a few years since my dad was at his best. He’d been slipping, mentally and then physically, for the last 7 or 8 years. He knew it, and so did anyone who interacted with him. But even though it’s been a while since Scott could carry on the way he did in his prime, his relationships endured. My father was loyal. By being here, you all are reciprocating that loyalty. So, first off, I want to thank you for attending to show your support and mourn with us. It means a lot. Second, I want to thank you, on my father’s behalf and my own, for helping make this terrible process less terrible than it could have been. Scott’s survivors, myself included, will remember that. 

Thank you for caring about my father, for caring for him and being receptive to what he could give back. We owe you a debt of gratitude. He spent the end of his life as many of us do: in great need. You helped meet those needs. We could do no more.

Having addressed everyone else, I’ll come to the subject of my eulogy: Scott Ritter. Some of you had a longer relationship with my father than I did. Most of you didn’t. Regardless of how far back you went, there are some truths about my father that I want you to know. If, like me, you already know them, I want you to leave this place remembering them. I want you to carry them with you as the marks my dad left on this earth begin to fade, as the mortar between the bricks he chose crumbles, the gardens he kept go to seed, his favorite songs garner less airplay, and his few prized possessions become sediment in a future rock.

Scott Ritter had full pockets. His pants were saddled with coins. His shirt pockets were stuffed with pens. Wherever he went, he was prepared to pay with exact change or sketch a picture to illustrate a story. Our favorite restaurant lined the tables with white paper on which dad drew, calculated, or enumerated most Saturdays for a decade. At meal’s end, he would slam down a fist full of change and pick through the pile until he could leave the perfect amount in the receipt tray. Sifting through his possessions, we unearthed hundreds of pens and thousands of coins. We collect what we prize.

Scott Ritter loved to laugh. He loved to crack a joke. He amused himself by injecting witticisms into conversation like a forecast of scattered darkness by nightfall. Even if you didn’t get it, you wanted to laugh along with him because his face, which was formerly much fuller, conveyed such cherubic joy it was irresistible.

Scott Ritter was steady. Although he wasn’t quick, little could slow him down. He rarely missed a weather forecast or a Letterman monologue. When he couldn’t read the paper on a given weekend, he socked it away to read on vacation. He was a prodigious putzer, spending hours picking weeds cross-legged in the lawn. He never failed to answer the phone even in a meeting. Scott prided himself on his attendance record with his various employers throughout his career. Sick days were as frequent for him as leap days are for the rest of us.

Scott Ritter was always concerned there wouldn’t be enough photos of him. As the son of a photographer, he placed a high value on capturing moments for posterity. He would passively lament that, as the man behind the camera, he’d be left out of the albums. To alleviate that worry, we took a lot of photos of him. Adding to those, I uncovered a tranche of pictures from his youth that he had brought with him from Queens to Eau Claire to Manhattan, Kansas to Hollywood, Florida to Ohio to St. Louis. We brought a sampling of them with us today. Please look them over. May they symbolize his better days.

Scott Ritter showed surprising affection towards cats. I saw him do it on many occasions when I would visit him in the basement. He would be at the drafting table with his headphones on, drawing something, or else dialing his way through an automated menu to pay bills over the phone, or else watching the nightly news, and Sweetie, our Main Coon mix, would be in his lap. He’d be petting her as gently as a mother caresses her baby. That says a lot about a person.

Scott Ritter could sneeze and sneeze he did, loudly. Unbelievably, concussively loudly. Like, after he sneezed and your adrenaline diluted and heart rate decreased, you wondered if that sound was natural, was an instinctive reaction to foreign particles in his nostrils or else some sort of wry prank. Regardless of context: in fine dining establishments, in movie theaters, in churches, in waiting rooms, he killed the vibe, disrupted the sense of anticipation, or disturbed the peace. If he were here with us, he’d interrupt me. I wish he could.

Scott Ritter was a magician. He made time disappear. He would leave to pick up a gallon of milk and be gone for two hours. He would transmute a trip to Best Buy into three. Running errands became all day affairs. My mother was ever incredulous when he returned and asked where he had been. The answer was always exactly where he said he was going. As someone who accompanied him on those jaunts, I saw behind the curtain. He browsed. He compared prices. He took circuitous routes through stores. More than anything, though, he talked.

