Preservations (Dad)

8/22/2019 Preservations (Dad)

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I.

I have always lived the braided essay. Coming from a family of story tellers,

narratives defined us. At dinners, Mom, Dad, and I gathered our stories - new and old.

Meals were heaped full of stories more than casseroles and hot dishes. Suppers were

so alive with narratives that we doled them out between bites, adding our own revisions

between helpings. Finally, the average meal would end with Dad telling another tale

between sips of Folgers while I would bring up another story between glances at my

homework stacked on top of the refrigerator and Mom would chime in commentary

between dishes at the sink. The stories, like our lives, wove together, strengthening us.

II.

Today we buried Dad. Thanks to everyone who came to the wake and funeral and toall those who sent cards and messages. I am truly blessed to have such friends andcolleagues.

After the wake we had a dinner in the church basement. This is unusual for wakes, orso I was told. Apparently members of Barb's church wanted to serve a meal, so we haddinner after the wake. People stayed for hours visiting and remembering Dad.

We did the same after the funeral. We had another lunch. Then we went out toEvergreen cemetery for the final ceremony. After that we returned to our house foranother lunch (the food has been pouring in). We sat around for several hours talkingand laughing and remembering and laughing and joking and laughing. Then we openedthe letters and cards. With the donations we are going to order two cement benchesfor the small cemetery where Dad and Mom are buried. Dad loved that place and wasvice-president of the cemetery board when he passed away. It is actually on land

donated by my great-grandfather, Myrtle's father. The old Demann farm was just downthe road. It's a fitting final resting place for Mom and Dad. -- SATURDAY, JANUARY 06,2007

III.


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We loved the stories. BUt we lived to add our own bits to each tale. I told your

mother to stand back while I was shaking the new can of grapefruit juice, but you know

her, she just kept jabbering away about getting a new dryer. Then the darn thing just

slipped out of my hand, flew across the kitchen and nicked her little toe, Dad would

begin.

Now wait just a minute, Kenneth, Mom would interrupt, you never said a word

about standing back. You were going on about getting a new starter for the 730 when

you lost the grip. Then she would begin nodding her head, And it most certainly did fly

all the way across the kitchen. Then she would begin shaking her head and rolling her

eyes, correcting Dads version, but it landed squarely on my big toe.

Eventually they would turn to me and exclaim, You know Im telling the truth, Kurt.

I would add, I just remember getting to take the pick up to Crookston on a school night

for Tylenol and a cold pack. Accuracy didnt really matter. There was an emotional truth

to each tale, an emotional truth that often moved Mom to tears from laughing so hard,

that often moved Dad to pound his palm on the table in disagreement, and often moved

me to shake my head in amazement.

Soon Mom or Dad would say, Thats was just like when . . . and they were off on

another story. That was our way to connect one story to the next. It was our way to

braid our stories together to form the fabric of our lives, of our realities, of ourselves.

IV.


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Dad passed away yesterday. He was a trusted friend, a great man, and always, alwaysa wonderful father. Wednesday, JANUARY 03, 2007

V.

A father, a son, a tractor. A sturdy lap to sit on. The smell of Ivory soap and Old

Spice. Dad placed my hand on the wheel. It was alive - jerky and wild - no power

steering - the thump of each rut, gopher hole, and bump ricocheted up from the tires,

the axles, the steering column, and the wheel. It reverberated in my hand, forearm,

elbow, until it jolted deep into my shoulder socket. The jolt was softened by Dad's firm

chest, his soft cotton shirt, and the crumple of his pack of filterless Pall Malls jammed

into his shirt pocket. His left arm cradled me while his right - powered by his his hairy

forearm - as thick as my thigh - mastered the wheel.

This picture was taken by my sister, Barb, as she stood on the left rear tractor

axle while Dad drove, balancing me on his right leg, my head tucked under his jutting

chin and tender throat.

I found the picture in an old roll-top desk my grandfather made. My sister and I

were cleaning out the upstairs of Dad's house three months after he passed away.

I recall having seen the picture as a child, but I had forgotten its existence, until

Barb dug it out and handed it to me, smiling.

What shocked me was neither that I had forgotten the picture nor the image of

father and son. What jolted me was how much Dad then looked like me now. When I

look in the mirror - mostly in my eyes - I see a hint of him peering back.


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VI.

As we walked in the door and began to get settled, the phone rang. The nurse hadcalled Barb and told her to get to Riverview right away, for it seemed like Dad washaving a heart attack.

So we raced up there and met the doctor as we walked in. She said Dad was sufferinga series of minor heart attacks. They had scheduled a second ct-scan and more bloodwork, but Dad refused. He knew his time was at hand and didn't want to prolongdeath any longer. I didn't want him to either.

We sat around Dad, making him as comfortable as possible. Barb asked Kev and meinto the hallway. She had contacted the priest from town and was wondering if weshould ask Dad if he'd like to convert to Catholicism. Barb is a devout Catholic. Mybrother is somewhat of a religious mutt, though he was baptized a Jehovah's Witnessmany years ago and hasn't really followed any organized religion in roughly 15 years.

I'm Catholic, but not to the degree Barb is. Dad always clung to his Southern Baptistroots and didn't convert when he married Mom. Barb didn't want to ask him. Neitherdid I. I agreed with Barb's husband, let him be. But Kevin said that he would ask him.And sure enough Dad squeezed his hand when Kevin asked him if he'd like to convert.So Father Buschi came up and we had a quick ceremony. Dad tried his best to pray,mumbling along with the Lord's Prayer and shaking Father's hand when he was alldone.

Then we left him to sleep. Kevin went home while Barb, Kristie, and I stayed thenight in the family room. Early this morning the nurse came in and said that Dad waspassing. I heard my father moan and knew that his heart was giving out. By the time I

made it to his side, he was all but gone. All that was left were a few reflexive gaspsof air - just like my mom suffered when she passed.

Then he was gone.

We moved back to the family room and waited for Kevin. When we all gathered therein about an hour, we began talking and laughing about Dad and our family. Someonefrom the funeral home came in and said he wasn't sure he had the right place becausehe heard laughter. I liked that. It said a lot about our family and our father.

I will grieve for the things that we won't be able to do together anymore, but that

grief pales, absolutely pales, in comparison to the joy and love of all the things thatwe did together. Tuesday, JANUARY 02, 2007

VII.


