Home Is Burning

by Dan Marshall

  “Greg, get your ass in here. This is an emergency,” my mom piercingly yelled, using all the strength in her cancer-filled body.

  Greg came stumbling in after five or six more yells, wearing a robe. “He better be on the brink of death for you to yell like that,” he said.

  Greg noticed that Dad was on the floor and finally reacted like it was an emergency. Dropping our dad on the ground was about the worst, most painful thing we could put him through at this stage. He looked as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen him. His eyes were watery. Happy Father’s Day!

  As we were pulling him off the ground—which required that Greg, my mom, and I lift with all our strength—I began brainstorming ways we could prevent this in the future. “We absolutely need to have more people now. Dad’s legs are weaker. He can’t stand on his own,” I said.

  I knew the Hoyer lift was the next option. A Hoyer lift is a gallows-shaped device that patients can be harnessed into and lifted from bed to chair, from chair to bed, from bed to coffin, etc. But he didn’t want to use one. When you have an illness that slowly starts destroying all the things you used to be able to do, you begin hanging on to whatever you have left. He had said good-bye to eating, to walking, to talking, to scratching his own nose, to turning on the TV and watching whatever he wanted, to fucking, to driving, to picking up his kids from school, to wearing boxers instead of diapers, to being treated like a father rather than a hospital patient. The Hoyer lift would symbolize that things had gotten about as bad as they would get, that the disease had won, that there wasn’t any fight left in his dying body.

  I didn’t think I should mention it. I knew that it was Father’s Day, and that that was the last thing he wanted to hear, especially since both of his sons reeked of sex. I mentioned it anyway. “We should start looking into getting you a Hoyer lift,” I said. I looked over at my dad. He had defeat in his eyes.

  “No way. If it’s time for a Hoyer lift, it’s time for you to go,” Greg said. Greg was becoming more blunt, more callous as this situation evolved.

  “Jesus, Greg. It’s fucking Father’s Day. Can we have one day where we don’t talk about death?” I said.

  “I know. What I meant to say was, ‘I love you, Daddy, and don’t want you to die. Not today, at least,’” Greg said, giving him a kiss on his forehead.

  After we got my dad back into the chair—a position in which his face no longer grimaced—I turned on the TV. Tiger Woods was leading the U.S. Open and was playing with a hurt knee. Many of the highlights from the Saturday round showed Tiger crumpling to the ground in pain after smacking the ball three-hundred-some-odd yards. He had eagled the eighteenth hole and was three under par heading into the final eighteen at Torrey Pines. I turned to my dad.

  “Goddamn. That Tiger is amazing. I can’t believe what a fighter he is. I mean, to have a sore knee and still be winning one of the most prestigious tournaments on one of the hardest courses in the world. My God. He has gone through so much and still remains strong,” I said.

  My dad looked at me as if he had just watched a sample clip from the Biggest Asshole in the World awards ceremony.

  Here my dad was—having been thrown the biggest curve ball of all, having gone from being a marathon runner to a permanent hospital patient, having gone from breathing on his own to not—and his son was marveling at Tiger Goddamn Woods’s fucking golf performance.

  And the winner for biggest asshole in the world is: Dan Marshall, for his Father’s Day Tiger Woods rant!

  * * *

  Later in the day, Greg finally drove his boyfriend home. I showered the sex and gasoline smells off me. My mom went to sleep, curling up in her bed with our cat Brighton. Chelsea had left for a dance camp in Boise, Idaho, so she was gone for a while, but Tiffany came over, as did Jessica. She and Creepy Todd were now living together in Todd’s parents’ basement. She was about to leave for Thailand with him. They were trying to “bring lacrosse to the girls of Thailand because many of them don’t get to exercise,” in her new husband’s words. If marrying her wasn’t bad enough, he was now taking our Jessica halfway around the world to start a girls’ lacrosse league. To top it off, Jessica had just announced that she was already pregnant. She was officially cementing herself into this shitty situation. And all my dad could do was watch.

  Overall, it was a pretty dismal showing for what would probably be our dad’s last Father’s Day.

