He was quiet. He lived an ordinary life. We didn’t see each other very often or even talk on the phone much. But he was an anchor in my world—and he inspired me in a deep way. Despite growing up in challenging circumstances, he built a life of love and service with a strong marriage of 47 years (and another loving relationship after she passed away), a successful career, many awards for his volunteer work, and solid relationships with everyone in his life.
But it was an evening in 2002 that bonded me to him forever. I was 35, and my dad was dying.
A page from a graphic novel about my dad, which I started but never finished.
It would have been challenging under normal circumstances—but nothing was normal with my dad. He was living in a warehouse on a dead-end street in Sarasota. He wasn’t supposed to sleep there—his real bed was in his van parked out front. But because he had terminal kidney cancer (brought on by a 5-pack-a-day cigarette habit), hospice set him up with a cot and oxygen in the front room.
This is the environment we found ourselves in when we—his family—came to help him pass away. We sat in plastic chairs, trying not to gag on the smell of smoke and urine; even though his companion Frank (who lived in his own van parked out back) had cleaned up a little. Cockroaches skittered along the floor. It was me, Frank, my aunt and her husband, Grandmother, and Uncle Johnny. My aunt had rented a big condo, and we drove back and forth to the warehouse every day.
Dad was wasting away. He rarely spoke and was as skinny as a concentration camp survivor. Yet he still insisted on having an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.
On this particular evening, Dad’s friend Yvette came to visit. Frank didn’t want her there, but she promised to behave. Apparently, a few weeks prior, she’d kidnapped my dad to nurse him back to health with her concoctions and prayers, and she wouldn’t let him have pain meds. Frank had to kidnap him back. Yvette was calm at first. But then she said that by keeping my dad away from her, we were killing him. Frank leapt out of his chair and pushed her out the door while she fought and screamed. I went outside to calm them down. I sent Frank back inside and managed to convince Yvette to leave us alone.
Another page from the never-finished comic. Although I did write a novel about that whole summer of his death. Trying to understand how he went from being a tenured drama professor to living in his van turned me into a writer. The most painful experiences in our lives can become the greatest gifts through art.
When I came back in, everyone was upset. Frank fumed and yelled, Dad kept trying to force words out, and my aunt and uncle were trying to comfort my grandmother, who was convinced the police were coming. Johnny wanted to know how I was doing. When the others decided to return to the condo, I wanted to stay and make sure Dad was ok, so Johnny offered to stay with me.
Dad started walking around looking for something, suddenly full of energy, raving gibberish, fighting off Frank’s attempts to get him to sit down. He took his pants off and Johnny shielded me so I wouldn’t have to see my father naked. Frank called the hospice nurse to bring a tranquilizer, which made Dad howl more. John finally suggested it was time to go—his gentle but firm way of telling me I need to remove myself from the scene. We left Frank and Dad facing off, their arms around each other and their foreheads touching.
John and I talked in the car as he drove. I needed to share what I was feeling. He shared his own memories and realizations. I don’t remember many details, just the deep feeling of comfort. Johnny was like a father in that moment—not the crazy one I was given, but a normal, safe, loving dad I wished I could’ve had.
No one could have understood the oddness of Dad’s world without experiencing it in person—and Johnny was my witness. We both knew the kind of quiet courage and effort it takes to step away from the path that’s been laid out for you and forge a new one. Except that Johnny did it without all the missteps I experienced along the way. He was a true hero—the kind that doesn’t garner attention, let alone take credit. He just quietly built a good life and helped everyone he encountered, all the way to the end.
Art Heals
I learned about Gilberto Rivera's work from a Colossal article. It hit me more deeply because of recent awakenings that came from co-curating an exhibit of Chicano paños (prison art). Rivera created these collages to process his experiences of being incarcerated, as well as the wider experiences of injustice, confinement, and dehumanization. I think his pieces are hauntingly beautiful.