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For some time now I have wanted to incorporate the braided essay into my

composition classes. I move students through the traditional range of essays:

descriptive to narrative to analytical. Most of my students are able to progress through

the forms. But there is one type of essay that I have become fascinated with in the last

few years, an essay whose form has become quite predominate: That of the braided

essays.

If you have ever seen any of Quentin Tarantino's films (particularly, Pulp Fiction

or Reservoir Dogs) or read Toni Morrisons novels, (specifically, Paradise) you have

encountered the braided form. Even a few weeks ago I was watching a cartoon,

Hellboy: Blood and Iron, with my step-daughter and saw the braided form. The cartoon

featured one story following the traditional plot formula (basic situation, complications,

climax, and resolution). But braided into this main plot was a back plot, told in flashback

form, in which a second story was told in reverse (resolution, climax, complications, and

finally basic situation). I was very intrigued. This form kept the reader in suspense

because now the plot had two climaxes. Both stories fed into each other and

constructed a rather complicated plot for a cartoon. At our first authors chair, Andrew

read a splendid braided essay in which he wove together two essays - one on the

disintegration of a relationship and the other on baking - that perfectly complimented

each other.

VIII.


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Barb called. Dad might have suffered a small stroke. He had trouble talking,numbness in his arm, and seemed disoriented. So we visited yesterday and found Dadto be suffering quite a bit. He must have had a more violent stroke. I could hardlyunderstand him. He was alert; he just couldn't speak well. Kristie was in tears.

The doctor ran a ct-scan and saw hints of a stroke, but there appeared to be nosevere bleeding and it wasn't a tumor in his brain.

Kevin and his wife arrived, so we turned on the TV. The Rose Bowl was on and Dadkept slurring "RRRRRROOOOOOSSSSEEEE."

I realized he was asking if it was the Rose Bowl. Then he growled "MMMICCCCHHH,"which, of course, was him asking if Michigan was playing. So he was alert. But it was astruggle to communicate effectively.

Barb and Matt showed up and were shaken too. Dad had changed quite a bit since she

saw him last. Then Dad became very tired and we went to the family room to visit.

We met with the doctor and she said that they were doing everything for him -including giving him some morphine. But she said something I'll never forget, "Are weprolonging life or prolonging death?" I thought that was very well put. Dad had put upa valiant effort in the face of all his suffering, but his time was approaching.

Dad seemed in good spirits, though he could barely talk. As we left, he shook myhand, looked me in the eyes, and nodded. Monday, JANUARY 01, 2007

IX.

It was morning and a purplish glow filtered in through my parents kitchen windows. I

was home for the weekend from graduate school. For some months now, I have taken

to getting up earlier than my parents, both in the sixties. Gone are the lazy weekend

mornings when my dad or mom would have to yell at me to get up and eat breakfast.

Now I put the coffee on and sit at the kitchen table, in the same chair my dad usually sat

in clothed in only a T-shirt and Hanes briefs, one leg crossed over the other one, while

he sipped coffee and balanced his checkbook.

I pulled the wooden chair back, trying to keep the legs from screeching across thelinoleum, read yesterdays Herald as the coffee pot coughed and spat.

This was no ordinary morning though. Well, no it was actually the morning that marked

a major rite of passage in my life. But I didn't know that as I eased up from the chair,

opened the wooden kitchen cabinet, and pulled a coffee cup from a ledge. I peered out

the window and poured the coffee into the cup, letting the vapor swirl up into my face. I


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brought the cup to my lips and blew small dark ripples across the surface of the coffee

before taking a sip. I peered out the kitchen window. But something was odd. My

Cavalier wasnt where I left it next to the well house last afternoon.

Dad, I thought, he must have put it in one of the sheds so it wouldnt frost up. I shook

my head at his protectiveness. WIth another sip, I moved to the east window andlooked at our quonset. The doors were wide open, the lights were on. The front of my

Cavalier was propped up on wheel ramps. The hood was propped up. Dad's legs poked

out from beneath the car. Uggghhhhh.

Last week a plastic guard beneath my car broke loose. I drove it all week without

bothering to see what was wrong. When I came home yesterday, my dad must have

spotted it. This type of mechanical mishap falls under his area of expertise. Over the

past 10 years since I've had a vehicle - first a Chevette, then a Grand Am, and now this

Cavalier - within the first two minutes of nearly every conversation I've ever had with my

dad, he has asked me one of these questions: Have you checked the oil? How manymiles do you have on it? Did you add a can of Heat since the temperatures are going to

drop? When did you rotate the tires last? Did you check the air in the tires? Have you

changed the oil yet?

X.

Dad was transferred to a swing bed room in Riverview Hospital in Crookston. Heseemed in excellent spirits. In fact, he met with a physical therapist and was eager toget up and start walking again. That was on Friday.

Today Kristie, the kids, and I stopped by for a brief visit. He was in fine spirits and wehad a nice time. But we had some things to take care of, so we left. Later that night,he called worried about the roads and how we were going to get home safely. Ireassured him that we would make it, but he still insisted on giving us the safest routehome. I even joked that I had the cruise on just to be safe. Dad chuckled, knowingthat I was kidding. Sunday, December 29, 2006

XI.

Your folks always used to come in and order a Big Murph.

He would always ask me to split it for them. But you know

Tex, every time I brought their order out, he would claim that

I had given Sue the larger portion. Boy, did he give me a

hard time. I remember once by the time he finished kidding

me about giving him the smaller slice, Sue had already


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finished her half and ordered an ice cream cone! After that I

did slice it unevenly. I always gave Tex the larger slice. You

know just to shut him up. And you know what he did? He

saw that it was larger than Sues and he switched with her.

Of course, he waited for her to take a couple bites before he

began complaining! Overtime someone splits an order, Ithink of Tex. And I miss him.

-- Pam

XII.

I first encountered the braided essay in graduate school. For an advanced fiction

class, I began writing an essay devoted to my grandmother. Over the semester, it

began to take on a life of its own. I found that there wasnt one clear narrative that did

my grandmother justice; the more I concentrated on following one narrative, the more

images and stories would want to come out. Finally, I abandoned my traditional

narrative and decided to just let the stories, images, and ideas come. I sat with this

incredible jumble of narratives, poems, images, and ideas sick to my stomach that I was

going to fail the class. However, my professor suggested an essay entitled A Braided

Heart: Shaping the Lyric Essay by Brenda Miller.

