The two sides of my family couldn’t be more different. My mom was from the city and my dad is from the backwoods. My dad’s family is generally pretty reserved while my mom’s side is rather rowdy. They both have their share of dysfunction but my mom’s side, the Lewis’, can be just plain hood with theirs. The Lewis side of my personality was ready to come out when I learned that someone had stolen my grandfather’s suits.
My dad and his siblings shook their heads at the discovery while I fought the urge to put up wanted posters throughout the town. I laid on the couch and thought of exactly what I’d say. “Wanted: whoever stole my granddaddy’s suits. I’m looking for you.” If I didn’t think it would embarrass my family, I would have at least taken an ad out in the local paper.
Who in the world steals from an 88-year-old man? My cousin is known to associate and procreate with felons, so, maybe some of her friends needed court clothes. Also, my grandpa had a friend known for “boosting.” If you’d steal from JC Penny’s and sell the stolen goods, maybe you’d steal from an old man and sell his suits? I don’t know. The whole situation was beyond logic.
To add to the insanity of it all, my father went looking for a pair of silk pajamas he and my mother had given my grandfather as a gift. They were also gone.
We didn’t have time to go pistol whipping the citizens of Newport, AR looking for these pajamas, we had a wedding to get to. My dad and I climbed into his white Lincoln MKS and started along our way. When we reached West Memphis, we stopped for gas and I reminded him to call his friend, Mary, about my foot. Mary said her pedicurist wouldn’t be available for an hour but her podiatrist could see me right away. We opted to see the podiatrist and headed into the city to get some professional help for this pain in my toe.
I was concerned about seeing a doctor because I didn’t have insurance. What if it was something serious and I needed a procedure? How much would this cost? Once I checked in at the doctor’s office, I found out it would cost $150 just to see the doctor. By this time, I’m praying it’s something simple that won’t require multiple visits.
Once the fee was paid and I waited a short while, a young lady with coke bottle glasses and microbraids escorted me to the back. My dad was torn between making sure his car was ok or going back to the room with me. I won this initial round versus the Lincoln.
The lazy eyed woman took me back up near the front of the office to weigh me but she couldn’t operate the machine. I don’t know if she couldn’t see if the bar was balanced in the middle of the beam or if she just didn’t understand the concept of the non-digital scale but I tried to pretend not to notice. Poor thing.
Mary stopped by the office to make sure we were taken care of. When Dr. Davis came into the room, they hugged like they were best friends and she told him to make sure he took good care of me.
The doctor was very friendly. He moved to Memphis from New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. He took one look at my inflamed toe and said, “Yep. You have an ingrown toe nail.” THANK YOU JESUS! It wasn’t an infection and didn’t need to be amputated or whatever other dramatic outcome I had been bracing myself for.
Dr. Davis said he’d have to cut a portion of my toenail away and the nailbed would be exposed until it healed. “Um.... I have a wedding to be in on the 30th and I have to wear open toe heels,” I said. He said he could cut a little from the corner of my toe to relieve the pressure and the pain. You wouldn’t be able to tell he’d done anything, he assured me. I’d still be able to get a pedicure and wear heels but I’d have to come back to get the rest taken care of after the wedding. “Ok, that sounds great. When I come back, will I have to pay the $150 again?”
“Oh, no. I’ll make a note for the front desk that it’s free of charge,” he said. I beamed. Thank God for Mary and the homie hookup!
We soon got back on the road to make the six hour trip to Atlanta. It looked like everything would work out and my mind finally started to rest. We ran into a little rain just as we were leaving Memphis but it passed quickly.
As we approached Jasper, AL the clouds were eerily dark. The closer we got, we started hearing sirens and fire trucks rushed past. We kept on our way and noticed the highway signs were completely bent. Some bent over backwards, others twisted as if stretching before a workout. Then we started noticing large tree branches in the middle of the highway. Clearly, a serious windstorm had just come through this very highway.
Once we got to Birmingham, we were four miles from the exit to highway 20 heading toward Atlanta when the traffic made a complete stop. Nothing moved and the lights were out in the city.
We sat there for about 20 minutes when my dad told me to ask the person in the truck next to us what was going on. “A tornado just hit about four blocks ahead,” she said.
All I could think about was my toe and how if it hadn’t been such a pain, my dad and I probably would have met that tornado head on in Birmingham.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Road Trip, Part 6: Decisions, Decisions
My grandfather was known for being stylish. Ever the classy one, he kept an extensive wardrobe with all manner of suits, boots, and hats. He was particularly fond of Kangol hats.
I remember being shocked during a family reunion picnic in the early 2000’s, “Does my granddad have on Jordans?” Yes. Yes, he did. He had on the black and red Jordan XIV’s. I almost passed out right there in the park.