  Eventually Greg, Tiff, and I decided to turn things around and drive my dad up Millcreek Canyon for the walk we had promised. Jessica decided not to come. She needed to rest since she had a Mormon growing inside of her now. She went back to her new home. Greg, Tiff, and I loaded my dad into the van. Greg was singing Disney songs to emphasize how nonchalantly we were approaching Father’s Day this year.

  Tiffany sat shotgun and I drove. Tiffany dove right in. “So I heard you slept with Becca last night,” she said.

  “Yeah, so what?” I said.

  “I just think that’s an interesting choice. I think she’s into drugs, and doesn’t she have her clit pierced or something?” Tiffany said.

  “Those are rumors. Please, just leave me alone. And leave her alone. She’s a sweet girl,” I said, flashing back to our amazing ecstasy night.

  “Was she good?” Tiffany asked, not letting it go.

  “She fucks like a racehorse,” I said as I adjusted the rearview mirror to see if my dad was catching all of this. He was.

  “Fucks like a racehorse? What does that even mean?” asked Tiffany.

  “I’m not really sure,” I admitted.

  Greg was a little uncomfortable with Becca and me hooking up. He knew Becca had a boyfriend and didn’t want either of us to get involved in a sketchy situation. So he wasn’t a proponent of Becca’s and my budding relationship. Becca had apparently told him about the ecstasy night, so I was always on edge that he would bring it up anytime Becca was the subject of conversation. I didn’t want my dad knowing that I had not only fucked her, but had also done illegal drugs with her.

  “Becca’s not really your type,” Greg said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “She’s not a blond bitch like Abby,” he said.

  “Listen, why don’t you assholes just stay out of my life, okay?” I demanded.

  We arrived at the parking lot at Millcreek Canyon. A handicap parking spot was available! We are so lucky sometimes, you guys! Several other families were also treating their fathers and grandfathers to some nice, fresh air. But all those families could go fuck themselves. That’s right, go fuck yourselves, families—what with your fully functioning fathers, and your smiles, and your laughter, and your hiking boots, and your backpacks. The only thing hanging from our father was a thirty-pound breathing machine. But we loved him more than they loved their dads. We had proved that through the constant care we gave him: all the hospital visits, all the feedings, all of everything. We had poured our lives into keeping him going. We were way better kids than they were. Fuck those other families and fuck their stupid, shitty dads.

  Toward the top of Millcreek, there is a road that’s closed to cars. It’s big and wide open. This is our family spot. During the previous summer, my mom and dad would walk our dogs up there every night. When I was growing up, we’d often celebrate Marshall family events by hiking in the canyon, enjoying the mountains, and letting Berkeley and Mazie run in and out of the swift-moving river. The dogs would shake off right in front of us and ensure we couldn’t get mad by flashing us big smiles. Assholes.

  We steered my dad’s chair onto the road and began heading up. It wasn’t the Suburban voyage up the canyon that I had been imagining, but it was nice to get some fresh air and to talk to Dad.

  I envisioned us being treated to some words of poignant wisdom from our dad. I imagined him solving all our personal problems with a simple logical statement. I envisioned us all stopping in front of some shit-eating family and circling our dad for the world’s longest and loudest “I love you, Dad” chant. I
envisioned a lot of hugs, a lot of shoulder rubs. Fuck, maybe we’d get halfway up the mountain and it would turn out that the fresh air and togetherness was the perfect mixture needed to cure Lou Gehrig’s disease. That’s it. He was going to walk back down this mountain. We would push his chair into the river and, later on, he’d come walking up here with my mom and watch as the dogs ran into the river to play on the chair as if it were a toy instead of a device used to get my dad’s limp body around town.

  My daydream was interrupted by Tiffany’s scream. “Fuck, you ran over my toe! Shit, that hurt.” We stopped. My dad wanted to be deflated so he could talk. This was the start of the miraculous turnaround, I thought. He was going to give his triumphant speech. Tiffany deflated him, even with the hurt toe.