Miller highlights the power of a braided essay, even though she refers to it as a

Lyric Essay. I see the two quite differently though. The lyric essay is more of a blend

of poetry and prose. The braided essay, on the other hand, is a blend of various

essays, stories, images, voices, fragments, space, and viewpoints to create a layered

essay. In a way its is a cousin to the multi-genre paper in that it seeks to examine a

subject from different perspectives. In their text Tell It Slant: Writing and Shaping

Creative Nonfiction, Miller and Suzanne Paola define the braided essays as a piece in


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which you fragment your piece into separate strands that repeat and continue

throughout the essay. There is more of a sense of weaving about it, of interruption and

continuation, like the braiding of bread, or of hair (110).

XIII.

Dad will be released from Altru in Grand Forks this week. His physical therapy beginstoday. He hasnt been walking in two weeks. But he has spent time sitting up in achair. A small victory. But given that this time last week I thought he would be deadby now, its more than a small victory.

Late last week Dads new chemo pills arrived. Three thousand dollars for a monthssupply. His health insurance pays for half. I hope its worth the investment. Buttheres no amount I wouldnt pay to have him longer.

Kristie, Koko, Casey, and I - along with Kristies mother, Gail - spent Christmas Evewith Dad in his hospital room. My sisters family showed up as well. It was a goodnight.

The people continue to pour in to see Dad. Last week when I was visiting him, an oldclassmate stopped by with her older sister. They are daughters of a close friend ofDads. But they are both chatter boxes who tend to drive you (me) nuts. When theycame in, I just looked at Dad and smiled. Then I said, Well, Dad I hate to be goingbut Im late. Then I got outta there. Poor Dad. They visited with him for about anhour. Dad is like me. He hates to hurt anybodys feelings or be rude. So he politelylistened to them for the entire hour. Even when he tried to make up an excuse to getthem to leave (I believe he tried to say that he had to have an IV drip put in), he wasout of luck. Both visitors happen to be nurses, so they said theyd be happy to helphim with it! Poor guy.

But I know too it proves to Dad how loved he is. Even if he doesnt realize it on aconscious level, I know he feels it. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 26, 2006

XIV.

A father, a son, a wheelchair.


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I grabbed Dads elbow and helped him out of the pickup. He scowled at me like

he didnt need my help. But he didnt try to tug his elbow away either. I kept my hand

on his back and stepped with him into the entry way to the hospital.

Ill be right back.

Thanks to Dads newly issued handicapped sticker, I found the nearest parking

spot and tried to jog back to the hospital avoiding the icy patches.

I didnt know what was more shocking - Dad seated in the wheelchair or the fact

that he had placed himself in it. Throughout the entire ordeal, Dad fought it tooth and

nail. He called me and grumbled for 20 minutes in October when Dr. Koeslaugh

suggested he be put on oxygen. He waved me away in November when I grabbed a

wheelchair to help him during his chemo treatments. Later still in early December, he

tossed a blanket over my head when I insisted on layering him in blankets when he was

chilled one night.

Ready, Dad said.

Yep, I lied and grabbed the handles.

XV.

Kristie and I visited Dad last night. He seemed back to himself some. He was talkingand animated. It really was a change from Saturday where I'd sit with him and he'd

doze off and wake up and barely utter a word. But I think this might be the effect ofthe morphine they are giving him. It gives him the illusion, or at least the sensation,that his lungs are full of air instead of feeling like he is slowly suffocating, which heis.

Dad had quite a few visitors yesterday. His sister, an old friend, another old friend andhis wife, my brother and sister and then Kristie and I. All the company did him good.But he was pretty tired when we finally made it up to see him. He was finishing his


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supper. I noticed a new throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders. I guess Barbthought he looked cold so she bought it for him.

Sure enough one of the first things he had me do was take it off him. Then he beganto argue that Barb didn't need to get him that and people should stop focusing so

much on him. Same old Dad. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 19, 2006

XVI.

Dad loves cars, tractors, and tools. As a boy I would watch him slice two by fours with a

skillsaw. It looked like an extension of his hand. One quick zip and the plank floated to

the ground on a cushion of wood chips and dust. In my hands the saw felt lethal. The

board rejected the saw every inch of the way as I cut it. The board thudded to the

ground while I was left with wood chips on my lips and dust in my eyes. I would watch

him change spark plugs. The socket wrench obeyed his hand's every command. A few

rapid turns and the plugs seemed to unscrew themselves. In my hands the wrench feltalien. I would groan and tug until my knuckles were white before I realized I was turning

the wrench the wrong way. The plugs often snapped off at the root just as I felt they

were about to finally relent. I would watch him sink nails into boards with one whap from

the hammer. The hammer seemed to float in his fist. The nails instantly sank flush in

the wood. In my hands the hammer felt clumsy. The nails invariable bent in half. Or I

purpled my thumbnail. This was the way of my adolescence.

The shop, yard, and pastures were my dad's domain. My room, books, and tablets were

mine. Often we would end an evening sitting at the kitchen table. I would be writing a

paper while he would be finishing his log, for his real job was as a truck driver. My pen,nuzzled between my index finger and the large writing callous on my middle finger just

below the first joint, would flow across the page in a stream of cursive words. My dad's

pen, fisted in his right paw, seemed lost amidst his sausage-sized fingers. It would

stutter and spurt in print across the log. Years later when I was home for the weekend

from college, I would sit at the same table with my lap top. My fingers would waltz

across the keypad orchestrating my words. It was nearly impossible for my dad to even

use a calculator. He pecked away at it with his index finger one key at a time. Inevitably

he would punch two or three keys at a time. That was when my mother stepped in.

This too was the way of my adolescence.

XVII.

Yesterday I was in a department meeting when I was paged to the office (not a goodsign). And it wasn't. Dad has more blood clots. These are in his legs. They did anemergency surgery to prevent them from reaching his heart. However, my sister metwith Dad's lung specialist, Dr. Koeslaugh, and she said that this new cancer has spread


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in his lungs and is very aggressive. She doubts that chemo will do any good. She saidshe wouldn't wish this type of cancer on her worst enemy. Dad will basically end upsuffocating to death.

After this news, I picked up Kristie and headed to GF with images of when I saw Mom

die. The doctor was there to meet us, and she was great. She is caring and personableand, as Barb said, "She is worth every cent."

