Six Months

As I sit here typing…it’s been six months since my initial falling-apart in the kitchen. Just a little before 8pm.

I’d been to the comic shop earlier in the day; begun finally sorting comics to clean the front room as Dad had been wanting; etc. I think I was in the middle of working through the Falcon and the Winter Soldier series, having just days earlier sprung for D+ as it was cheaper than purchasing a movie I wanted to watch.

And while I sat there watching–pondering what Dad would think of the show–I remember realizing a number of things. For one, there it was, end of 2021, and we’d not finished Iron Man 2…where I’d INTENDED to “subject” Dad AND Mom to the Marvel Cinematic Universe. They’d both seen several of the movies over the years…but after his health scare in August 2018, I’d intended to take him through the MCU. To get to share that whole epic with him. He’d have watched them if I pushed–he’d have wanted to make me happy, would’ve been thankful for the time together. But knowing he wasn’t terribly engaged or “enthusiastic” about them, I had NOT pushed, and weeks turned into months turned into years. So when we got him home from the hospital–whether it was a few days or (as we feared at the time) a few weeks/months again–I was gonna talk to him about it and re-gauge his interest IN the thing. (Of course, by that point, 2 1/2 years POST-Endgame).

I remember thinking about some conversations we’d had; stuff he’d shared with me. Snippets from HIS past, from before he’d even met Mom. I needed to talk to him and get more stories like that. (and remembering the look on his face and seeing HIM remember as he told me about stuff).

I remember thinking back to 2011 and being with Katie and Tim, talking to Katie’s grandfather, them recording some of his stories and such to share later.

And that I oughtta do that with Dad. Talk to him ABOUT recording some of the stuff. Get him to re-tell that story from college about putting a sign up cancelling class, and waiting around to talk to the professor. Some of thosse stories from his time on the ship. Him and Eric…him and Bruce. Him and Chuck. Compare notes on stuff from the Sandbagger Golf League days–stuff I’d picked up on as a kid, but maybe was either oblivious to or only had one side of things.

But I never got that chance, after the realization and intent. So many stories about his life, and his experiences. Stuff I never knew…and now, never will. Stories that I vaguely recall in the loosest sense that I won’t get to “firm up” or clarify details on.

I remember some years back when Eric came out to visit…and we were all out at some restaurant…I think it was that Mexican place over on 306 with the buffet, back in 2015 or 2016. Watching them talk and catch up and reminisce…and something that came up that had them both laughing, and Dad had tears in his eyes from laughing so hard and long at whatever that memory was that didn’t stand out to ME at the time.

I had my “breakdown” in the kitchen. Terrified of what could come; worried almost sick. Despite stuff we’d faced before, and however it now SOUNDS…I remembered that moment in an old Superman comic when Jonathan Kent was hospitalized after a heart attack…and Martha confiding in Lois (I believe) that she’d never been so scared she was gonna lose him (Jonathan).

My breakdown was as it hit me that we could actually lose him. That this was somehow different from the other times since 2017. Different from 2017. Partly hitting me because of Mom having her own bad feeling about things.

I tried to tell myself I was freaking out needlessly. That confiding in friends about my worries was gonna seem so foolish in retrospect. (Not the confiding but the worries; that I was totally overreacting).

So I got back to Falcon & Winter Soldier. Forced myself “through the motions.”

I texted Dad at 8:56pm Wednesday, December 29th. “Keep feeling better. Praying for you, thinking of you. Love you.” And sent two photos of Daisey, a photo of Sarah, and a photo of Chloe. Trying to keep optimistic and encouraging and photos to cheer him/brighten stuff. I’m not sure if I’d realized he hadn’t seen the text/photo from the night before. I was going to at LEAST text and share photos every day until I could get in to see him (the hospital’s one-visitor-once-per-day crap meant only Mom was able to see him that afternoon).

Less than two hours later I heard Mom hustling from the cave; my habitual question “everything ok?” getting a NON-standard answer/response. “They’re doing CPR on him,” as she hustled on by to get clothes for going out. I was moments from “crashing” for the night myself, but that changed immediately as I quickly changed into non-bedclothes and told Mom I was driving and was heading out to start the car.