  “The chair is running out of batteries fast. We should turn around and head back,” my dad struggled to say. Fuck. We hadn’t properly charged the chair, so it had run out of battery power. We had to turn back. We were epic shitheads, and on Father’s Day. I had wanted to use the day to show how much we really did love and appreciate him. I wanted to show him that we didn’t mind caring for our pal, because he had spent so much of his life caring for us. I wanted the day to be a reflection of how great we were capable of being, instead of how shitty the situation had made us. Oh well.

  * * *

  We got my dad back home and charged the wheelchair battery. We then took him outside to our gazebo. The gazebo had always been my dad’s favorite spot on our property. It was surrounded by cottonwood trees and flowers, providing a perfect home for chirping birds during the day and crickets at night. It was where my dad had his grill, where he’d sip wine, watch the dogs play around in the yard, and think about his day while cooking food for his selfish family. During the summer, we’d eat just about every dinner out there. Dinners were important to my dad, the one time we were all together, free from distraction. My dad missed these dinners, not for the food—though I’m sure he would’ve loved taking down a steak—but for the unity and order they brought us.

  My mom woke from her nap and joined us out on the gazebo. She always made a big deal of every holiday, even silly ones like Father’s Day. Usually they were filled with gifts and cakes, but she only had the energy for a card this year. We all signed the card. It had a picture of a bear on it and it read, “Hi Daddy, Can you guess who’s my hero? I’ll give you a clue—He’s strong and he’s brave.” [Open card to reveal another, taller bear wearing a cape.] “He’s the best Daddy—you. Happy Father’s Day.” I thought it was weird as fuck. It was clear my mom had picked it out when she was wandering around high on Fentanyl. Our selfish asses should’ve gone to pick out the card instead of sending our poor mom to do it.

  But the card was true. He was brave. He was strong. And he was a hero. This had been the worst year of our lives (so far). We were all tired and on edge and sick of thinking about death. We wanted our old lives back. We wanted to be brought together by dinner around the gazebo table instead of by a terminal illness. But had my dad not been brave enough to go on the respirator, he’d be gone. His heroic act gave us the gift of time together. Had he elected to not extend his life, I would’ve been in Los Angeles or San Francisco. Greg would’ve been in Chicago. Tiff probably would’ve been in Maine with BCB. But we were here, circled around our dad, spending time with him and with each other. Sure, most of that time was spent taking little digs at each other about the people we were fucking or the life decisions we were making, but time is time, regardless of how it’s spent.

  After reading the card, my dad smiled at all of us. He asked to be deflated so he could talk.

  “Thanks. You’ve all been the best kids I could ask for. This hasn’t been an easy year, but it’s been so nice spending time with each of you,” my dad managed to say in his respirator voice. We smiled back at him. Tiff took one hand. Greg took the other. I stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders. My mom ate yogurt.

  It was a nice moment.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “Pretty weird Greg’s fucking a gay Mormon, am I right?”

  “At least I’m not doing ecstasy and fucking a girl with a boyfriend,” said Greg.

  My dad smiled, enjoying his time with his family. Our imperfect Father’s Day was perfect.

  THE END OF THE HOPE CAMPAIGN

  By early July, we were nearly eight months into life with the respirator. We were living out the hope campaign, the full never-give-up package my mom had outlined at the Marshall Family Christmas Summit—a night that now seemed as if it had happened twenty years ago. As the summer progressed, my mom really stepped up. Sure, she’d have moments of panic where she’d break down and cry and talk about how she couldn’t do this anymore, how she missed how things used to be before my dad got sick. And sure, she’d have glimmers of insanity, like when the respiratory nurse, Jeff, was joking about how fat he was and my mom said, “You want to see fat, look at this,” and proceeded to pull her pants down, flashing her ass to the poor kindhearted Mormon. And sure, she was addicted to her Fentanyl patches the way a heroin junkie’s addicted to the needle. But her hair was back. She’d learned how to work the respirator. She was active all day. She slept next to my dad every night, meaning Greg or I didn’t have to do nighttime Daddy Duty anymore. Her spirits were up. She was doing pretty well.

  This had been her plan all along—to get healthy enough to take care of my dad for a long, long time. But my siblings and I were starting to wonder how realistic this vision was. My dad was still getting a little worse every day. Unlike Vince Senior from the support group, my dad didn’t seem to be plateauing. And even if he did eventually, how long were we going to do this? Was I destined to become Vince Junior? Vince Junior was, like, forty and still taking care of his father. Was this going to last another fifteen years?