Due to my grandpa’s reputation, the pressure was on us to make sure his funeral fit his elegant image. Obituaries are keepsakes. People send them to relatives who were unable to attend the services. There was no way we could use a picture of my grandpa with a jheri curl on the cover.
Thankfully, I was able to crop my hand out of the picture from last year’s family reunion and the family was more than pleased with the result. I completed the rest of my writing duties and left the rest to my aunt and uncle, as my dad and I would be leaving for Atlanta in the morning.
The next morning, we were all supposed to go to Craft Funeral Home and choose my grandfather’s casket. After that, my dad and I would hit the road headed to Atlanta. As plans were being made for the next day’s activities, I thought it was a good time to consult my dad about my toe, which hadn’t gotten any better despite my faithful water pill routine.
“Dad, maybe I have an ingrown toenail or something. Can we stop in Memphis in the morning and have your pedicurist friend look at it? At least she’d be able to tell me if that’s the issue.”
My mom was from Memphis and after her passing, her friend Laurice made it a point to make sure my dad wasn’t lonely. She’d invite him to Memphis events and through her, he made a lot of friends in the city. One of these friends, Mary, has turned out to be more special than the others. At first, I was pissed at the thought of my father dating again but she ended up being an awesome woman. Plus, she buys me MAC makeup during the holidays. This is the quickest way to get in good with me.
My father always raved about Mary’s pedicurist so he agreed to give her a call once we got on the road in the morning.
Morning came and I got dressed in just enough time to make it to the funeral home on time. To my surprise, I was the only one ready. My dad was upstairs yakking on the phone and my Uncle Jerome wasn’t even dressed! The rest of my family was walking around looking dazed.
It had been stressed that we needed to be on time to the funeral home because the woman handling the business had other obligations for the day. She couldn’t sit around and wait for us. So, why was I the only one ready?
Eventually, I fussed enough at my dad that we ended up leaving everyone else. About half of us were there within 10 minutes of our appointment time and got started on the paperwork before my Aunt Lois and Uncle Jerome arrived. We got some of the questions answered but for most of them, my dad said, “You’d have to ask Lois.” And when she finally got there and the funeral home representative started asking her questions, she would look at my dad and there would be an awkward silence. These questions consisted of things like, “How many death certificates will you need? How many insurance policies were there? When would the services be held?”
In all things, my father takes the lead. I was both frustrated and alarmed that he would take a back seat on this. He is always the authority and always leads the charge. What in the world was going on?
I struggle with impatience so, all the blank stares and awkward silences were really bugging me. It only got worse when it was time to pick out the casket. As I looked around the room full of caskets, I immediately saw the one I thought would be best. It was two toned, black and silver. Black on the top and bottom with embossed silver along the sides. It looked elegant and manly, just like my granddad.
I stood next to my dad and pointed to the black and silver casket in the corner. We all agreed that this was the best fit but my Aunt Lois and Uncle Jerome wouldn’t bite the bullet. They just stood there, looking back and forth between us and the casket. No argument was being made for or against the thing, they just looked.
It came time to choose what type of vault we’d put my grandpa in. There are only two types: the kind that has a decorated top and the other kind that doesn’t. More standing and staring occurred. I don’t remember which one they chose because sometime along the way my brain shut off.
We went back into the woman’s office and she instructed us on the next steps: bring the clothes he’d be buried in by Friday and bring the insurance policy information by the day of the services. Ok, got it.
We got back to The House and my Aunt Lois and Uncle Jerome went to pick out a suit for my grandpa but only one could be found. I reached in my purse to text a friend, “Lord... someone done stole all my granddaddy’s suits!”
I remember being shocked during a family reunion picnic in the early 2000’s, “Does my granddad have on Jordans?” Yes. Yes, he did. He had on the black and red Jordan XIV’s. I almost passed out right there in the park.
Due to my grandpa’s reputation, the pressure was on us to make sure his funeral fit his elegant image. Obituaries are keepsakes. People send them to relatives who were unable to attend the services. There was no way we could use a picture of my grandpa with a jheri curl on the cover.
Thankfully, I was able to crop my hand out of the picture from last year’s family reunion and the family was more than pleased with the result. I completed the rest of my writing duties and left the rest to my aunt and uncle, as my dad and I would be leaving for Atlanta in the morning.
The next morning, we were all supposed to go to Craft Funeral Home and choose my grandfather’s casket. After that, my dad and I would hit the road headed to Atlanta. As plans were being made for the next day’s activities, I thought it was a good time to consult my dad about my toe, which hadn’t gotten any better despite my faithful water pill routine.
“Dad, maybe I have an ingrown toenail or something. Can we stop in Memphis in the morning and have your pedicurist friend look at it? At least she’d be able to tell me if that’s the issue.”