That tense drive. 15 minutes? 20 minutes? Less than a half-hour. Familiar territory…I’ve driven much of that route countless times before in the previous half-decade; knew the area well from the previous three decades.

Rule or no rule, I was going in WITH Mom; NEITHER of us was being left to wait in the vehicle or a lobby or such. And, despite the rule and my readiness to FIGHT if needbe, no one stopped us.

Those final couple hours.

Those final moments.

That room. That monitor. The sudden change in tone/sound. Realizing SOMEthing was happening or had happened. Medical folks rushing in; Mom and me being pulled out of the room. Clinging to each other as medical folks crowded the space, “Code Blue” from the overhead speakers paging personnel to where they were needed. Dad’s room.

Seeing what I saw.

The pronouncement.

The realization.

And here it is, six months later. HALF A YEAR. Later.

I’ve not slept in a bed since getting up that morning of December 28th. Initially having “camped out” so I’d be handy and as aware as possible should anything “come up suddenly.” For the last six months because THE LAST TIME I was in that bed, I woke up to a world and life with Dad here in this house, with the expectation that things had to be getting better after the rough few days over Christmas and such.

I’ve managed to “force myself” to the comic shop every Wednesday. “Habit” or SOMEthing; it gets me outta the house, gives me SOMEthing “to do” each week that is not staying indoors here at the house. “Routine,” “motions” to go through, etc. For all that comics had BEEN through the years…Dad sure as heck would not have wanted to be “the cause” of me “dropping them” “cold turkey” or such; to just suddenly END something that had been a part of my life for 33 years…something that had given US something to tak about and bond over and shared experiences and interactions and such for so long.

I looked into “support groups,” but everything I found was video-only, or would require taking hours off work and driving at length just for anything “in person.” A group at a church 90 seconds’ drive away wanted people to wait til at least 3 months after their “loss.” Which for me meant at least the end of March. So I filed that all away and dropped it for the time.

Come end of March, other stuff going on. Mom in NY. I was getting ready for my first-since-2015 week-plus off work and roadtrip. Work. Day by day, getting by. Forgot about the support group stuff. A few weeks ago, it’s again bad timing. Gotta wait til August. Or do video. Or other stuff when I look that puts me off.

I’ve started “doing stuff” again, a bit.

Got a weekend with Mike and Drew in…February, I think it was.

Got to visit Zanesville with Mom in early April.

I went down to Alabama to see Sara in late April.

I got to go spend an afternoon with Katie and Tim and their boys at the one park beginning of June, and got to spend some time with Alana twice.

Couple weeks ago, got to spend an afternoon with friends playing tabletop games and just hanging out. Rather than just being at the house focusing on “Fathers’ Day.”

I’ve brought boxes and boxes of X-Men comics up to the cave. Tore apart part of the basement getting a shelving unit up here. Began re-sorting and “consolidating” X-stuff I’ve acquired over the past 2 years. And finally started “inventorying,” with an app I’ve actually PAID FOR for 2 years and now finally actively USING properly.

I’ve gotten some stuff cleaned up and dealt with that’s needed it; and some for naught as the mess has reasserted…but working with the X-stuff seems to be the most forward “progress” I’ve REALLY made in AGES in dealing with the comics, and so I chip away at THAT project while preparing to get the rest of the accumulation brought up and (eventually) sorted.

But not a day goes by that I don’t think of and miss Dad. That I don’t have that hurt and astonishment hit me that “he’s really GONE.” THat I canNOT simply walk across the house to see him. To talk to him.

I recall again the snippet of words of Sigfried Sassoon from his poem “Aftermath”:

Have you forgotten yet?…
For the world’s events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
Like traffic checked a while at the crossing of city ways […]

And I have NOT forgotten. I’m still here, I’m still learning to deal with this new world…and for most everyone else, life has (rightfully for them) just gone on after that pause.