While I expected to see Dad at death's door, he was not so bad off. He could speakand was quite coherent. Though he is not aware of the dire prognosis. And I think we'llkeep it that way. I think he suspects this is the final leg of the journey, but he is likelynot letting on to protect us. And we're doing the same thing. Funny.

So I'll be gone today and tomorrow. Dad will be in the ICU for at least another fivedays. Then we will likely move him to a rest home for the final weeks. I just hope hegoes quietly and painlessly. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 14, 2006

XVIII.

This fall I drove by Texs place. He was out working on the

tractor. I was in a hurry, but I thought, Oh shit, I might as

well visit for awhile. Of course, he tried to talk me into

looking at the tractors engine. But every time I I tried, he

would say, Oh No, heavens Jerry thats okay, Ill take care of

it. By the time I left, it was dark and your dad and I had left

the tractor, took a drive around the gravel pit, and had two

cups of coffee and some pie. I didnt even know he was

sick. He never said a word.

-- Jerry

XIV.

In the essay on my grandmother, for instance, I wanted to tell the story of my

discovery of how she once built a tree house incredibly high in the oak in our backyard.

Several years after her death, my dad and I had to cut the tree up because it had been

toppled in a windstorm back in 2000. As we cut into the remains, I found evidence of

her old tree house. Indeed, it was incredibly high in the tree, much higher than any of

the tree houses I dared build in the tree. As I wrote this narrative, it occurred to me that


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this incident was a great metaphor for my grandmother and all that I didnt know about

her. So this piece became the center of my braided essay. However, when I let the

piece stand alone, it just seemed lacking to me. Miller notes the same thing occurred in

her writing, But as I tried to order this material of memory and image into a logical,

linear narrative, the essay became flat, intractable, stubbornly refusing to yield any

measure of truth (A Braided Heart: Shaping the Lyric Essay 17).

My essay contained truth, but it was flat. I knew there was more to it - and my

grandmother - than I had on paper. So I began to take some of the other pieces I had

written and weave them into my main essay. I was absolutely shocked at the results.

My piece suddenly became much more powerful and complex. I added interviews with

my uncles and aunts. I added a fictionalized piece about Granny in the nursing home.

Each piece began to not only work independently but to also add layers of meaning to

the other pieces. For example, while I couldnt imagine the grandmother I knew - who

by this time was in her seventies - scaling the oak and building a tree house, I could

interview or chronicle stories from those who knew the wily younger version of my

grandmother who did such a thing and many more.

XX.

I took Dad to the Cancer Center of North Dakota in GF on Monday. We were seeking a

second opinion about his cancer. Altru, where Dad is being treated now, is just toomassive. The nurses are great, but we rarely meet a doctor and we feel like were aninconvenience rather than their purpose.

The first nurse to great us as the new cancer clinic knew Dad immediately. She hadworked with Mom. Actually, Mom was one of her participants in helping the nurse withher masters degree. She remembered Mom by name and was very concerned aboutDad. I liked her immediately.


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Next we met with Dr. Noise. Unlike Dr. Walsh (the Altru doctor), Dr. Noise didnt actlike he was in a hurry or like we were an inconvenience. He was very optimistic aboutDads treatment and was suspect about some of the things Dr. Walsh was trying. Whatis so frustrating about Dr. Walsh is that the man has no personality. He basically was

treating my dad like he was already a goner. Once Dad asked him if he would conferwith the Mayo Clinic (for any extra help or cutting edge technology that would saveDads life) and Walsh said, Im a big boy. Ive treated thousands of cases. Its notbrain surgery. What a prick. How would he act if his life was hanging in the balance.

What concerns me is that Dad is growing weaker by the minute. In October Barb, Dad,Kristie, and I went down to the cities for my uncles Dicks funeral. Dad was thepicture of health. Now he could hardly move around the house without being winded.

As I dropped him off, he asked if I would keep the phone in my room - just in case heneeded to call me to take him to the emergency room. How times have changed! Mom

and Dad used to sleep with the phone when I was younger - in case I got into troubleand needed help.

Fortunately, I made it through the night with no call. But when I got up around 5:45and made my way to the bathroom, the phone rang.

The stab that my heart received is indescribable. I can only imagine it was the samepain my parents felt when I had to call them after one of my car accidents. It waslike someone was stirring my guts with a stick. Again the irony hits me: how ourroles have been reversed.

Then I realize it - I will never feel such shelter and protection from my parents everagain.

Dad needed to go to the emergency room. He couldnt breath when he was lyingdown. So I headed straight out to pick him up. I thought, This is it. Im going to loseDad. I have been prepared for it really ever since Mom passed away two years ago,but I realized that I was not ready yet.

Dad looked pretty glum when I got there. He was dressed and sitting at the kitchentable. He made it to the Blazer, but it took him about 10 minutes to recover from theeffort. Before I left, I called Barb and told her that I was taking Dad in (she had a

doctors appointment lined up for him later that day). She called Dads cell phone andsaid shed be at the emergency room too. Dad was frustrated that she was going outof her way to help him, but she refused to go back home.

By the time we reached Fisher, Dads breathing steadied and it was like old times. Wewere joking and talking about the weather and cars and Mom. I found out that frontwheel drive cars have been around since the 1990s and that they had to move theengine sideways to accommodate front wheel drive. I also found out that Mom and


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Dads first house had no indoor plumbing. They had a big tub which they used to bathin and they had an outhouse in the yard!

Once we arrived at the emergency room, I was relieved. After having Dad in thehospital at Crookston, where they mistakenly treated him for pneumonia, even though

he didnt have the symptoms, and never saw the same doctor twice, these people atAltru were experts. Within the first hour, Dad had several orderlies and nurses helpinghim and was taken down for ct scans and blood work. Within another hour he hadresults - blood clots. They were what were causing him to lose so much strength andstruggle to breath (his oxygen level dipped to 66. Im surprised he didnt pass outduring the night and die).

Now he is in ICU. Barb and I followed Dad as the nurse wheeled him up. I had notbeen to ICU since the night Mom died. As we entered I thought, Not this again. Thenas she wheeled him to the rooms, I thought, Please, dont put him in the same roomas the one Mom died in. Fortunately, he is not in that same room. Barb said later

that she was thinking the same thing.