My mom was from Memphis and after her passing, her friend Laurice made it a point to make sure my dad wasn’t lonely. She’d invite him to Memphis events and through her, he made a lot of friends in the city. One of these friends, Mary, has turned out to be more special than the others. At first, I was pissed at the thought of my father dating again but she ended up being an awesome woman. Plus, she buys me MAC makeup during the holidays. This is the quickest way to get in good with me.
My father always raved about Mary’s pedicurist so he agreed to give her a call once we got on the road in the morning.
Morning came and I got dressed in just enough time to make it to the funeral home on time. To my surprise, I was the only one ready. My dad was upstairs yakking on the phone and my Uncle Jerome wasn’t even dressed! The rest of my family was walking around looking dazed.
It had been stressed that we needed to be on time to the funeral home because the woman handling the business had other obligations for the day. She couldn’t sit around and wait for us. So, why was I the only one ready?
Eventually, I fussed enough at my dad that we ended up leaving everyone else. About half of us were there within 10 minutes of our appointment time and got started on the paperwork before my Aunt Lois and Uncle Jerome arrived. We got some of the questions answered but for most of them, my dad said, “You’d have to ask Lois.” And when she finally got there and the funeral home representative started asking her questions, she would look at my dad and there would be an awkward silence. These questions consisted of things like, “How many death certificates will you need? How many insurance policies were there? When would the services be held?”
In all things, my father takes the lead. I was both frustrated and alarmed that he would take a back seat on this. He is always the authority and always leads the charge. What in the world was going on?
I struggle with impatience so, all the blank stares and awkward silences were really bugging me. It only got worse when it was time to pick out the casket. As I looked around the room full of caskets, I immediately saw the one I thought would be best. It was two toned, black and silver. Black on the top and bottom with embossed silver along the sides. It looked elegant and manly, just like my granddad.
I stood next to my dad and pointed to the black and silver casket in the corner. We all agreed that this was the best fit but my Aunt Lois and Uncle Jerome wouldn’t bite the bullet. They just stood there, looking back and forth between us and the casket. No argument was being made for or against the thing, they just looked.
It came time to choose what type of vault we’d put my grandpa in. There are only two types: the kind that has a decorated top and the other kind that doesn’t. More standing and staring occurred. I don’t remember which one they chose because sometime along the way my brain shut off.
We went back into the woman’s office and she instructed us on the next steps: bring the clothes he’d be buried in by Friday and bring the insurance policy information by the day of the services. Ok, got it.
We got back to The House and my Aunt Lois and Uncle Jerome went to pick out a suit for my grandpa but only one could be found. I reached in my purse to text a friend, “Lord... someone done stole all my granddaddy’s suits!”
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Road Trip, Part 5: "We aint doing no jheri curls!"
After his brief tour in WWII, my grandfather started a career as a sharecropper and would use his ten children as field hands. Life on the farm equipped the kids not only with agricultural skills but carpentry, auto-mechanic, plumbing and a host of other handy talents.
They raised cows, pigs and goats in a section of land called “Blacksville.” They made much of their money from their cotton and soybean crops, as well as corn, sorghum, wheat, okra and cucumbers.
As the eldest boy, my father started driving a tractor at 5-years-old when he was too small to see over the steering wheel. He’d have to start the tractor in gear, stand up to reach the pedals, and cut the gas to make it stop.
In 1966, the children helped to build their family home after my grandparent’s stopped renting from the farm owner’s land. The Lake clan could build whatever they put their minds to: deconstructing cars and tractors for fun, just to see whether they could put them back together again.
In 1982, the old house was moved to it’s current location on Highway 17 and totally remodeled. Most of the Lake siblings had moved to Minnesota by this time, leaving Jerome to do much of the work with the contractors. A second level was added to the house, as well as a den and attached garage. For 28 years, “The House” went untouched. The wallpaper, carpet and furniture remained the same.
After years of prodding from the Minnesota crew, my grandfather and Uncle Jerome agreed to allow the house to be remodeled again in 2010. My family put in new floors, bought new kitchen appliances and painted the first floor bedrooms. They hired a contractor to install new cabinets in the kitchen while they put in tile floors on their own. The bathroom was totally redone, with dual sinks added, a tile floor, new bathtub and toilet, and a sliding door separating the sinks from the interior of the bathroom.
On the morning after my grandfather passed, I limped to the bathroom to bathe and tame my fro for the day. The pain in my toe was so severe I couldn’t completely put on my left house shoe. I had to walk around with it only half on, making a shushing noise as I walked across the new floors.
I undressed, started the water and climbed into the shower. As the warm water hit my feet I felt a burn in my left big toe. At this point, I was blown away. “Really? WATER is hurting me?” So here I was, standing in the shower at an angle because I couldn’t take the burn but I couldn’t cut my shower short, as I needed to fully wash the previous day’s travel funk and grief away.