And the words of Tanis Half-Elven as written by a CT Pierson:

For though
My life moves on, my infant son lies dreaming
In his cradle, my thoughts still find you, old friend.
And though you would scowl to hear me tell of it,
And stomp and scoff, I cannot hide this plain truth:
I still need you […]

While I have no son, no progeny, MY life continues to move. But my thoughts still find Dad. He would never have wanted to be ANY cause of me feeling so much hurt and pain and such; would want me to keep on goin’ and all that…I still needed him. Need him.

And I have to live with that.

Even as those words from Castin Crowns’ song re-hits:

But I know you’re in a place
Where all your wounds have been erased
And knowing yours are healed is healing mine […]

I don’t know what sorta timeframe I’m looking at. Typing all this is the first time in weeks that I think I’ve (managed to?) shed tears. It’s not easy. It’s not over. It’s not right. It’s not what I had wanted or planned or intended or looked toward, etc.

But here I am.

Six months…26 weeks.

Somehow having “gotten through” hour by hour, day by day by week by month.

“Now” is the “another time” stated several years ago for an anecdote

I came across something I’d posted in my comics blog back in 2017:

“My earliest conscious recollection of Guy [Gardner] is one of the Eclipso Annuals back in 1992 (Adventures of Superman Annual #4, I believe–as I learned after the fact, the ‘transition’ for the character back from his prestige-format limited series where he GOT the gold ring to begin with). And his #1 issue–the first of this very series–was one of several issues I got at a Waldenbooks while out with a friend and his mom, using money my dad gave me (though I got 6 or so comics and had some change left, I recall his being a bit surprised he didn’t get MORE change…but that’s a story for another time).”

Well, over 4 ½ years later, I suppose that ‘another time” is now.

That Waldenbooks I’d referenced in talking about Guy Gardner #11 is the same one that yielded my first four comics that Mom bought me. For me, for MY comics collection…it is THE source, the starting point for my entire collection. Just a fancy spinner-rack in a bookstore in a mall.

Anyway, whenever this was—Summer 1992—I was going to the mall (and Waldenbooks) with a friend and his mom. Dad gave me $10 to have some “spending money” and I was able to get several comics that day. If I’m recalling correctly now, it was that Guy issue (#1) as well as several Superman issues—parts of “The Blaze/Satanus War.” According to my earlier-posted memory of getting 6 or so comics, that would’ve been 6 $1.25 issues…or $7.50. (a paltry sum nowadays in 2022, that would not even get you 2 issues of anything not-Spawn). Of course, as a kid, having $10 at my disposal and being able to get numerous comics…it was a Pretty Big Deal.

And the more I think on it, the more I’m pretty sure Dad would have simply told me that he “expected some change back,” which essentially (to me at the time) meant I was not allowed to spend the ENTIRE $10. As Dad did not specify an amount otherwise, if I really DID get those 6 comics, then yeah…$7.50 + tax, and Dad “got some change back.”

I’m not sure how much is actual memory now—whether jarred loose by actually thinking in-depth about this particular situation for the first time in a number of years, or my mind constructing something from semi-partial-half-remembered stuff, I can’t attest to 100%. But I think I vaguely recall “picking up on” Dad’s annoyance at the time…but other than having expressed surprise at not getting more change back, he didn’t really say/do anything on it. BUT it definitely stood as a good long-term lesson for me in communication on such things: to keep “transparent” on stuff involving his money like that, as well as general awareness of how something might be interpreted by others.

But looking back on that now, it’s also a reminder of his general generosity, and the way he was always glad to do stuff for me, even if “just” giving me a bit of cash to be able to get something while out with a friend.

The situation/”incident” also OBVIOUSLY left its mark on me in THAT I remember so much about the particular, individual purchase and that those issues stand out to me a bit to this day for a number of factors.

Just one day, his son’s going to the mall with a friend, so hey, here, let’s make sure the kid’s got a couple dollars to get something token while out. I’m pretty confident that had I brought this up to Dad 3 ½ months ago, he wouldn’t even have any recollection of it himself. (then again, maybe he would, or would remember some other time that I’m not and remember/know that this TYPE of thing had once unfolded?). Point being, I highly doubt this was anything at ALL remarkable or stand-out or singly-memorable to HIM. Yet, here I am nearly 30 years later writing a number of words about the time and feeling like I’m recalling even more detail the more I think back on it, if only in “feelings” of nostalgia and wishing he was here TO ask about his memory of this.