He is on blood thinners to dissolve the clots. But even when he takes his oxygen maskoff to eat, his oxygen level plummets and he struggles to breath. But he is in goodhands. I hope the clots dissolve and we can get him some new chemo sessions fromthe new doctors at the cancer center of North Dakota. WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 13,2006

XXI.

Finishing my cup of coffee, I thought, God, that man has stamina. Then I hopped into apair of jeans and slid into my coat. My mom mumbled slightly from the bedroom as I

left.

The morning air stung my face and pierced my lungs. As I walked over to the quonset,

burring my bare hands into the deep front pockets of my coat, all I wanted to do was

return to the kitchen and start on another cup of coffee. But as I saw my dad moving

under my car, I forced my legs to keep moving.

"Look at this. No wonder the thing wouldn't hold," my dad said, sensing my presence.

He opened his left hand.

I peered down at the small broken black bolt engulfed in his palm.

"Who would ever make a plastic bolt?" he wondered as he tried to slide out from

beneath the car, but he reminded me more of an insect flipped on its back.


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I offered my hand and helped him to his feet. He headed to the shop to scour for a real

bolt. My dad is comprised of the old American stock that believes not in plastic or fat

free foods or Hillary Clinton, but in metal and steak and eggs and LBJ.

In a moment he returned from the shop with the replacement pieces, a shiny new metal

bolt, a nut, two washers, and one lock washer, just in case. This should solve things,he said, groaning as he squatted and wiggled back under the car.

That guard was never going to come undone again.

XXII.

Looking at his cap, with its faded green material, frayed John Deere logo, and its

patented 'teepee' folded brim, I knew how I would always remember him. It was the

same image I watched when I was younger, around ten, when I was too small to lift and

stack bails by myself. So I had to drive the 730 and watch Dad. In my mind he would

always be a tall, sturdy man entrenched on the teetering and lurching hayrack. Pale

blue eyes inspecting the field. Forehead etched with deep wrinkles. Eyes shaded by

the peeked brim of his cap. Bald head protected from the scorching rays by the cap.

The skin at the base of his skull baked to a perpetual scorch mark, where the cap was

buttoned and exposed skin. The corner of his mouth gripped a glowing, filterless Pall

Mall. His breast pocket of his light cotton shirt housed the rest of the pack. Hair on his

broad chest and chiseled arms cluttered with alfalfa leaves. Huge hands protected by

scuffed leather gloves. His right hand clenched a red bail hook. His lower waist tried to

cling to tattered and patched Levi's. Nonexistent rear and white Hanes briefs exposed

by his sagging jeans.


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XXIII.

Now how does the braided essay relate to my high school students? First, I have

many students who constantly revisit the same topic over and over in their writing. Last

year, for example, in my basic level composition class for juniors and seniors, I had

several students in particular who zeroed in on topics that interested them and

constantly explored them. Blake wrote about the death of his father from cancer. Jenna

too wrote about her fathers death in a snowmobile accident along highway 32. Dan

returned again and again in various essays to his love of baseball. Jack wrote about his

father and their construction business.

I normally dont encourage such focus on one subject, but it usually occurs for at

least a few students in each class. And I am not about to make them write about

something that they dont want to. I will certainly urge them to explore other areas of

interest, but for some students they are writing again and again about a specific topic for

important reasons.

While reflecting on this class in particular, I decided to try to incorporate the

braided essay into my composition classes this year. I will use it as a culminating

activity. For their final activity, I now have students revise five of their essays and submit

them in a portfolio. As an alternative to that, I plan to offer students the chance to

create braided essays. In Dans case, he wrote nearly every paper on baseball: a

descriptive piece on the baseball field, a narrative about an intense situation in a Babe

Ruth playoff game, another narrative about a rite of passage in which the coach trusted

him enough - after several years in the system - to let Dan call the pitches, an expository


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paper explaining how to throw a curve ball, and a persuasive essay on the magic of

baseball as Americas past-time.

While each of these essays can stand on their own, I think there are plenty of rich

opportunities for Dan to weave several together to see what new forms and connections

are made. As Miller began writing more braided essays, she found that they started to

expand more outward, taking on myriad facts and stories of the outer world as well as

the inner (21). For Dan, he explored both his inner world of baseball and the outer

world as well. For example, his personal love of baseball is evident and he also

explored Americas love for baseball and what that reveals about our culture. However,

his essays, when gathered together in his final portfolio, read more as a kid obsessed

with baseball, which he is, rather than a full set of essays. They had the feel of here is

how to try and write about baseball for every possible topic.

XXIV.

What I remember about your father is that old Green Chevy

he used to drive and how on Sundays he would round all of

us neighborhood kids up and haul us out to the farm.

Remember that? He had that old Yamaha 60 out there. He

would have your brother take turns giving us rides on that

while he took others out on the tractor. He had others still

bottle feeding the lambs.

-- Lance

XXV.

Next year I will suggest the braided essay as an option. I will have students

select one piece they feel very strongly about, the one they feel they worked the hardest


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on and are the most satisfied with. Then we will explore possible connections to other

pieces or look for areas that are yet unexplored. In Dans case, I would suggest he try

weaving some of the essays together. For example, he could take his persuasive essay

on baseball as Americas past-time and braid in pieces from his descriptive essay on the

baseball field. He could also weave in pieces from his narrative essay on their playoff

game. These pieces would add a different dimension to the persuasive essay that were

lacking in the original essay. I would also suggest that he interview others to get their

thoughts on their love of baseball. He could add other voices from professional players,

amateur players, and other baseball fans. He may even choose to chronicle his

frustrations and successes at how he is compiling his separate pieces into a braided

essay and weave that into the final piece! The possibilities for Dans final braided essay

are many. And they all lead him to a richer understanding and experience.

XXVI.

I stomped from one foot to another to keep them from becoming numb. My dad was

under the car, in his natural habitat, while I stood and tried to be of use, mostly just

blocking the sun from his eyes as the rays filtered in through the engine and grill. The

problem arose when my dad, who has worked outside for the majority of his life, tried to

hold the tiny nut and gently weave it onto the minute threads on the bolt. His fingertips

don't have any feeling left in them anymore. He complained of this while I stood

watching him as I had done for the previous 28 years.

I stood watching my dad grapple with the problem for about five minutes. Maybe he was

too proud to ask for my help. Finally, I said, "I'll give it a try, Dad."

It took me five seconds to tighten the nut on the bolt as my dad stood and watched me

work. It was the first time I did something mechanical quicker and better than my dad.

