The worst day(s) of my life.

01/30/07

I’m not sure why I’m writing, but I only know that I should. Or that for others it’s helpful. Or that it will be helpful once it happens. Once my father dies.

That, of course, is what this is about. My father. And death.

This morning at 7-something in the morning I woke up the way I usually do, fumbling around with buttons on my cell-phone attempting to quiet its alarm. Except this morning it wasn’t an alarm, it was a call. Whenever I get an early morning call, my mind screams “somebody better have died”. Well, I don’t think I’ll be hoping for that for a while.

My phone showed that I had two missed calls. Not that strange. I’m a busy, popular guy. My boss tends to call at odd hours, making strange requests. My mom has an almost endemic inability to remember a) time differences between Denver and LA, and b) that I’m a lazy sod and don’t get to out of bed till 9 most days. I clicked the phone to see who had called and that’s when it happened, there was a call from my mother and one from my brother.

This is not good.

So I listen to the messages. One is my brother, “Hey dude, it’s your bro. Call me.” No clues there. Not good, but not bad either. I check the next message. This is the message that I imagine I’m going to get every time the phone rings and I see a 303 area code appear on my phone.

It’s my mom, “Honey call me. It’s urgent. It’s about your father.”

Fuck. Fuck. Super fuck. Super monster fuck in a truck.

Please God, no.

I call my mom and she tells me. “Honey, your dad is in the hospital. He’s dying. You need to get out here.”

Holy fuck ass vampire king kong fuck fuck.

I call my brother, and between the two I am filled in on more details. Last night he wasn’t doing very well, his wife told him to go to the hospital. He refused. She wakes up this morning and he’s on the floor, barely breathing.

I also hear that his heart stopped for a half hour.

What!? Great. What does that even mean? I’m pretty certain that your heart is in the top ten things that you really really need to work all the time.

I am told that they had him on some sort of life support, heart pumper, something or other. Oh, good. Still what does that mean? What does any of this mean? More important than things meaning things, what the hell do I do?

I somehow kick into Mr. Cool-Calm-and-Collected mode and move into action. I tell Andrea. She’s as freaked as I feel. I talk to my Nana and she books my tickets. She has a gift for that sort of thing. I pack. Or Andrea packs. Somehow clothes get put into a suitcase. In a stroke of irony, or serendipity or some other word that’s used to describe something weird and poignant happening, Andrea packs things into her Grandmother’s old suitcase. The Suitcase that we inherited only a few months ago when she died.

That’s why this feels so familiar, I think. I’m really good at this. If you could make money by having your family members die, you could be a millionaire. I hop in the bathtub and everything changes.

I pick up a book that I bought while we were in Santa Maria for Andrea’s Grandmother’s funeral. It’s a book of poems collected by Garrison Keillor. It’s called something like “Good Poems for Hard Times”. I open it randomly, shuffling through. One of the first poems I see is something by William Blake called “Proverbs of Hell”. That was definitely not helpful. They’re super dark anti-proverbs, like follow these and you’ll really screw up your life. There’s a line in there that says something like “Excess is the road to wisdom”, which really hits home.

See, I’ve been expecting this call for a long time, and it all comes down to my father’s excess. He’s a drunk. (I use the present tense, dear reader, because as far as I know here at 1:55PM L.A. time, he’s alive.) A lush. An alcoholic. A boozer. Or in any case he drinks too much. And smokes too much. And just generally doesn’t take too much care of himself.

But that’s not precisely the reason he’s in the hospital. It’s more complicated than that. There’s an extra component to the story that I’ve been keeping from a lot of people for a long time, something that has been a deep dark family secret for years. The secret is that about seven years or so ago, my father contracted HIV.

Yikes. Insert tourettic tirade here.

He contracted it from his ex-wife, a monstrous über-skank. (My plane is leaving soon. Boarding in ten minutes.) Anyway, he’s had this for a long while and had kept it hidden from me up until about a year or so ago. That’s an entirely different, and equally awful story.