I think it also helped jog my memory that I’m beginning to read some Eclipso: The Darkness Within comics from 1992, and another early-for-me comic has an ad for that Blaze/Satanus War story.

Even as I write all this, though, I’m reminded yet again of how vastly DIFFERENT stuff is for me now; having lost Dad “only” almost 12 weeks ago. That even contemplating any scene with someone losing a close relative from a comic has a whole different impact on me and meaning now than it ever did as some “concept,” now that I know first-hand what it is to lose my Dad.

But because of stuff WITH him, FROM him, INVOLVING him…I do get to have all sorts of tangible objects as (in cases like this) pleasant, fond reminders of him and the impact he’s had and will continue to hold in my life…

Dad and business trip stuff

I’ve yet to ever work any job where I had to travel FOR work. The closest was when I worked for IDMI and would regularly drive between the main office and the warehouse, but given that was a less than 10 minute drive (maybe 5-7?) that hardly counts.

No, by “travel FOR work” I’m talking “being gone” from “home” at least overnight–traveling further than a return-same-day thing. Where you’re “put up” at least overnight somewhere as a result of the job.

While it was hardly “frequent,” I do remember Dad having to travel for work occasionally.

And largely due to what he brought back, I remember several distinct such trips.

First, there was that trip to Detroit, I believe; in 1989/1990…the dawn of the “Turtles Craze” when the TMNT figures were maybe at their height and NO ONE had the actual turtles themselves in stock. Dad had gone on this trip, and when he came back, he had all 4 turtles, April O’Neil, and Casey Jones for me.

Another was Hawaii either end of 1992 or early 1993 when the “Doomsday!” (Death of Superman) cards were the hot thing. He came back with 2 unopened boxes of the cards for me; this yielded (if I recall) at least 3 full sets of the main cards, and a set of whatever the chase cards were (that I’m currently drawing a blank on in 2022).

Of course, both of these trips I would’ve been 8-12 years old, very much a kid, and so it makes sense, I guess, that what stood out was what he brought back FOR ME. There’s also that as a kid, I simply remember/knew that Dad went off to work every day; that he would bowl or golf some evenings after work, etc.

Those turtle figures were a Really Big Deal at the time. I don’t recall FOR SURE but I have this vague notion that he VAAAAAAAASTLY over-paid for them, GIVEN their “hotness” at the time. As I’m typing this, I’m thinking he may have said something about paying around $20/each…but again, that’s a vague notion and I don’t have a solid, specific memory of the number or such. Whatever he paid for them, it was definitely a premium, even by 2022 pricing (5-6 times retail price in 1989/1990!)

And the Superman trading cards…I remember him at some point disclosing to me that he’d paid $90/box for them…that was $180! ($2.50/pack…each box had 36 packs). And again, that was 1992/1993. Even now in 2022 I’d be really gritting my teeth and thinking hard about having to pay $90 for some cards, EVEN in 2022 buying a now-vintage box of those very same cards!

But these were a couple things where they were stuff I was VERRRRRRY much wanting at the time, and they were sold out/unable to be found locally, but when he found them while he was traveling for work, he splurged on ’em, to be able to make his son happy. As an adult, I’ll regularly travel certain distances “hunting” some particular figure or such; though these last couple months ESPECIALLY that particular interest has been sorely dimmed. I definitely do not remember Dad ever doing that for anything for himself (not the way I do, anyway!); so his going out of his way and looking for stuff while traveling was that much more significant to me and my memories.

And while it wasn’t so much bringing something back for ME; another “travel for work” I remember was his going to Washington, DC for a few weeks in 2001 or so. I don’t recall what FOR; but it was a few weeks, and I was working at the summer camp in Michigan that summer; so the only real impact for ME (since I myself was gone most of 10 weeks!) was one weekend that I did drive back to Eastlake to ‘visit’ and Dad was gone at the time. I don’t recall the full context, but I remember that summer being when he started using a cane.