We didn't mentioned it at the time.


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Now I wonder what he thought about this change. I don't even want to think about what

else I can do better than him now. I spent so much of my youth trying to out do him, but

failing. He could toss bails higher, unload them quicker, throw a baseball harder, catch a

football easier, bait a line better, and find a gopher hole, set the trap, and mark it all

while I was still probing the gopher mound for the entrance. I fear that it is not so much

that I am better at anything, but that my dad is becoming worse.

XXVII.

Who am I going to spend the holidays with now? Your mom

and dad always used to pick me up and take me out to Barb

and Arnies. As soon as a holiday neared, I could count on

your dad to call a few days ahead of time and arrange

things. Then after Sue passed, Tex still would call beforeEaster and Christmas - and of course - all the kids

birthdays. What a nice man. Sometimes he would call

when he was coming into town. Just to see if he could pick

me up if I had any errands to run.

XXVIII.

I held Dads hat the morning he died. I just couldnt bring myself to pack it away

with his clothes, toiletries, and all the cards he had amassed since taking ill. For the

final time. I looked at this hat, the brim still folded teepee style, but the newly printed

Hartz Trucking logo shown brightly in teal lettering. His former boss, Ferral, brought it

by the house a few months ago when he heard Dad was ill. Looking at it, I knew how I

didnt want to remember him. Lying in bed. His eyes sunken and darker even than the

shadows. His oxygen tubes looping over each ear and drooping down his cheeks and

fitting into his nose. His nose chapped and bleeding from the pure oxygen forced up his

nose and into his ever shriveling lungs. Dark liver like spots blotching his cheeks. Pale

blue eyes that always hesitated a moment before meeting mine. Eyes that said, Im


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tiring, more than any words. His bald head, with more blotches appearing, resting in a

heavy pillow. The bed angled up to help his withering lungs inhale. The skin sagging at

his throat. More tubes and IVs sticking into his arm at the elbow. Band-Aids and

medical wraps keeping them in place. A red glowing plastic clamp on his right index

finger monitoring the oxygen level of his blood.

A paper thin hospital gown draping over his dwindling frame.

XXIV.

Its good to be back to school. Im used to Kristie, Casey, and Koko caring about me,but Im not used to the staff and students caring so much.

Dad has cancer in both lungs. The CT confirmed this. Its also an aggressive cancer.Its actually the same type of cancer that he had seven years ago in his hip (and whichhe beat with the help of radiation). However, this round seems to be the last. Thelung specialist was a dear woman who sounded positive and contacted Dads cancerdoctor who said he will put together a chemo therapy treatment to fight this newbatch of cancer. But I have no illusions. It was hard enough battling it when it was justin the form of nodules in one lung. This new spider web type in both lungs my wellspell his doom. I just hope it is a lot later than sooner. I also hope it is as painless as

possible.

When Mom was diagnosed with cancer, I rode up with my brother to see her in GF. Iwas shocked by how he still focused on trivial things before we left - we had to letthe car warm up, we had to run to the grocery store for his wife (Mountain Dew andsherbet - I still remember), and so on.

On our way home from the doctor yesterday, Dad had me run in to the grocery storeand get bread and a pizza. Even though he is facing the biggest fight of his life, hestill needs to eat. I ran home to attend Kokos Christmas concert. All in the face of myfather slowly dying. And this weekend Dad will come over. Well visit (talk about theweather, how hes feeling, what my brother and sister have been up to, what the kidsare up to) and well watch football, maybe well watch a Seinfeld or two - welllaugh at Georges and Kramers antics like we have a hundred times before - thenwell bitch about Bush and well talk about the local boy who was just killed in Iraq.All trivial in the face of what is growing and squeezing the air out of his lungs. Butthrough all of this I realized something - - the trivial details are all we have. They arewhat constitute our lives.


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Talk about humbling.

In the face of being without Mom and Dad, what else do I have other than all my littletrivialities rolled up into one big thing called my life? Then I realize another (and I

believe I wrote about this in another blog) - nothing is trivial, especially running intothe grocery store for bread and a pizza. FRIDAY, DECEMBER 08, 2006

XXX.

The braided essay I plan to model for my students is included here (I may very

well weave it into this essay). Like Jenna and Blake, I lost my father. And I have begun

gathering all of the things I ever wrote about him. Reading each has a greater

emotional impact than ever before. These pieces have a renewed importance for me

that I could never have fathomed before. In fact, now I have these essays spread before

me on the table. I also have printed out the blog entries I kept chronicling Dads death

last winter and my thoughts on it. In addition, I also have several descriptive chunks of

Dad - both in health and decline. Now I see a connection I would never have found

before. In the descriptive chunks, I see an odd comparison emerging. I have an image

of Dad standing on a wagon baling hay. Right next to that I have an image of Dad

resting in the Intensive Care Unit. The change in his appearance is powerful. In

another set of descriptions, I have an image describing Dad touching and holding me on

a tractor. Yet there is another small description of me touching and holding Dad in his

wheelchair. The sense of touch pervades these. In another set I have an image of Dad

shaving and getting ready, the smell of soap, shaving cream, deodorant, and after shave

permeating. I also have an image of Dad, bed ridden with all kinds of tubes and

needles fastened to him, the smell of antiseptics, medicines, and death looming. These


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sensory pieces lead me to a greater emotional impact than a traditional piece would

have. Likewise, I also have recorded several comments Dads friends made privately to

me at the funeral and wake. I wove those in to the essay too. Each provide an outside

voice and perspective to the piece that add perspectives and truth to it.

XXXI.

Dad got his biopsy results back: cancer. He never even had pneumonia. His cancer hasspread to his other lung now. What is frustrating is the faith I have lost in hospitalsand the medical professions in general. Riverview in Crookston pumped Dad full of

antibiotics for nearly four days, all for naught. All while the cancer was growing in hislungs.

Then we met with one of his cancer doctors and he told Dad (I was there and heard itmyself) that he didnt know what in the hell is in your lungs, but were treating it ascancer. Its damned funny stuff.

It seems, from what I have been able to piece together, that Dad has two differenttypes of cancer in his lungs. One type is in the form of nodules in his lungs. When hehad his last ct scan, these appeared to have shrunk from his chemo treatments.Another type is in the form of a spider web appearance in his left lung. They initially

thought it was tuberculosis and Dads other doctor was shocked when her biopsyrevealed it to be cancerous. Yet this other doctor says he doesnt know what it is, butthe other doctor calls it cancer? Frustrating.