They raised cows, pigs and goats in a section of land called “Blacksville.” They made much of their money from their cotton and soybean crops, as well as corn, sorghum, wheat, okra and cucumbers.
As the eldest boy, my father started driving a tractor at 5-years-old when he was too small to see over the steering wheel. He’d have to start the tractor in gear, stand up to reach the pedals, and cut the gas to make it stop.
In 1966, the children helped to build their family home after my grandparent’s stopped renting from the farm owner’s land. The Lake clan could build whatever they put their minds to: deconstructing cars and tractors for fun, just to see whether they could put them back together again.
In 1982, the old house was moved to it’s current location on Highway 17 and totally remodeled. Most of the Lake siblings had moved to Minnesota by this time, leaving Jerome to do much of the work with the contractors. A second level was added to the house, as well as a den and attached garage. For 28 years, “The House” went untouched. The wallpaper, carpet and furniture remained the same.
After years of prodding from the Minnesota crew, my grandfather and Uncle Jerome agreed to allow the house to be remodeled again in 2010. My family put in new floors, bought new kitchen appliances and painted the first floor bedrooms. They hired a contractor to install new cabinets in the kitchen while they put in tile floors on their own. The bathroom was totally redone, with dual sinks added, a tile floor, new bathtub and toilet, and a sliding door separating the sinks from the interior of the bathroom.
On the morning after my grandfather passed, I limped to the bathroom to bathe and tame my fro for the day. The pain in my toe was so severe I couldn’t completely put on my left house shoe. I had to walk around with it only half on, making a shushing noise as I walked across the new floors.
I undressed, started the water and climbed into the shower. As the warm water hit my feet I felt a burn in my left big toe. At this point, I was blown away. “Really? WATER is hurting me?” So here I was, standing in the shower at an angle because I couldn’t take the burn but I couldn’t cut my shower short, as I needed to fully wash the previous day’s travel funk and grief away.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
The Road Trip, Part 4: Seeing Is Believing
Every single funeral or wake I’ve attended someone says, “They look just like they’re sleeping.” Every time I hear this, I think, “Um... no they don’t. They definitely look dead” I get that it’s supposed to be a comforting thing to say but most times I find it to be untrue.
When it was time to view my grandfather’s recently deceased body at the VA in Little Rock, AR, my Uncle Jerome refused to go. He was the closest to my grandpa in life and simply couldn’t bare it. They had a symbiotic relationship. My grandpa relied on him to maintain the house, drive him to his doctors appointments and care for him when he just didn’t feel like caring for himself. My uncle relied on my grandpa’s company and his income, as his disability kept him out of the workforce. The stress of grief and worry over what would now become of his life visibly wrought my uncle’s face as we left him sitting on a bench in the hallway outside ICU.
We had missed my grandfather’s last breath by a mere 20 minutes. His body was still warm to the touch. Despite my disagreement with the cliche, he really did appear to be simply sleeping. He was freshly washed and groomed by the nurses and looked quite dapper lying in the hospital bed. They had shaved his mustache away but it didn’t look odd. He still looked very much like himself.
There was a calmness about his face. He looked at peace. It may have been a delusion but I swear I saw a faint smile on his lips. He looked amazing.
This awe at how well he looked soon gave way to grief. I walked to a corner of the room, turning my back to his body and cried. My mind didn’t want to accept what I was seeing. A nurse came in, passing around kleenex. I took some from her hands and again found my way back to my father’s side. His once stoic face finally gave way to tears.
My Uncle Robert clasped my grandpa’s shoulder and shook him forcefully. I can’t recall what he was saying but it seemed to be an attempt to wake my grandfather. The hospital’s chaplain soon came in and prayed with the family. It was an awkward prayer but we took what we could get.
The chaplain advised us on where to make arrangements for the body to be picked up and other administrative tasks, then shuffled out of the room leaving us with to grieve. The nurse with the tissues remained in the room with us. She commented repeatedly on how much we looked like my grandfather. She told us how hard they had tried to save him. Then she began to cry.
I was mildly alarmed by this stranger’s tears but appreciated her empathy. She even looked shocked at her own tears. I can only imagine the toll it takes on one’s spirit to work in the ICU, watching people die daily and routinely witnessing a family’s heartbreak. She walked around the room, holding anyone who would accept her embrace. I gratefully accepted.
After the administrative business was taken care of, we left Little Rock for my grandfather’s house. Once we got there, it was time to figure out who was sleeping where. My Uncle Robert went home to his wife and daughter. My aunt and her husband were sleeping in my grandmother’s old room. My Uncle Jerome had his room on the second floor and my other two uncles occupied the double beds my father and I generally sleep in on visits. Where were me and my dad going to sleep?