As I think about that now, I realize that means it was about 16 years–more than 1/3 of my life–that he had/used canes; though on THAT I don’t really recall it being quite so prominent a thing until years later when he got more reliant on the cane. And of course after he fell in 2017 and was in the nursing homes, the rest of the time it was the powerchair, wheelchair, or walker(s) rather than a cane.

I know he likely traveled for work more than that, but those stand out most to me in MY memories. And these do not get into the fact of his military service and being stationed around the world (like Guam). I was born on Guam; he was restationed to the Detroit area and then Cleveland before retiring. So all the world-traveling was before I was born. I suppose that stuff would be fitting for another post, where I’ll need to talk more to Mom for details!

The Impossible

It was during the summer of 2001 that I started to REALLY “branch out” and “discover” more music on my own…I grew up primarily listening to “oldies” and the “oldies” radio station(s) because that’s what my parents would listen to and have on in the car. And I was perfectly content with that. You could say they were verrrrry lucky with me. (That might be a subject for some other time, though)

So it was 2001 that I “officially” “got into” country music. Basically, “contemporary country,” late-90s/early-2000s. Alan Jackson, Toby Keith, Martina McBride, Shania Twain, loads of others. Established artists, newer ones, a mix. If it played on CMT or the Toldeo country station (99.9FM?), I considered it country, and that was the stuff I got into.

Skip ahead a year, to Fall of 2002. I came across a Joe Nichols song that hit me pretty hard with its opening verses.

My dad chased monsters from the dark
He checked underneath my bed
And he could lift me with one arm
Way up over top his head

He could loosen rusty bolts
With a quick turn of his wrench
He pulled splinters from his hand
And never even flinched

In 13 years, I’d never seen him cry
But the day that Grandpa died, I realized

Unsinkable ships sink
Unbreakable walls break
Sometimes the things you think will never happen
Happen just like that

Unbendable steel bends
If the fury of the wind is unstoppable
I’ve learned to never underestimate
The impossible…

Well, change that “13 years” to “9 years” and it was basically my story.

I had just turned 9 in early December 1989. As I recall, virtually every Christmas we’d visit Zanesville and Pittsburgh–Dad’s family and Mom’s family–but that year was a bit different. Grandpa–Dad’s Dad–was in the hospital. I don’t recall any WORDS, but I do remember going in WITH Dad, to see Grandpa.

And then before we left Zanesville, we went back to the hospital, and Dad went in alone. I don’t recall for sure, but I have a guilty half-remembered memory of not wanting to go in again. (Thinking as I type this now in 2022, it’s likely I had already come to have an aversion to hospitals). I was Nine, and “a little kid” (compared to now 41) and blissfully ignorant of so much in the world and life and alllll that.

Skip ahead a couple days, and we had some sort of gathering. I don’t recall if it was a “Christmas party” or just some thing for “the kids,” but I remember having at least a couple friends over. Whether I’ve amalgamated memories, blending something in that wasn’t there, I couldn’t swear to in court.

But…December 28, 1989. While we were going about being kids, the house phone rang. I can’t remember if I picked up immediately that “something” was “wrong” or not. I suspect Mom came and got me, probably took me aside to tell me.

That call was from Zanesville, and Grandpa was gone.

Again with 32 years between now and then and the faulty memory of a barely-9-year-old, but I then remember finding Dad in their bedroom to tell him I was sorry about Grandpa, and seeing him in tears.

It was the first time I’d ever seen him cry, and it would be a lotta years after that before I would ever really realize the significance of that moment.

And there’s a LOT of stuff that “hit me” in my college years. I have a vague memory that the first time it really, truly hit ME just what I’d lost, what WE’D lost, with Grandpa, was in my dorm room one night when it kinda crashed into me and I broke down in tears.

But seeing Dad cry, I suppose that was the first time I saw that side of him; saw him hurt, and not the absolute indestructible papa bear that wasn’t afraid of anything or vulnerable to anything.

And back to that song… “Sometimes the things you think will never happen, happen just like that…” How terribly, heartbreakingly true.