Scott Ritter loved to shoot the breeze—with anyone and everyone. There wasn’t a hostess, waitress, cook, cashier, pedestrian, driver, ticket-taker, usher, attendant, sales rep, foremen, laborer, neighbor, stranger in line, postal worker, custodian, secretary, principal, vice principal, teacher, plumber, HVAC tech, carpenter, glazier, contractor, leadman, student, boy or girl, with whom he wouldn’t engage. He would acknowledge your presence. He’d pick up on some distinctive attribute about you, your eyes, how your name was spelled, whatever. He’d observe it aloud and pull you into an exchange. He was glad you were with him in that moment, sharing a tiny portion of reality together.

Scott Ritter could not throw a ball. He couldn’t ride a bike. He was an atrocious driver. No one taught him, so he couldn’t teach me. But he taught me how to take an interest in my surroundings and how to sing in falsetto. I grew up knowing I was adored, and he didn’t. That’s why he took happiness where he could find it.

Scott Ritter was practically minded. He was not fussy. He had no brand loyalty. He knew how to stretch a dollar. He bought in bulk. His favorite snacks were generic. He always poured a second bowl of cereal to sop up the milk remaining from the first. In advance of every gift-giving occasion, he requested meager gifts like surge protectors, printer paper, and jewel cases. Going back to 2007, the lists were titled: Scott’s Semi-Realistic (at best) dream list. Which leads me to my next observation.

Scott Ritter was our Eeyore, a lovable melancholic figure whose resilience overpowered his well-earned pessimism. My wife, Megan, always quick with a conversation starter, once asked my father as we were celebrating his special day, “What was your best birthday?” He hardly paused. “I don’t know, but I can tell you what was my worst…” He didn’t have an easy life. He didn’t have a good life for a few stretches. But he never wanted to forfeit it. He survived his last 24 days without a meal. He never gave up on life or on the people who lived it with him. 

Scott Ritter had dreams, a lot of which never came true. But a few did. And for those dreams that did come true, he was enduringly grateful. Fond memories were his treasure, buried but exhumable. He was grateful for his college friends, to be one of the gang after so many years of unpopularity. He was grateful for Lake Michigan, to set aside the volatility of alcoholic parents or the worries of adult life and bask in the northern sun, dig his toes into the whistling sand, and cool off in the boundless fresh water. He was grateful for a good meal. As a card-carrying member of the clean plate club, he complimented many a chef by eating every last morsel of whatever dish was laid before him. He was grateful for his grandchildren, for the chance to build Legos, piece together puzzles, and make a toddler squeal with delight by snatching them up and tickling them. He was grateful for the company. He was grateful for the assistance. He was grateful for the time.

Speaking of the time, I’ve about taken enough of yours. I’m looking forward to hearing from you, swapping stories about Scott, or Critter or Ritterini as you may have known him. So, I’ll close with a final story and the truth it taught me. 

When I heard the word “tumor” on the morning of June 2nd, I nearly laughed. Another medical professional jumping to the furthest conclusion. True, if you met my father for the first time in late May this year, you would have thought something was seriously amiss. But that was explicable by another diagnosis: Alzheimer’s. He had been diagnosed years before. That was the cause of his dementia. I was operating on the assumption a person could only have one grievous illness at a time.

But facts will disabuse you of fictions if you’re willing to suffer them. You can have a disease that slowly eats away at your brain and a disease that quickly fills your skull. So, the two months following the tumor’s revelation taught me about mutual exclusivity. One doesn’t necessarily rule out another, nor do four necessarily rule out one more. In certain cases, a plurality of factors can contribute to a singular outcome or opposites can coexist. Your father can relish his last dinner out even if he doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him and is worried about where his words have gone. He can exit a moving vehicle in a frenzy, not recognize you when you arrive on the scene, and still reach out to hug you when he returns home safely. A person can die a death like my dad did and have led a life we can celebrate. We can be joyful and grieving. We can be happy and sad simultaneously. So today, we can cry and we can smile. That’s what we’re here to do.