“I can change the linen on Diddy’s bed and you can sleep in there,” my aunt said to me. “Diddy” is what my aunts call my grandfather (long before Puffy changed his name) and there was no way in hell I was sleeping in his bed that night! No, sir! No, ma’am! Not me! I politely shook my head and made the “No, ma’am” face.
My dad spoke up, “You’ll sleep on the couch and I’ll sleep on the lay-z-boy in the den.” Now, THAT I could do! He could have abandoned me to sleep on the couch and went upstairs to sleep with one of his brothers but he knew I was too scary to sleep anywhere by myself. This was perfect. Just as long as I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom... I’d rather pee on myself than walk down that hallway at night by myself.
Pillows and blankets were gathered and we settled in to attempt rest. As I pulled the blanket over my feet, I felt a sharp pain. If I know nothing else, I know this for a fact: a blanket shouldn’t hurt you. Now, not only was I sad about my grandpa’s passing, I was worried about my health. My eyes widened as I thought, “What the HELL is wrong with my toe?”
When it was time to view my grandfather’s recently deceased body at the VA in Little Rock, AR, my Uncle Jerome refused to go. He was the closest to my grandpa in life and simply couldn’t bare it. They had a symbiotic relationship. My grandpa relied on him to maintain the house, drive him to his doctors appointments and care for him when he just didn’t feel like caring for himself. My uncle relied on my grandpa’s company and his income, as his disability kept him out of the workforce. The stress of grief and worry over what would now become of his life visibly wrought my uncle’s face as we left him sitting on a bench in the hallway outside ICU.
We had missed my grandfather’s last breath by a mere 20 minutes. His body was still warm to the touch. Despite my disagreement with the cliche, he really did appear to be simply sleeping. He was freshly washed and groomed by the nurses and looked quite dapper lying in the hospital bed. They had shaved his mustache away but it didn’t look odd. He still looked very much like himself.
There was a calmness about his face. He looked at peace. It may have been a delusion but I swear I saw a faint smile on his lips. He looked amazing.
This awe at how well he looked soon gave way to grief. I walked to a corner of the room, turning my back to his body and cried. My mind didn’t want to accept what I was seeing. A nurse came in, passing around kleenex. I took some from her hands and again found my way back to my father’s side. His once stoic face finally gave way to tears.
My Uncle Robert clasped my grandpa’s shoulder and shook him forcefully. I can’t recall what he was saying but it seemed to be an attempt to wake my grandfather. The hospital’s chaplain soon came in and prayed with the family. It was an awkward prayer but we took what we could get.
The chaplain advised us on where to make arrangements for the body to be picked up and other administrative tasks, then shuffled out of the room leaving us with to grieve. The nurse with the tissues remained in the room with us. She commented repeatedly on how much we looked like my grandfather. She told us how hard they had tried to save him. Then she began to cry.
I was mildly alarmed by this stranger’s tears but appreciated her empathy. She even looked shocked at her own tears. I can only imagine the toll it takes on one’s spirit to work in the ICU, watching people die daily and routinely witnessing a family’s heartbreak. She walked around the room, holding anyone who would accept her embrace. I gratefully accepted.
After the administrative business was taken care of, we left Little Rock for my grandfather’s house. Once we got there, it was time to figure out who was sleeping where. My Uncle Robert went home to his wife and daughter. My aunt and her husband were sleeping in my grandmother’s old room. My Uncle Jerome had his room on the second floor and my other two uncles occupied the double beds my father and I generally sleep in on visits. Where were me and my dad going to sleep?
“I can change the linen on Diddy’s bed and you can sleep in there,” my aunt said to me. “Diddy” is what my aunts call my grandfather (long before Puffy changed his name) and there was no way in hell I was sleeping in his bed that night! No, sir! No, ma’am! Not me! I politely shook my head and made the “No, ma’am” face.
My dad spoke up, “You’ll sleep on the couch and I’ll sleep on the lay-z-boy in the den.” Now, THAT I could do! He could have abandoned me to sleep on the couch and went upstairs to sleep with one of his brothers but he knew I was too scary to sleep anywhere by myself. This was perfect. Just as long as I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom... I’d rather pee on myself than walk down that hallway at night by myself.
Pillows and blankets were gathered and we settled in to attempt rest. As I pulled the blanket over my feet, I felt a sharp pain. If I know nothing else, I know this for a fact: a blanket shouldn’t hurt you. Now, not only was I sad about my grandpa’s passing, I was worried about my health. My eyes widened as I thought, “What the HELL is wrong with my toe?”
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Road Trip, Part 3: It's Gonna Be Alright
He had a pulse. It was faint but there. The doctors had revived my grandfather from cardiac arrest and urged us to get to Little Rock as quickly as possible.
He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.
Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.
Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.
The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.
Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.
Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”
My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.
My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: “It’s gonna be alright.” I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.
He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.
Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.
Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.
The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.
Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.
Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”
My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.
