Father's Last Story
Pt 3

So dad lay collapsed by the car in the early afternoon sun.

It was June in Texas and the mid-day temperatures in that part of the state average in the mid-90’s. I’m sure he was perspiring. The combination of heat and physical exertion were too much on him. It’s possible that the shock of the blow out elevated his stress level and helped trigger it as well. Whatever the cause, dad crumpled over on the side of the road.

Mom said she ran to him crying his name.

 

She searched his front shirt pocket trying to find his nitroglycerine tablet. During a heart attack, you are suppose to put that pill under the victim’s tongue. The nitroglycerine acts as a vasodilator, opening up the blood vessels by relaxing the smooth muscles that line them. This allows blood to flow back into the muscles of the heart, allowing it to continue pumping blood. But dad’s front pocket was empty.

Mom must have been frantic and started searching the his pants pockets next. His body was completely unresponsive by now, but she didn’t give up. Her hand found the case in his right-front pocket. She came up with the pill and slid it under his tongue.

Less than a minute passed, and dad regained consciousness. His last words were “Let me up.” To which mom responded by telling him to lie still and that he was having a heart attack. Dad started trying to sit up.

And that’s where this blinding white noise enters the story. A huge, sight erasing sound of lost history. Did he wince in pain? Did he lay back suddenly and unexpectedly? Did he just quit moving? I could never ask mom. She always welled up when getting to this part of the story.

He went under again and did not come back.

Father's Last Story
Pt. 2

On Friday, June 18, 1999, my mother and father set out for the panhandle of Texas in my mother’s power-blue Cadillac DeVille. It was still a newish car, possibly a 1996-1997 model. Dad loved to haggle with the dealers, so he was constantly “upgrading” to newer models. She was a big, heavy gas-guzzler with giant silver tail fins. He kept her cleaner than most doctors keep their operating rooms. My parents preferred it on long trips for the smooth ride the car gave. Only this ride wouldn’t be so smooth.

The panhandle of Texas, for those of you not familiar, is the North-most central part of the state. It’s the part under the “finger” of Oklahoma and the overall shape is that of three sides of a square. We call it the panhandled because it looks a bit like something you could grab, sort of a state-sized pot handle. The climate in that part of Texas is the same as of much of the arid central plains: mostly dry and hot with nothing to see and nowhere to go for miles. There is good soil in that seemingly endless dustbowl and, for those willing to spend their lives praying for the eventual rainy deluges, there is a chance of eke out a meager living as farmers. People like the Meltons and McWhorters, my mother’s kinfolk.

If you checked your calendar, you’d see that the Sunday after their departure was Father’s Day. It is of note that neither my mother’s father nor my dad’s was alive at this point. Why were my parents driving to the middle of the country before the holiday? The answer: my mother’s high school reunion for Childress High School was scheduled that weekend. An odd bit of scheduling, to be sure. The reunion was an “all alumni” type of affair and great fun to hear my parents speak of it. Given that the population of entire city was less than seven thousand people, it sounds like pretty much anyone who was anyone in Childress would be there. Most of mom’s family still lives in Childress, including several uncles and cousins I haven’t seen since I was a teenager. Both of my parents loved taking the drive up there and socializing. It had become an annual event they looked forward to, and in 1999 the alumni association had planned for it to occur on the weekend of Father’s Day.

A few miles out from a speck in the road that the locals call Henrietta, the car, that huge smooth-sailing DeVille with its giant winged taillights and just-like-new-car smelling interior, experienced a blow out on one of the tires. It occurs to me now that I never asked mom which tire happened to fail. I do know from personal experience that no matter if front or rear tire the resultant feeling to the driver is that of having hit some invisible auto. It is like being in a two car accident with only one car participating. I blew a tire on the way to New Orleans once and it almost bounced me into oncoming traffic. Scared the living bejeebus out of me. For several seconds I was not in control of a car hurling down the road at 60 mph. Those seconds feel like an eternity of helplessness. I was lucky to have gotten the car off to the side without hitting anyone. A good blow out leaves you shaken for quite some time. And my father had a history of heart trouble.

So there they were in the middle of nowhere-ville with no cell phone, no payphones and no help. Dad looked hale and hearty. He stood just a hair under six feet and the years of following doctor’s orders after his first three heart attacks kept him pretty trim. He was a powerful man who could swing a twenty-four ounce hammer like it was part of his arm. He loved carpentry, although for years it took a back seat to earning a living staffing and running kitchens. He was really something, though. We thought he would live forever.

Dad stepped out of the car and unpacked the bags out of the trunk. He pulled the jack out and the spare. For some reason only he would have known, perhaps because if was uncomfortable, he took is wallet out and laid it down on the back bumper of the car. Knowing he would be bending over a lot to pull the lug nuts off and work the jack, he took the pill container that held his nitroglycerin tablet kept for emergencies out of his shirt pocket and placed it in his front pants pocket. Then he went to work on the jack.

Likewise, the details are lost on exactly when he collapsed.

(Continued)

Father's Last Story

This is a story about my father. It’s not really his story, because I don’t know his story. Not really. I only know what I saw of his story. I am a poor reporter of facts unfortunately. My memory, when it functions correctly, is likely to come up with some selective details of his life that I found important that to him might not be important at all. It’s a game of “Telephone” with two players, but player two is blind and deaf. I may arrive at what I think my father’s life was about and it may be nowhere near the message my father was trying to convey. If you could approach my father with these recollections, if such a thing were even possible, he would assure you that I had things all back-to-front and sideways. I’m sure of this.

Yet I feel I have to tell his story, and my mother’s as well, because I need the rest. I don’t sleep well. The weight of losing them lies heavily upon me.

I suppose I should just pick a point, jump in and tell you about my dad. So be it. While there are many stories I could use to begin this, many starting gates I could pick for this tale, the place I choose to begin with is at the ending. His ending, anyway.

Choosing to begin somewhere else is out of the question. If you knew him the way his family and friends knew him, you would feel the same crippling sadness that he was gone that we do. I could tell you about the man my father was in minute detail. Roll out page after page of remembrances of his character and draw out his enduring warmth with each word. Even allow you to catch that brief twinkle in his eye when the evidence of his wit or charm surfaces. But that I cannot do that before laying him to rest. I will not do that to you.

My father passed away two days before Father’s Day on June 18, 1999. He was died on the side of the road under the boiling Texas sun. My mother was  beside him.

He had a blowout while driving Mom’s car and died while changing it. Mom would have been standing with him while he went about setting up the jack, as she always did when he fixed things around the house. No doubt she was peppering him with “Oh Bobby” this and “Be careful” that or standing silently, patiently with her lips pursed. He would allow her to hand him things or hold items, but the lion’s share of the work would be his. Dad grew up in a different era where men took care of things for their wives and women let them. The strain of working the jack in the hot mid-day Texas sun was too much for him. He was overcome by his fourth and final heart attack.

I wasn’t there of course, so all my knowledge of these events came from piecing together the rambling story that my mother told to family, friends and neighbors. It was a hard thing to watch; she struggled greatly to piece the details back together. I heard it many times. It was an impossible thing to hear more than once, but the reward of listening to it was something I desperately needed. This is how my father died.

 
(Continued)