(I really need to get on this plane.)
Okay, suffice it to say, I’m heading home and I’m scared shitless. I have no idea what news I’m going to hear when I get off the plane. I’ve been preparing myself for the worst. Like this morning in the bath. I read a poem about a poet who died of leukemia and wham, it all came together. I bawled and howled and screamed like a baby. I thrashed around, water spraying in my face, whimpering like an infant. And I’m sure that’s only the beginning.

So, off to the plane. Off to try to pretend that I’m a regular person. Do sudoku. Read comics. Try not to cry. I can do it. As long as I don’t think about it, and what I’ll hear the second we touch down and my phone regains reception.

Pray for me.

….
It’s 5:57 and my father is still alive. I just touched down in DIA and am currently waiting for my bag. I just talked to my brother and he told me that dad’s hanging on, but it doesn’t look good. He also said that they’ve been telling him that I’m on my way. Hope that helps.

I’m not sure what the point is, or what the rush is, of seeing someone who is almost dead. Or even worse, the desire for us to see the dead. That’s how it was with Andrea’s Grandma. They called us to the hospital in the middle of the night only to see her gaping mouth. Possibly the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.

Looks like my bag’s on the way. Mom is here with Michael. She told me that when Christine found him last night he had no pulse. The medics were able to revive him but there’s chance that he may have brain damage if he survives. Any way you slice it, this is not going to be a fun day.
…

10:46PM
It is five hours from the time of my last writing and, this is trite but so fucking true it not only bears repeating it bears tattooing on the next fucking stranger you see, it has been five hours but it might as well have been five years. In that time so much has happened I can’t even write. So much that I don’t even believe. So surreal that it didn’t even happen. And that’s what’s great about it all. I’m not here lying on the bed at my mom’s house typing into my blog. This isn’t happening. How amazing?

So let me tell you about some other things that didn’t happen. They so much did not definitely happen that you can look at them objectively, much as I am able to do. I mean, come on, they didn’t even happen. So here’s what didn’t happen…
When I arrived, my mom didn’t pick me up from the airport crying. Michael didn’t hug me assuringly. We didn’t go to the hospital where my father died.

Okay, cut this conceit. I hate it. I hate a lot of things right now. I hate the fact that I thought writing about this would be cute. That it would be worth reading some day. That it would be anything than what it is, the cute ramblings of a jackball who can’t form a thought without it being cute and funny.

So cut the fucking conceit. Here’s what happened. A straight forward, Clint Eastwood attitude is how my father would have chosen to tell this story.

So I get to the hospital after an eternity in the car. An eternity of me trying to start small talk about anything. I’m a master of distraction practicing my craft. We arrive at Swedish with my mother and we go in. This is when shit gets crazy. We go up to the floor and there in the waiting room is my family. Uncle Scott, Aunt Kimmy, everybody and lots of people I don’t even know. It’s ugly. I hug and smile and look dour and then I see my brother. Jake has been through the fucking ringer. Not that he looks it, strong, robust in a sweater and short cropped hair. His eyes are red from crying. Much like mine must look. Especially since I tried listening to Johnny Cash on the plane. Bad idea.

So Jake brings me down the hall, past nurses with a perma—face on. The kind of face you adopt that says, “yeah, I know. Sucks don’t it?” We walk down and there he is. My dad. Rick Forbes. Lying in a hospital bed. Nothing new, really. I’ve seen him in the hospital dozens of times. But this time it’s different. This time he looks healthy. Which is weird because a year ago when we had the big scare, the big scare I’ll tell you about later, when we saw him a year ago he was sheet white. That is what I always figured he’d look like when he died. White with a scraggly beard, not tan and shirtless.

So there he is, lying there shirtless with all sorts of tubes and shit but the interesting thing is, I really didn’t see them. I’m not sure what that means or where that came from, but it wasn’t until he finally died that I noticed all that stuff. My brother told me that he’d leave us alone and so he did.