My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: "It’s gonna be alright." I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.
He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.
Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.
Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.
The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.
Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.
Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”
My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.
My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: “It’s gonna be alright.” I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.
He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.
Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.
Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.
The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.
Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.
Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”
My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.
My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: "It’s gonna be alright." I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.
Monday, May 16, 2011
The Road Trip, Part 2: Toe Jam and Tragedy
I never sleep much before a trip. That’s what the plane ride is for. The night before a trip is usually spent doing the packing and cleaning I’d put off all week. It’s Easter Sunday and I’ve only gotten about two hours of sleep and the Supershuttle driver is outside waiting. I threw on my flat black combat boots that I’d worn all winter and literally dragged my bag out to the curb to meet the driver. I couldn’t roll the dang thing because Delta airlines had broken the handle on a previous trip and it was far too heavy to carry. I wouldn’t be returning to DC until May 10th and I’m pretty sure I packed half my closet, plus a couple dresser drawers.
Despite the shuttle driver getting lost on the way to the airport (with the GPS sitting pretty on the dash) and questioning me as to why I was traveling on this holy day, I made it on my Sun Country flight with no trouble. I sat in my aisle seat, closed my eyes and prepared myself for the pre-takeoff slumber I’d experienced numerous times before. It didn’t come. I just KNEW I’d be sleeping on the second leg of the flight from Lansing, MI to Minneapolis. Nope. Not a single wink for the entire flight. It was almost as if my spirit was on edge. Something inside me just refused to let me rest.
After an uneventful, and sleepless, flight, we landed safely at the Humphrey terminal of the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. When I got up from my seat to disembark the plane, I felt a pain in my left big toe. It felt like I’d stubbed it. As I made my way to the baggage claim, I found myself limping. I didn’t remember hitting my foot on anything so, I was mildly alarmed but blamed it on the shoes. I thought maybe I’d worn them out over the winter and needed to retire them.
I forced myself to stop limping and met my dad and big brother out at the passenger pickup area. Hugs, kisses and much laughter were shared on the short ride to the Northside of Minneapolis to my childhood home. We ordered take out from Red Lobster (Yes. On Easter.), watched some basketball and prepared for our trip the next morning. But even that night, as I lay in my room surrounded by Allen Iverson posters and stuffed animals, my body refused to rest.
When I woke up in the morning, I found my dad’s youngest brother, my Uncle Grozzel, sleeping on the couch. My 88-year-old grandfather had a stroke the previous week and was in the VA in Little Rock, AR. My dad and I didn’t have to be in Atlanta until the 27th, so, we had plenty of time to stop in Arkansas to visit with my recovering grandfather and my uncle decided to hitch a ride. Despite the chill in the Minnesota spring air, I put on a pair of open toe sandals and left my traitorous boots in the house.
We were met with rain almost as soon as we crossed the Minnesota state line. By the time we reached Arkansas it was a full out storm. On the 14 plus hour trip, I slept for about two hours. My father drove the entire way, with me keeping close watch from the backseat. The rain wasn’t the reason I didn’t sleep much, I just couldn’t. I tried to force it because, honestly, what else is there to do when it’s too dark to read and you’re tired of listening to your dad’s eclectic mix of Luther Vandross, Lyfe Jennings and random Kappa Alpha Psi songs?
We made it to my grandfather’s house in Newport, AR at about 9:30 PM. The three of us run from the rain into my grandpa’s garage and into the house. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I’m met by my 10-year-old cousin, J.T., whose arms are outstretched to hug me. He’s an adorable, well-mannered little brown boy with the mannerisms of a senior citizen. When he’s not at school, he spends most of his time at my grandfather’s house. J.T.’s grandfather is my dad’s brother and my Uncle Jerome, who lives in my grandfather’s house and has taken care of him in his elderly years. All this time around his elders shows up in J.T.’s gait and even in his conversation.
My Uncle Jerome had a stroke of his own over 10 years ago and hasn’t been able to work since. He is fully capable physically but his speech is mildly delayed and it takes him a little while to understand some things. He mixes up words and numbers sometimes, saying things like, “What your dad?” rather than “Where’s your dad?”, but we all understand him just fine. Because of this slight impairment he’s a bit shy in front of non-family members.
As soon as I loosen my embrace on J.T., Uncle Jerome hastily requests his grandson to put his coat on and get his homework. I give my favorite uncle, Uncle Robert, a hug as Uncle Jerome rushes past me out the door, muttering something that sounded like “Old man gone.” I didn’t quite hear him but I notice a frenzied confusion on my uncles faces. My dad, the eldest son of 10 children, had gone upstairs where my Aunt Lois and Uncle Kenny were. When I got upstairs to the room, I saw my dad on the phone and my aunt kneeling on the floor in a prayer position. I froze. My Uncle Kenny just sat there, staring at the wall.
