the second weekend in september i rented a car and drove down to stone harbor, nj to see my parents. they live in pittsburgh but we'd been going there for vacation, in one fashion or another, since the late 70s.
got there saturday afternoon; we half-watched the phillies beat the nationals, had pasta with shrimp for dinner, noted that perry mason was not in fact on, and went to bed.
sunday morning my mom woke me up -- my dad, after biking to the wawa to get coffee and the paper, had had a stroke. the ambulance came super-fast; he was taken to an ER in cape may courthouse where they gave him the essentially magical tPA. he'd been struggling with his right side, but when the tPA hit he was essentially back to normal.
it didn't last.
he was medevaced to philly, where he spent a week in the ICU. he was then medevaced back to pittsburgh, where he spent two weeks in a rehab center, then released into my mom's custody; a week later after giving him breakfast, she found him unresponsive in bed.
i flew to pittsburgh; we thought this might be it but weren't sure why. it was pneumonia brought on by aspirating food. he survived, but lost whatever gains he'd made using his right half.
he spent another week (with a tube down his throat) in the ICU, a week in the regular hospital, and two weeks at a rehab facility.
yesterday my mom brought him home to her place. last night he emailed me saying my new cat was cute.
this afternoon he shot himself in the head with a shotgun. he was watching football; my mom was upstairs. it wasn't immediate -- she literally had to give permission to let him die.
six years ago when he turned 75 i sent him this. so at least he knew. i understand why he did it, but leaving my mom to find him is fucked up.
So this is a bit awkward because I'm only going to send this to you and not Her, lest She become jealous. But while I am feeling eloquent (which is largely when I've had a few beers) I would like to consider, for your birthday, your effect on my life. I'm sure I'll miss more than a few things, but there's quite a bit on which to remark.
I don't remember a time prior to your involvement, which I guess is unusual amongst step-children. I understand that you visited the hospital upon my birth, which is both cool and makes me wonder about its propriety, if you know what I mean. I don't recall pulling the standard "you're not my real father" line on you, although I don't remember a situation in which it might have been even feasible.
Really, your greatest failure (sorry) was not having me hit left-handed. Which wasn't much, since I hit pretty well right-handed and was largely sick of Heimbuecher/baseball by the time it became decisive. I briefly used to wonder if I could have walked on at Duke or even played pro ball, but it is sad to realize that I think not. There *are* players in the minors that, in my starry-eyed memory, I think I was better than, but not many. But certainly no big leaguers.
Playing wood-bat baseball in DC several years ago was both eye-opening and disturbing. I was on a horrible team -- we won no games -- and I was in my early 30s. I broke a lot of bats, and not impressively -- I splintered them rather than sending half a bat into the crowd. Anyway I had this image of myself as being athletically superior which didn't really bear out. Christine watched several games and didn't seem disturbed, but I was -- even now when I watch big league games I think that I could do many of those things (the ones that don't involve hitting off-speed pitches the other way, at least). Such is aging, I guess.
Things I have told people about you, whom I refer to as my dad (Bob, when such things arise, is listed in the program as "Real Father" including quotes):
- Poured out liquid nitrogen on the floor at the Mellon Institute lab. Was there even any real reason for you to have liquid nitrogen there? I'm not sure, but whatever. If only you could have logically explained the Mellon Institute floor-numbering system
- Playing shortstop left-handed at Penn State
- Smoking for six months in grad school, then never again apart from very infrequent parties
- Pam Bunting? I mean, Phil seemed decent, but c'mon
- The Russian novel period of the 1970s
- The fact that you like AC/DC and purchased Guns 'N' Roses' 'Appetite for Destruction' independently (I'll back you up on the AC/DC; GnR was overrated)
- Calling Herschel at DVE about 'Sympathy for the Devil' and then getting into the Stones before me
- Muting the television (because of Don Criqui and Bob Trumpy) and listening to Fleming and Cope on the radio for Steelers games
- Punching the floor at certain points during Steeler games in the 70s
- Me being allowed to stay up until halftime for Monday night football when my normal bed time was 10pm
- Allowing me to have half (just below that little ring) of the 16oz Mountain Dew, then watching the first half with my head on your thigh (still don't like popcorn)
- Punting (I distinctly remember hearing about Art Rooney Sr.'s death in the late '80s, then going to catch your punts.)
- Your (and Her, and John the neighbor's) tolerance of the pregame playlist culminating in 'Freebird'
- Hockey (although I'm curious about why you and Dick and his kids and I all shoot righty)
- Hockey again, because I more or less ended up at McGill because I was a hockey fan, and wrote a university paper that quoted the Hockey News, and when we didn't get SportsChannel in the 80s I listened to French radio coverage of the 1986 Canadiens-Flyers Prince of Wales Finals and only knew when someone scored when the dudes yelled the same name over and over again, and calling me during my freshman year of college (1989-90) when Randy Gilhen scored a game-winner and I'd been listening to it on the radio in North Carolina
- The fact that in 1996, when I lived in Minneapolis, I spent several hours in my car in the middle of the night listening to the KDKA broadcast that culminated in Petr Nedved's goal in the fourth overtime
- Being hit by a puck and going to the Penguins locker room, then having Jean Pronovost sign the puck
- Sending me clippings for however many years, even when certain Post-Gazette columnists are full of shit
- The fact that it was discovered that I was nearsighted because I couldn't read the Civic Arena scoreboard
- The fact that you *read books*. I know She did too, but that was built around the fact that She was inherently overwhelmingly busy. (Thanks for your help in escaping that eternal predicament.) There's a certain sense I have that the ideal evening involves everyone sitting on separate couches reading books while Shostakovich is playing. The Seventh is only for Yahtzee games, though
- You are and remain the smartest and most well-read person I know. I remember Her trying to teach me algebra before I had it (I think I was in fourth grade?) -- e.g. these things on each side of the equation are the same, therefore we can do the same things to both sides and they will remain equal -- yet it did not make sense to me (don't tell Her). But when I had calculus, you remembered shit about it that is absurd. I mean, it's been 23 years since I had Calc I and I was *good* at it. I dimly remember how limits go infinite or whatever -- you remembered it the way it was. And yeah, you were a chem teacher, but I don't think you were teaching how reactions become infinite
- The thing about having 'chosen' me -- i.e. that in marrying Her you bought in to me as well -- is true. And like I said, if I tried to diss you about it -- or your lack of a mustache -- I don't remember it, nor a reason to do so. On the other hand, I was such a good stepchild that I recall (and I think my recollection is overstated, but still) your brother being a Dick, so to speak, because I was a better athlete than Greg. (I guess he showed me by producing more grandchildren, among other things, though!)
- On yet another hand I am curious, particularly given my current situation -- you entered a scenario in which had I been a total fuckup (an Edsel?), it wouldn't have been your fault. And there's much less pressure to sort something out if one is not to blame, but merely helping. Fortunately I was awesome, more or less, until now. Right?
- She taught me to read, which I consider the most influential fact of my life. I could be wrong -- I'm not entirely sure how most people learned to read, but I hope it wasn't in school. She had the 'Why Johnny Can't Read' xeroxes, and I remember that I pronounced 'truck' as 'chruck.' You guys said no, that's wrong, and I said (I paraphrase), "Dudes -- you know what I meant, so what the fuck?" Probably just as well you remained steadfast.
- At any rate, at the risk of being all mushy, happy birthday and (step)father's day. I am pretty sure that you personally are the best thing to happen to me ever, and I hope that you continue to be for some time to come.
― mookieproof, Friday, 24 November 2017 05:57 (six years ago) link
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