Intellectually, you may know something’s gonna happen. Intellectually, logically, statistically, clinically, coldly, simple fact-ly, whatever. But your heart doesn’t necessarily believe it. Your heart may never be ready, however much you tell yourself intellectually that you are, however much you steel your mind for a pending loss, etc.

And thanks to the heart, that way…sometimes the things you feel will never actually happen [to you and/or your loved ones], happenjust like that.

Tuesday, December 28, 2021, Dad was rushed outta here by the EMTs to transport him to the hospital. I say “rushed” because I didn’t get a chance to TALK to Dad before they had him out. I had noticed the clock on the wall said 11:37am somewhere around there. Never realized it’d be so…”significant.”

35 1/2 hours later we got that call. Just short of 39 hours after he was transported from the Cave, from this house…he was gone.

Unsinkable ships sink, unbreakable walls break…

Flew a flag out in our yard ’til the day that he died

There’s a Toby Keith song that opens with the following:

American girls…and American guys
We’ll always stand up and salute
We’ll always recognize
When we see Old Glory flyin’
There’s a lot of men dead
So we can sleep in peace at night when we lay down our head

My daddy served in the Army
Where he lost his right eye
But he flew a flag out in our yard
‘Til the day that he died
He wanted my mother, my brother, my sister and me
To grow up and live happy
In the land of the free…

I remember the first time I heard this song back in probably 2002 (nearly 20 years ago!) the resonance it had for me. Back THEN it was more in seeing the various use of symbols, and personification of stuff…there’s words for it that I don’t recall at the moment, being so far removed from academia.

But the song came to mind to me yesterday for these opening two parts.

Moreso the second, but the first holds well in my eyes.

Cuz see…Dad was a veteran. He was in the US Navy for 21 years. He served on a ship in Vietnam, where he was exposed to Agent Orange, which contributed to so much of his health decline in recent years.

The song lyrics–and I’ve never researched to see if these are Keith’s words or some songwriter; whether they’re autobiographical or “just” the narrator; etc–reference the fact of someone’s father serving in the Army; my Dad served int he Navy.

My dad did not lose an eye or limb, but had that AO exposure over there. But despite that, and despite all his medical conditions these past few years in particular…he always considered himself so very blessed. To be here, to be alive. For Mom (oh, how he would go on about how he loved her and was so blessed by her!), for me (and he would “embarrass” me telling me how proud he was of me, to be my father, to have seen the man I’ve become, etc), my sister (I can’t/won’t speak in her stead); for all that he’d come through. Never “why me, Lord?” He was thankful for the opportunities it gave him to share of his faith; the opportunities he had to GIVE, to help others; and so on.

And he had a flag out in the yard all he could. Flagpole(s) in the yard, or mounted on the house and/or mailbox. It was always so important to him to see that flag flying. Even when his son had no clue the depth of its meaning to him.

*Three of the four flags in the front yard. Photo by Walt Kneeland 1/5/2022*

In recent years, Dad had these huge flagpoles installed in the front yard, with solar lights mounted to them, to fly the flags. The US Flag; our Ohio state flag; the US Navy flag; and a POW flag.

He also has the US flag flying on a pole in the back yard, where he could see it from his main chair in “the cave.”

So that line about flying the flag out in the yard until the day that he died….oh, how that is 100% true here!

There’s a lotta stuff around this house; and mini statues and such out amidst the flowerbed and such…the word I feel Mom and I have most used to “categorize” the is “Patriotic.”

That was Dad.

Whatever politics, he loved this country, and seemed glad to have served; especially to see the life he was able to give my Mom, sister, and me, HAVING served.

I feel like there should be so much more for me to say, here, now. But I also feel like a lot of it would be presumptuous of me; trying to speak FOR him. Or putting words into his mouth. Or whatever other sayings fit. I wish I had talked to him more about this kinda stuff. I wish I’d talked SOOOO much more with him despite all the time and times we did spend talking.

But I can only speak for my impressions gotten from him, and my observations, and what I knew. And I am confident that for him, it was all so much deeper and complex than words I can find on a Thursday morning continuing to mourn losing Dad just hours over one week ago.