So there I was with my dad, a nurse and a doctor…

2/01/07 (cont.)

So there I was with my dad, a nurse and a doctor. My brother leaves us alone and it’s so incredibly terrifying and awkward but also familiar. This is definitely not the first time I’ve seen my dad in the hospital. While he has always been the absolute toughest guy I’ve ever met in my life—I’m not exaggerating—he has also had his fair share of medical problems, each one worse than the last.

So I hold my father’s hand and try saying things to him, like they do in the movies. It comes out as squeaks and whispers. “Hey dad. It’s me, Josh. Josh is here. Hi.” The doctor keeps milling around behind me. I’m sure he’s seen it a million times, and I guess that’s what made me so self-conscious. How is my deathbed scene compared to other people’s? So eventually he leaves, and I gain a bit of confidence. I say something like, “Dad, I love you but I know that you know that. And I know you love me, but I know that you know that I know that.” The gist being that I had no regrets. There was no Tom Cruise Magnolia-moment. If this had happened a few years ago or, even worse, more close to my father and mother’s divorce, it would be a different scene all together. I was a bitter young man and he was a stubborn old one, but through time we were able to reconnect. For years he would cry every time that he saw me, as I was away at college and only came home a couple times a year. But the past few years have been really nice and our relationship has blossomed as well as could be expected. Sure, we always wished that we had more time together, but who doesn’t?

So, I said my peace and went out into the lobby. There were so many friends and family there. I guess my Grandfather had been there all day and had to go home because my Grandmother needed someone there with her. Everyone was taking it hard, but there were those weird moments of levity. Little jokes between the tears. I know my dad would have appreciated it.

So over the next hour (or three? My sense of time was obliterated by this point) things got worse. People kept poking their heads in to say goodbye and all the while little bits of information trickled it. Apparently he had a blood clot that got into his lung, or his brain, or both? At some point my brother told me that his vitals had crept below the level to sustain a healthy brain. Meaning of course that if he survived he’d be a vegetable. That’s when I really knew it was over. I had known for a while that my dad wasn’t going to live forever, but there was always that glimmer of hope. This was it. I knew there was no way in hell that he would want to survive after this point. I mean, come on, where do you think I learned the derogatory term “vegetable”?

So after a while, and more crying by his side—all the while his chest mechanically heaving up and down—my brother and I settled in for the countdown. (Actually, there was a mistake on my part. I had misread the cryptic numbers and bleeps of the machine and thought he had been dead for a while.) So we stood there with him, holding his hands, kissing his forehead and telling him we loved him. There was another weird moment of hope for a second as my brother rubbed my dad’s arm, causing his numbers to rocket upward. I ran to get a nurse who told us that any movement of the wires would create that response. We didn’t touch the wires, but whatever. The end was near. Eventually the color drained from his face and his pulse dropped down to zero. It felt like a really twisted, fucked up version of the New Years countdown; my brother and I glued to this dumb digital screen blinking numbers at us. They were the only real sign that anything was changing. Even after he was officially dead the breathing machine kept going.

A nurse came in with a genuinely concerned look on her face—God, how can these people do this?—and we checked the clock. 7:30. I don’t know why we do those sorts of things, keeping record of the time of birth and the time of death, but we do and so we did. We walked out and experienced that same strange feeling that I still have today: it’s over, there’s nothing to do. Nothing to do but hurt.

And that was it, a few hours, some standing around being helpless, some waiting and watching, and right under our noses the greatest man I’ve ever known died. Just like that. Like I keep saying, it was incredibly surreal. Perhaps one thing that made it so was the weird complacency of the doctors and nurses. I guess after they got him into the E.R. and stabilized, it was only a matter of time.

At the time of this writing, I still don’t know what the cause of death was, and I don’t think many know either. But nobody questions it.