I walked back downstairs to the kitchen where my Uncle Grozzel and Uncle Robert are assembled, sitting in silence. “Ok... what’s going on?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” my Uncle Robert said. “All I know is Jerome said something about the Old Man being gone.” The “Old Man” is what they call my grandfather.
Despite the shuttle driver getting lost on the way to the airport (with the GPS sitting pretty on the dash) and questioning me as to why I was traveling on this holy day, I made it on my Sun Country flight with no trouble. I sat in my aisle seat, closed my eyes and prepared myself for the pre-takeoff slumber I’d experienced numerous times before. It didn’t come. I just KNEW I’d be sleeping on the second leg of the flight from Lansing, MI to Minneapolis. Nope. Not a single wink for the entire flight. It was almost as if my spirit was on edge. Something inside me just refused to let me rest.
After an uneventful, and sleepless, flight, we landed safely at the Humphrey terminal of the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. When I got up from my seat to disembark the plane, I felt a pain in my left big toe. It felt like I’d stubbed it. As I made my way to the baggage claim, I found myself limping. I didn’t remember hitting my foot on anything so, I was mildly alarmed but blamed it on the shoes. I thought maybe I’d worn them out over the winter and needed to retire them.
I forced myself to stop limping and met my dad and big brother out at the passenger pickup area. Hugs, kisses and much laughter were shared on the short ride to the Northside of Minneapolis to my childhood home. We ordered take out from Red Lobster (Yes. On Easter.), watched some basketball and prepared for our trip the next morning. But even that night, as I lay in my room surrounded by Allen Iverson posters and stuffed animals, my body refused to rest.
When I woke up in the morning, I found my dad’s youngest brother, my Uncle Grozzel, sleeping on the couch. My 88-year-old grandfather had a stroke the previous week and was in the VA in Little Rock, AR. My dad and I didn’t have to be in Atlanta until the 27th, so, we had plenty of time to stop in Arkansas to visit with my recovering grandfather and my uncle decided to hitch a ride. Despite the chill in the Minnesota spring air, I put on a pair of open toe sandals and left my traitorous boots in the house.
We were met with rain almost as soon as we crossed the Minnesota state line. By the time we reached Arkansas it was a full out storm. On the 14 plus hour trip, I slept for about two hours. My father drove the entire way, with me keeping close watch from the backseat. The rain wasn’t the reason I didn’t sleep much, I just couldn’t. I tried to force it because, honestly, what else is there to do when it’s too dark to read and you’re tired of listening to your dad’s eclectic mix of Luther Vandross, Lyfe Jennings and random Kappa Alpha Psi songs?
We made it to my grandfather’s house in Newport, AR at about 9:30 PM. The three of us run from the rain into my grandpa’s garage and into the house. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I’m met by my 10-year-old cousin, J.T., whose arms are outstretched to hug me. He’s an adorable, well-mannered little brown boy with the mannerisms of a senior citizen. When he’s not at school, he spends most of his time at my grandfather’s house. J.T.’s grandfather is my dad’s brother and my Uncle Jerome, who lives in my grandfather’s house and has taken care of him in his elderly years. All this time around his elders shows up in J.T.’s gait and even in his conversation.
My Uncle Jerome had a stroke of his own over 10 years ago and hasn’t been able to work since. He is fully capable physically but his speech is mildly delayed and it takes him a little while to understand some things. He mixes up words and numbers sometimes, saying things like, “What your dad?” rather than “Where’s your dad?”, but we all understand him just fine. Because of this slight impairment he’s a bit shy in front of non-family members.
As soon as I loosen my embrace on J.T., Uncle Jerome hastily requests his grandson to put his coat on and get his homework. I give my favorite uncle, Uncle Robert, a hug as Uncle Jerome rushes past me out the door, muttering something that sounded like “Old man gone.” I didn’t quite hear him but I notice a frenzied confusion on my uncles faces. My dad, the eldest son of 10 children, had gone upstairs where my Aunt Lois and Uncle Kenny were. When I got upstairs to the room, I saw my dad on the phone and my aunt kneeling on the floor in a prayer position. I froze. My Uncle Kenny just sat there, staring at the wall.
I walked back downstairs to the kitchen where my Uncle Grozzel and Uncle Robert are assembled, sitting in silence. “Ok... what’s going on?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” my Uncle Robert said. “All I know is Jerome said something about the Old Man being gone.” The “Old Man” is what they call my grandfather.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
The Road Trip, Part 1: Freedom Papers
My father decided he wanted to DRIVE from Minneapolis to Atlanta for my godsister’s wedding. I couldn’t let him make that drive alone, so, I flew from DC to Minneapolis to take the road trip with him. While many of the events that followed were unexpected and heartbreaking, there were many blessings in disguise along the way. In this blog series I’ll recount these events and the lessons I learned from them. I hope you’ll stick around for the ride.