  Greg and I didn’t know if we should start thinking about our futures or if this was a long-term situation. We felt that our lives were on pause for now—that we couldn’t fully focus on ourselves until this nightmare was completely over. Everything was centered around my dad’s health. Lou Gehrig’s disease was still in the driver’s seat.

  Greg and I would hang out in the basement talking about all this, Greg with a cup of OJ and me with a glass of wine. Our basement was full of hobo spiders during the summer, so I’d kill a few as we talked. Greg was terrified of spiders, so he’d sit on the stairs and point them out.

  “How long do you think Dad’s going to do this for?” I asked as I whacked a defenseless spider with a pool cue.

  “Oh my God, that was a big one,” he said.

  “That’s what he said,” I said.

  “Not funny, and I don’t know how long he’s going to do this. Dad might outlive us … Oh my God, look at that one in the corner.” I walked over and crushed another poor spider.

  “It certainly seems that way,” I said.

  “We’re going to be forty and still caring for him, like Vince Junior,” he said.

  “You’re probably right. We’ll have kids by then who’ll help us change his diaper.”

  “Yeah, oh man … Holy shit, another one!” screamed Greg.

  My mom was optimistic that she and my dad were both going to live a long, long time. “I’m great doing this for the next twenty years,” she said.

  But that’s not what my dad seemed to want. He was starting to lose hope. He was aware of the reality that he wasn’t getting any better, that, in fact, he was only getting worse. There are winners and losers in every battle, and so far, Lou Gehrig’s disease is undefeated. My dad knew this, even if my mom was trying to convince him otherwise. She’d try to push optimism down his trachea like fresh air.

  “At least you can still talk,” she’d say. But his speech was becoming more and more labored, and he was harder and harder to understand.

  “At least you can still stand for a couple of seconds.” But his trusty legs were too weak to hold him up. We’d gotten the Hoyer lift to get him in and out of bed.

  “At lea
st you have your communication device.” But his communication device was a piece of shit. The technology just wasn’t there yet, and my dad seemed to have no real interest in trying to learn how to control the thing with a silver dot on his forehead, especially since he could still talk. It mainly functioned as a tool I used to tell blow job jokes to visitors.

  “At least we can make your respirator portable so you can go outside occasionally.” But it was such a hassle, and it’s hard to adjust to life being that difficult when going outside used to be as simple as twisting a doorknob.

  “At least you have a comfortable wheelchair to get around in.” Good point. He couldn’t argue with that one. That wheelchair did kick some major ass. What a dream!

  Dad was also wearing down mentally. He had never been a consistent crier. He had always had a positive, “Life is so great. Let’s make the most of it” attitude, but this situation had finally gotten to him. He was now either crying or on the brink of it almost all the time.

  “Oh, come on, Dad. Let’s not resort to being a baby about this,” I would joke as he cried. “So you can’t move your body. Boo-fucking-hoo.”

  But my dad wasn’t amused. It wasn’t funny anymore. It was the first time in my life I had actually seen him depressed. His shrink, Robin, was now making house calls. I wouldn’t sit in on these sessions, but I could hear them talking through the door. I’d stand there like an asshole listening in. He would cry to her and tell her that he didn’t know how much longer he could do this. She would console him and tell him how brave he was.

  “I’m not brave. I don’t know how much longer I want to live,” I heard him say. Poor guy couldn’t handle the hopelessness of Lou Gehrig’s. He wanted the pain to end.

  * * *

  It was a Sunday. Regina hadn’t been around that weekend, which meant that we had to do all the care. My mom was still having issues with Regina. She was convinced that Regina—having a broken heart from her divorce—had fallen in love with my dad. She probably had. My dad’s pretty lovable. She would sit next to my dad holding his hand and talking about all her relationship problems. My dad was a great listener, mainly because he couldn’t go anywhere. My mom was jealous and hated everything about Regina. I thought it was sort of adorable that my mom was still protective of her husband, even though he was glued to a hospital bed and near death—I took it as a sign of true love.