I had an idea for this column last week. It was supposed to be my first full-fledged column post-writers’ strike and my self-imposed sympathy break. (Any writings that seemed like they occurred during the strike were illusions – or copy I got paid for at work.)
But the best laid plans – well, they aren’t worth a damn.
Suffice it to say, I planned to write a column in support of Barack Obama saying he inspires people and just like Kennedy and FDR, that’s what people need right now. Then I was going to say I hope he wasn’t a bust like Carter, but I don’t think anyone could goof it up that bad.
And then my wife’s father called to say he was diagnosed with lung cancer. And given six months to live.
My wife’s dad was – scratch that – is a former Navy veteran who grew up on a west Texas farm. He became a prison guard in Huntsville and put himself through school. He now serves as the head of the criminal justice department at our hometown university.
He has always been decent to me and although love for one’s in-laws is not mandatory by any state or federal law, it is prescribed on most occasions to keep a marriage in good condition.
Being the tall, lanky West Texas type, he can be physically intimidating (especially when you’re a foot and a half shorter) but he measures himself in how he projects his stature.
But he always keeps his emotions in check and never lets too many people in close.
After his middle child committed suicide, he tried to reach out a little to me and cried after the funeral as we sat on the porch swing behind the house. I didn’t know how to take it and sat there silently, not openly acknowledging his break from his usual decorum.
I lied earlier when I said he told my wife he had six months to live. He couldn’t tell her. He told her he had some tests and they were going to give him the results soon. But instead of telling her when I had her call him the next evening, he asked her for her e-mail address and sent her the same e-mail he had sent the rest of his friends and family.
I know it seems a bit impersonal to send your own daughter an e-mail explaining how you have been told you will die soon, but I don’t fault him for it.
I’ve been around enough people in my life to know that some deal the best they can by writing. How many friends do you know that will spill their guts on a message board as opposed to sitting with you over coffee?
And the expectations of a rugged son of the country when he was raised are a bit different than what men are expected of now or in other parts of the country.
He’s more “No Country for Old Men” than anyone else I could think of.
We visited my wife’s parents this weekend and it was an overall emotionless experience. When we got up to leave, her dad’s eyes welled up as he hugged each of us, stronger than I remembered him doing in the past.
Last night, I was supposed to be doing my lessons, but instead took time to sit with my wife as she tried to comfort our daughter, Kiera, who was sobbing about her grandfather’s possible death.
While we tried to ease her tears, our 3-year-old, oblivious to our conversation, vied for our attention by running around and playing with a stuffed toy and his Hot Wheels – a favorite pastime since “Cars.”
After my wife finally took Jake in the other room, I spoke to Kiera about how I dealt with my own grandfather’s passing. He died in a hospital, too old and frail to combat pneumonia.
“I still dream about him as if he was still alive most every month. And you know that first couple of minutes when you wake up when you don’t know if a dream was real or imagined? Those are some of the best moments to me,” I said.
I hope my father-in-law doesn’t pass away anytime soon. And I hope my wife and daughter can come to deal with it if he does.
And I hope that their wakening moments linger after good dreams.