Buku Mile High Stories by The Editors of 5280
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Buku Mile High Stories by The Editors of 5280

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Mile High Stories by The Editors of 5280

Author:The Editors of 5280

Language: eng

Format: epub

Publisher: Bower House

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Mile High Stories by The Editors of 5280

The last time I saw my father was Thanksgiving Day, 2003. He had been doing the hospice-at-home program, and, despite some bad pain, seemed happier being off the chemo. Most days he was able to walk on his own, and on that morning the two of us went to Whole Foods. As usual, he sampled everything available, then bought up about four times as much cheese and nuts as we needed. He was in good spirits, and before the guests arrived I sat him down for one of our regular interview sessions. By now our intimate little dance had taken on the aura of ceremony. For him, I think, the filming was like supreme validation; for me, it signified his belief and trust in me and my work.

“Here it is, Thanksgiving 2003, 12 years since I was diagnosed,” he said, proudly. “In September I went into hospice and was given eight weeks to live. And once again, they’re wrong.”

When it came time for dinner, Dad raised a glass to toast the large gathering of friends and family. “To the usual suspects,” he said with a big smile, as I hovered over the table with the camera. “Here, here,” a few people called out, and we all clinked glasses.

 

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Mile High Stories by The Editors of 5280

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Mile High Stories by The Editors of 5280

 

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Mile High Stories by The Editors of 5280

Author:The Editors of 5280 , Date: June 14, 2019

,Views: 92

Author:The Editors of 5280

Language: eng

Format: epub

Publisher: Bower House
The last time I saw my father was Thanksgiving Day, 2003. He had been doing the hospice-at-home program, and, despite some bad pain, seemed happier being off the chemo. Most days he was able to walk on his own, and on that morning the two of us went to Whole Foods. As usual, he sampled everything available, then bought up about four times as much cheese and nuts as we needed. He was in good spirits, and before the guests arrived I sat him down for one of our regular interview sessions. By now our intimate little dance had taken on the aura of ceremony. For him, I think, the filming was like supreme validation; for me, it signified his belief and trust in me and my work.

“Here it is, Thanksgiving 2003, 12 years since I was diagnosed,” he said, proudly. “In September I went into hospice and was given eight weeks to live. And once again, they’re wrong.”

When it came time for dinner, Dad raised a glass to toast the large gathering of friends and family. “To the usual suspects,” he said with a big smile, as I hovered over the table with the camera. “Here, here,” a few people called out, and we all clinked glasses.

The following week, when I was back in New York, Dad began having serious trouble breathing, even when hooked up to the oxygen machine next to the bed. He couldn’t urinate. His pain was so bad that he had no choice but to take massive amounts of morphine, leaving him foggy and sometimes hallucinating.

By Friday he was speaking gibberish; my mom, normally a paragon of strength, crumbled to pieces and couldn’t stop crying. I wanted to get back, but a blizzard had struck New York and none of the airports were operating. I spoke to Dad briefly that night, but it wasn’t even clear if he recognized who I was. He kept muttering something about going to the movies. I couldn’t help wondering if it was our film he was seeing in his mind’s eye.

On Saturday he fell into a coma. When I called, my mom put the phone up to his ear. Aware I might not make it home in time, I did what I knew I had to do. By now I’d realized this film was as much about me as it was about him. And this time the tape was rolling in my New York apartment, big flakes of snow coming down outside the window. “I love you,” I said, trying to make the words clear through my tears. “And it’s OK for you to go.” I wished I’d had the courage to say it earlier so I would know he heard me. I certainly wasn’t expecting him to answer. After all, he hadn’t spoken or moved in almost 24 hours. But then from the other end of the phone came a ghostlike groan. “Julian,” my father said.

The next day I got on a plane about 6 a.m. It had been six hours since I’d spoken to my mom, and it was now too early in Denver to call her.

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