But that doesnt change this: Im going to lose my father. I had a rough day lastFriday. But that realization has, somehow, made it easier. I have no trouble writingthose words - my father is going to die. Its horrible and I dont want to be withoutboth my mother and father, but denying the truth does me no good. For me, the truthbrought some form of peace.

Tomorrow we go to meet with his second doctor to go over his second ct results. Im

glad Im going with so I can try to get to the bottom of what the hell is going on. Butwhat do I know about cancer? We are also going to go over to the new cancer centerin Grand Forks to try to get a second opinion from their doctors.

Yes, Im going to lose him sooner rather than later. So an average trip to Grand Forkshas become anything but ordinary. For that Im thankful. I value every moment withDad like never before. WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 06, 2006


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32

I think about his fingertips. I remember back in '94 when he had his triple bypass. The

nurses wanted to teach him how to check his pulse so he could monitor his heart rate.

Her supple fingers s caressed and coddled the nether region of his wrist and found his

pulse instantly. His workman's finger poked and prodded the same region but couldn'tfind a pulse. I watched as the nurse held her tiny fingers over his thick fingers and

messaged them right on his vein. He still felt nothing. My fingers searched and swirled

upon the vein and delighted in the determined rhythm. He weathered fingers poked and

prodded again, determined to find it or drub it out. He still felt nothing.

Dr. Wolf finally solved the mystery. He said many men lose feeling in their fingertips due

to working outside in the brutal Minnesota winters. Indeed, my dad's love for cars,

tractors, and tools extended all year round. Thus he spent the majority of his days

outside whether it was 90 degrees above or 20 degrees below zero.

33

Grandpa called on his cell phone wanting to talk to Mom,

but she was at a training session. I asked him where he

was. He just said that he was on his way back from Bemidji

and thought hed stop by and see what we would be having

for supper. I asked him what he had been doing in Bemidji.He told me how he had gone to Crookston earlier for his

chemo treatment. On the way back he stopped and picked

up a hitchhiker. He was Native American and was headed to

Cass Lake. Grandpa intended just to take him to Marcoux

Corner, but he said they got to talking and were having such

a good visit that he decided to just keep driving and take him

to Bemidji.

-- Matt

34

How do I keep the braided essay from collapsing into total chaos? I dont know

that I can. There is really is no form or set of rules for the braided essay. I cannot

simply tell Dan, for instance, to begin with two paragraphs from his descriptive piece on


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the baseball field and then blend in the introduction to his persuasive paper before

weaving in a quote from grandparents on their love for the Twins. That might be

effective, but it might be utterly confusing too.

Miller relies on intuition more than anything in devising her essays. She states, I

deserted a narrative line in favor of images that intuitively rose up in the work. She

opened herself up to the essay itself and listened to what it wanted to say, I abandoned

my authority, and with that surrender came great freedom: I no longer had to know the

answers. I didnt have to come to a static conclusion. Instead, the essay began to

make an intuitive kind of sense (A Braided Heart: Shaping the Lyric Essay 18). My

experience with my braided essay on my grandmother echoes this concept perfectly. I

was no longer concerned with illustrating one specific image or idea about my

grandmother. I just let the narratives and images and interviews do that. I simply had to

open myself to them and see where they fit best. Certainly this was messy and fraught

with mistakes. But the closer I looked, I soon found natural places to blend in the

narratives. In that sense, the work took on a life of its own.

35

Dad called last night and said that he expects to be released to day. My sister is takingtime off to be there for him. Im taking Friday off to help him and possibly take him

for a chemo treatment. It will still be a few days until we find out the results of thebiopsy. If the mass in his lungs happens to cancer instead of pneumonia, it sure spreadquickly. And that wouldnt be good. I am preparing for the worst (for the new mass tobe cancerous) and for the best (for it just to be pneumonia). That tells you how direthings are. But my dad is a strong man and will make the best of it. As will I.WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 06, 2006

36


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I remember dreading working outside with him in the winter. Despite being draped in

half a closet of clothes, I could only stand the temperatures for an hour. Two at most.

With his army surplus parka pulled tight to reveal just a pinhole to peer out off, Dad

worked outside all day.

His favorite activity was plowing snow on his 730 John Deere (cabless of course). On

weekend afternoons when my dad was actually home and not on the road driving truck,

he would reach his limit of sitting around in the house, which usually took about half an

hour. Then he would layer on the clothing and venture outside to start his tractor. Dad

would clear our yard in an afternoon and then drive over the neighbors and plow out

their yards, returning home after dark. Maybe after working for 40 years as a truck

driver hauling other peoples' property, he relished pushing his own.

Once when he was out in the truck, a blizzard dumped three feet of snow us. It was up

to me to plow a path to the highway. It took me an hour, the coldest 60 minutes of mylife, to simply plow a single path from our driveway to the highway. Forget about the rest

of the yard! Dad could do that when he got back. And he did.

There were times Mom made me bundle up and run out and tell him lunch or dinner

was ready. "Dad," I would scream over the chugging 730 engine, "dinner's ready. It's

five o' clock. Come in already!" Out there on his tractor, he would fall into a trance and

lose all track of time. It was amazing to see how he could intuit the distance between

the edge of the bucket and the ground. It would just skim across the yard, never

gouging into the grass and ripping up sod. To watch him pop the clutch with his right

hand, then shift the tractor from third gear to reverse with his left hand, then expertlywork the controls to raise and lower the loader and empty the bucket full of snow with

his right hand again was like watching a great artist. He made it look so easy. When I

tried to plow out the yard, the bucket skipped over the yard, gouging divots of driveway

and grass all the way. Orchestrating the clutch, gears, and loader controls was a

nightmare. I spent more time trying to get the tractor in and out of the correct gears,

while bludgeoning my mom's precious yard, than I did actually plowing snow.

37

Dad is in the hospital. He has pneumonia. Thats not good for a fully healthy manDads age (68), but it really isnt good when he is also battling lung cancer.

I got the call Friday morning. My brother, Kevin, had to run him to the emergencyroom. Dad initially thought he was having a problem with his heart. However, itturned out to be double pneumonia. So we spent most of the weekend visiting him inthe hospital. Kristie and I talked for several hours with him on Friday night. Then wevisited twice on Saturday, finishing the evening watching the Notre Dame and USC


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game. Mom was a HUGE Notre Dame fan. Yesterday I watched the football game withhim. I havent enjoyed a football game quite that much in awhile. It wasnt the score;it was just enjoying the time with Dad.