I got fired from my job in February. I sat in the HR director’s office along with my manager who said, “I’m sorry, Sarah. I really wanted to work things out with you but unfortunately you’re position is being terminated immediately.” I have never smiled so hard in my life.
This woman had made my life hell for months and I was finally free. This was cause for celebration and a trip to the unemployment office. After having worked as an Editorial Assistant for three years, I was beyond ready to move on. I was able to pay my bills but I’d become complacent and my dreams were starting to fade. I looked at this termination as an opportunity to reboot and force myself to stop coasting.
Now, my time at that job hadn’t always been hellish. My previous manager was awesome and my coworkers were the best. We worked well together, had fun and were an efficient bunch. But it all changed when the best boss I’d ever had took another job with another company. The woman hired to replace her was horrible. That’s really the best way I can say it. I’m not going to blast the woman on here but to say she was a horrid manager is nothing short of the truth. I hated every second of our interactions and so did everyone else forced to work with her, everyone except upper management.
It was so far beyond “my boss is an idiot and I hate her.” It was to the point where the thought of going to work the next day gave me panic attacks. I once cried ON THE BUS during my commute to work because I was so miserable. I’ve worked for a lot of different types of people in a variety of industries. Never have I had such an intense experience as this.
Every single day I was tempted to write my resignation letter and p-pop on a handstand on that hussy’s desk. EVERY SINGLE DAY! And every day I’d call my dad and tell him how horrible my day was. He told me, repeatedly, not to let “that woman” make me quit. If she wanted me gone, so be it. Apply for jobs in the interim, he said, and if I got fired, collect my unemployment like a boss.
When I got my freedom papers (during Black History Month, I might add) I was truly overjoyed. This feeling soon turned to my being overwhelmed: overwhelmed with possibility and overwhelmed with uncertainty. I’m still in that place, randomly applying for jobs with no real plan but at least I don’t have to deal with Medusa everyday. I’ve gotten a chance to recharge but I still haven’t gotten it all figured out quite yet. I’m working on it, though, y’all.
The day I got fired turned out to be a blessing for a very different reason. Without it, I’d more than likely wouldn’t have been able to take enough time off to make the drive from Minneapolis to Atlanta with my dad. We didn’t know we were embarking on an epoch-making journey but we were and there’s no other place I’d rather have been than right there with my dad. Please stay tuned for part two as we travel together on The Road Trip.
I got fired from my job in February. I sat in the HR director’s office along with my manager who said, “I’m sorry, Sarah. I really wanted to work things out with you but unfortunately you’re position is being terminated immediately.” I have never smiled so hard in my life.
This woman had made my life hell for months and I was finally free. This was cause for celebration and a trip to the unemployment office. After having worked as an Editorial Assistant for three years, I was beyond ready to move on. I was able to pay my bills but I’d become complacent and my dreams were starting to fade. I looked at this termination as an opportunity to reboot and force myself to stop coasting.
Now, my time at that job hadn’t always been hellish. My previous manager was awesome and my coworkers were the best. We worked well together, had fun and were an efficient bunch. But it all changed when the best boss I’d ever had took another job with another company. The woman hired to replace her was horrible. That’s really the best way I can say it. I’m not going to blast the woman on here but to say she was a horrid manager is nothing short of the truth. I hated every second of our interactions and so did everyone else forced to work with her, everyone except upper management.
It was so far beyond “my boss is an idiot and I hate her.” It was to the point where the thought of going to work the next day gave me panic attacks. I once cried ON THE BUS during my commute to work because I was so miserable. I’ve worked for a lot of different types of people in a variety of industries. Never have I had such an intense experience as this.
Every single day I was tempted to write my resignation letter and p-pop on a handstand on that hussy’s desk. EVERY SINGLE DAY! And every day I’d call my dad and tell him how horrible my day was. He told me, repeatedly, not to let “that woman” make me quit. If she wanted me gone, so be it. Apply for jobs in the interim, he said, and if I got fired, collect my unemployment like a boss.
When I got my freedom papers (during Black History Month, I might add) I was truly overjoyed. This feeling soon turned to my being overwhelmed: overwhelmed with possibility and overwhelmed with uncertainty. I’m still in that place, randomly applying for jobs with no real plan but at least I don’t have to deal with Medusa everyday. I’ve gotten a chance to recharge but I still haven’t gotten it all figured out quite yet. I’m working on it, though, y’all.
The day I got fired turned out to be a blessing for a very different reason. Without it, I’d more than likely wouldn’t have been able to take enough time off to make the drive from Minneapolis to Atlanta with my dad. We didn’t know we were embarking on an epoch-making journey but we were and there’s no other place I’d rather have been than right there with my dad. Please stay tuned for part two as we travel together on The Road Trip.
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