Because my father had a death wish. He wanted to live fast, die young, and leave behind a good-looking corpse. Just a month ago we were teasing him about what kind of Grandpa he’ll be and he very frankly said, “oh, I won’t live that long.” Not to mention his rampant drinking and smoking. And his blood clot problem; his ankles had swollen up like giant sausages. And of course the HIV. Or the fact that he put himself in harm’s way every single day he strapped on his holster. He had a death wish, but not like Kurt Cobain, more like Charles Bronson. Or Clint Eastwood. Or John Wayne. A steely determination in the face of death. Hell, in the face of anything. There was nothing he was afraid of. Nothing, but the suffering of others, I suppose. Which made him an amazing cop, and the World’s Greatest Dad (he has the coffee mug to prove it).

Don’t be fooled into thinking that he wasn’t troubled. He had no fear, but personal demons a’plenty. As heir to his genetics, I am certain that he suffered from deep depression for quite a long time. He self medicated with cigarettes, and alcohol and the adrenaline rush that comes with face to face conflict. He also had seen so much devastation, it’s unfathomable. For years he worked as a homicide detective and was subject to death on a weekly basis. Grisly murders, accidents and suicides. I remember some amazingly horrific stories that he used to tell, and should get them down on paper before they float away.
…
Anyway, I need to stop writing for now. I’m in charge of putting together a slide show for the funeral and reception as well as writing out his life story for the program. Good times.

2/6/08 (cont.)

I am now back at my office with nothing to do, so I figured I’d pick up the pieces of this distended blog entry and try to fill in some pieces. I’ve chosen to do this as all one piece because I’d rather someone read it as all one chunk rather than reading it backwards.

Where was I?

Oh wow, I left off before the funeral. Ugh. Lots to report. I’ll try to keep everything as brief as possible, but well… let’s begin.

I bit off a tad more than I could chew concerning the slideshow, but barring the fact that I was up till 4AM the night before Dad’s funeral, it went extremely well. The song selection was half mine and half my brother Jake’s. He suggested two country songs “One Wing In The Fire” and “He Was A Good Man”, both by pop country guys. If you’d like their names, leave a comment. I’m too lazy to hit the google right now. My two songs were “A little Help From My Friends” by Joe Cocker (AKA the Wonder Years song) and “We’ll Meet Again” by Johnny Cash. The Wonders Years bit played over photos of my dad as a kid, which I admit was a bit schmaltzy, but who cares? There’s an amazing effect that happens when you hear that song and see old photos. It melts your damned heart. Same with the Johnny Cash. I saved that for last and transitioned from the chronological order of things—I started the slideshow off with dad as a kid and moved to his latter days—I transitioned at this point back to dad’s golden years. So as we heard Johnny sing words like “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day…” we saw pictures of my dad, glowing, shirtless, fishing, boating, standing in the sun looking beautiful. It had a really amazing effect, as well as a hopeful one.

So the video was a hit, but that didn’t play until the end. The beginning of the service was amazing. The chief of police offered up a color guard to open the service. The guard was comprised of men from Englewood PD and FD and they were charmingly rusty about the whole affair. It was so sweet. Their movements felt a bit more Mayberry than Annapolis, which was nice. They entered in full regalia, holding flags, marched in, set the flags and left. All the while, some gent barking orders. It was really great.

Then, the pastor, Bruce Spear spoke. It was really great because he had attended bible study with my dad during his church attending years. He had a funny joke about how when he started going to the bible study, he was secretly worried that his wife would be wooed by my dad’s rugged good looks.

He said a nice prayer, read some nice scriptures and I think he lead us in a hymn, “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing”, I believe. I chose it, not only because it’s one of the catchiest, and one of my most favorite, but I remember my dad would always make a joke when we sang it. There’s a line that says something like “Bind my heart like a fetter” and he would always say it like “feather”. Stupid, but funny.

(Anyway, I’m realizing that I’ve been sitting on this post for a while, so I’m going to post it, let people read and then add recollections as they come. Thanks for reading.)