Today he was supposed to be moved to Grand Forks where his lung specialist is. We

are going up to visit him and watch the Monday Night Football game with him.

He seems to be in fine spirits, though I imagine he gets lonely. Now I just hope thecongestion in his chest starts to loosen and come up. It is a labor for him to breathwithout oxygen. Unfortunately, this is all too familiar after Moms emphysema.

But you do what you can. You treasure the time you have. You preserve the memories.You love them as much as you can. And when theyre gone, you move on and, as afellow blogger noted this morning after suffering the death of a close friend, you startnew traditions to replace the void left by the absence of the old traditions.

In short, you live on. As best you can. MONDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2006

38

Does that mean a student has to rely solely on intuition? Of course not. For the

braided essay on my father, I chose to begin the blog entries beginning with my fathers

funeral and working back chronologically. This was done with the intention of adding

some irony to the piece, for as the overall work unfolds, it does so with the knowledge

that my father is dead. This mimics the experience I get now as I go back and read all

of pieces I have compiled on my father (many of which were written and last read while

he was alive). But at the same time, I chose to weave in the comments from people at

his wake and funeral at certain spots in the essay that just felt right. This essay was a

both a strategic and intuitive effort.

For my students this would be a great place to analyze our craft. How do authors

decide where to place things? Does it just happen or is it part of a strategy? What are


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the effects? I would stress to my students that nothing is permanent. They should not

be afraid to eliminate a fragment or an entire essay and add something else instead.

The braided essay is just another form for the students to experiment one.

However, it is a form that Miller argues mimics life itself for The world is chaotic,

certainly, and always cliched. Face it: our lives are full of stories already told . . . What is

new is not whatwe tell but howwe tell it (21). While researching Morrisons Paradise

for a graduate class, I found a quote from the author herself about her complicated

braided form for the novel. She said one reason for formulating it like that was she

wanted to mimic how memory works. One moment you might be remembering what

you had for dinner last night. That memory might lead you to think about your tenth

birthday. You might then remember your uncle who was there. Then your mind flashes

to the present and where he is now and what he is doing. In the span of a few seconds,

your mind has covered years worth of memories. The braided essay has the power to

do that too.

39

That night after fixing my car, I began working on an essay on my lap top at the kitchen

table. I fell into one of my trances. By the time I finished my first draft, I realized it was

well past eleven and my parents had gone to bed. By the time I finished my second

draft, my dad entered the kitchen on his way to the bathroom. "Boy, you're still at it? It's

almost one. Go to bed already," he said squeezing his eyes shut against the kitchenlight and listening to my fingertips dance across the keys.

40

Yesterday (Thursday) Dad and I made an afternoon of it. I was looking forward to thisbecause I was starting to worry about him. He has been taking chemo for his lungcancer for the better part of a year now. The treatments have taken a toll on his


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energy level. For a man who has worked hard all of his life - and more amazingly --enjoyed working hard all of his life, not being able to do as much as he used to is amajor adjustment. When I talked to him yesterday, he was disgusted that aftermeeting with the doctor he would have to wear an oxygen tank. Initially, the nursetold him he only had to wear it at night and when he was feeling particular tired or

short of breath. However, the man who dropped the tank off told him that he had towear it all the time. Another burden for Dad to bear. I imagine this was also difficultbecause Mom had been burdened with the same device before her death.

Luckily, Dad talked to the hospital again and found out that he doesn't have to wear itall the time.

To give him something to do, I suggested he help me move some old junk out of ourgarage. Delighted, he quickly agreed. So we spent about 10 minutes loading anddumping the junk and several hours driving around visiting.

Again I was shocked by the trivial details we reminisced over -- hauling hay bales onan old back road we were traveling down and blowing out a tire. I only vaguelyremember this though because it was after a long hard day of baling hay and all Iwanted was to get home. It seemed like we worked on that tire for hours that nightand even the next day.

While we were talking about this, Dad said, "You remember why that darn thing tookus so long?"

I was clueless.

"It's because Russell (the man from whom we bought the farm and all of ourequipment) welded the rim onto the axle."

"What? Why would he do that?"

"The holes on the rim he had didn't match up with the ones on the hay rack, so he justwelded it all together. Which would have been so bad, had he put a new tire on therim. But he used an old worn out one. So instead of just taking off the tire andbringing it to town, we had to get a new tire and put it on the rim!"

I couldn't believe it. I laughed until my side hurt. It was the best moment I had with

Dad in quite some time. Nothing is trivial.

In fact, when he dropped me off, he thanked me for a wonderful day. And indeed itwas wonderful. Had I been 10 years younger and had Dad been healthier, I would haveseen the day as more of an inconvenience. I mean there were other things that Ineeded to accomplish. But Dad's illness has put my life in perspective. Nothing istrivial. It was one of those rare moments when I really appreciated our time together.


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I was happy. Better yet, I knew I was happy, and that made it so much more powerful.Friday, October, 2006

41

I live the braided essay more than ever now. My new family are story tellers too.

Their narrative strands, images, voices, perspectives, and fragments are now woven

into mine. Though my parents are gone and were not able to witness my wedding, they

were still there.

After the wedding, our families gathered around a fire outside our cabins. My

uncle, Jim, brought up stories about Mom and Dad. Soon my sister, Barb, was adding

to them and intersecting with new stories and memories. KoKo, my step daughter,

chimed in with some too. Kristie beamed as she recounted how for the Minnesota Basic

Skills Writing Test, Casey chose for the topic Write about a time someone did

something important for someone else to write about grandpa Tex gave a hitchhiker a

ride and ended up taking him nearly all the way to his destination because they were

having such a good conversation. I could only smile at the braided stories and lives.

Works Cited


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Miller, Brenda. A Braided Heart: Shaping the Lyric Essay. Writing Creative

Nonfiction. Ed. Carolyn Forche and Philip Gerard. Cincinnati: Story

Press, 2001. 14-24.

Miller, Brenda, and Suzanne Paola. Tell It Slant: Writing and Shaping Creative

Nonfiction. New York: McGraw Hill, 2005.

Preservations (Dad)

Documents