A Good Man
Today I
Missed Pop
As I drove home by the sea.
It was my only break of the day
Between getting my lower extremity dopplers done at 5pm
And admitting patients all morning and afternoon
And writing notes all evening at home
Which I have just now finished
With the evil "convenience" of home access to the hospital computer system.
I miss him
Because I would have
Called him then.
As I drove home by the ocean full of surfers and waves
Where I wanted to be.
He would have said,
"Hello, Shawna!!
"How are you, Hon?"
"I'm good, Pop. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm doing okay.
You know, Bingo doesn't listen much anymore."
Or
"I've just been out feeding the ol' hound dogs."
Or
"My hips been bothering me."
Or
"I'm feeling kind of punk lately."
Or
"Colin and Becky made potatoes where Becky cuts them up real small.
"I like them real well. They're tasty!"
Or
"What have you been up to?"
Oh, I'm just working.
Mom brought me and my team some of her homemade split pea soup the other day when we were on call. Gram and Uncle Bill came with her. Yeah, they came out to visit from Michigan; we had a great time; we watched these people fly gliders for a long time. But anyway, with the soup, the med students and I went out to get it and the rest of the party supplies from Mom. Everyone loved it. They couldn't believe that my mom had brought it all in. That plus a lot of other goodies for an "unbirthday" party I wanted to have for the team for boosting team morale and good bonding. You would have liked it. We had a chocolate cake, too. Not as good as mom's German chocolate cake or the lemon bars, but it was fun. (He listened even when I rambled; liked it even.)
"It sounds real nice, hon!
I'm sure you all had a good time.
You have to work thirty hours at a time, though?
Are you doing okay? Taking care of yourself? You're not too tired are you?"
I do my best.
I don't sleep well sometimes, but it's okay.
I love it down here. I watch the sunset when I can. Ride my bike to the beach. Surf.
(I don't want him to worry; and I am truly happy here; if tired, too.
Some of the veterans I admit that night remind me of him.
One is 87 and used to be a stunt double for John Wayne;
He used to be a cad, I think, too. That's not like Pop, who was always kind and true with everyone. But he smells like Pop did when he got sick; he has trouble leaning forward as I listen to his lungs.)
"Sounds like you're doing real well, hon."
Yeah, I do alright. When I was taking the rest of the split pea soup home at 1am when I finally finished my work (was supposed to get out at 10 pm) it spilt all across my trunk and in the bag mom had brought (I don't tell him it's because I was driving too fast on the empty highway hearing the wind whoosh through the bike/surf racks I just put back on my car; he worries enough about me anyway; he would tell me to slow down and be careful. I never drove over the speed limit when I'd drive him to Chico for his doctor's appointments where he'd brag about me and then take me to lunch afterwards).
When I got home (I won't tell him that I parked illegally in our apartment parking lot, knowing I'd have to turn right back around at 6 am before any cops came by to care if I were there or not), I cleaned up the soup--sort of. I used the bathroom sink which was a bad idea because then it got all clogged up and I had to get out the pliers you gave me from your cool old metal tool box and try to pry the stopper out but they were too big so I had to use one of my little medical tools to get some of the carrot and ham chunks out first. It was pretty gross but I was numb and tired and didn't really care. That didn't work that well either and I worried about waking up Joe downstairs so I found my liquid draino and that finally did the trick.
I tell him I wish he'd been there to help. He always fixed everything like that. Took care of the details. He might have been miffed that I'd done something so ridiculous, but he'd still help me fix it with a smile; and he'd have good ideas about what to do to fix it. He'd love me even if I came home at 1:30 in the morning with split pea soup splattered on the legs of my scrubs and then clogged up the sink and tried to clean it out while laughing resignedly at myself.
He'd love me no matter what I did. He'd be happy to talk to me whenever I'd call. He knew I was busy and wouldn't call often so he wouldn't disturb me. I saved messages he left on my voice mail. "Ha-hi Shawna! It's just ol' Pop," He'd chuckle as he said it, "Just wanted to see how you're doing, shug. I'm just sitting here watching the ol' boob toob. Give me a call if you get a chance. I know you're busy. I love you, hon. Bye bye for now."
I'm logistically okay without him. I have been taking care of myself for a while now. Mom might have it worse. She asked how often to get the tires changed; or the oil; or how to use the coupons at Costco. Pop always took care of that stuff for her. And for me when I was around. He brought our lunches at school when we'd forget. He never let us fall through the cracks. Never let us fall if he could help it.
He always made everyone he talked with so happy. He was like the sun that never expected anything from the earth. Just kept shining and giving without expecting anything in return. Look what can happen with a love like that.
I try to be like that. In the midst of the sometimes disgruntled work place, I try to remember Pop and smile and say I'm well even if I hurt. Making other people feel better takes away some of my own hurt, too. It all works out in the end. "It'll all be okay," he'd say. "Don't let it get to you, Shug" and he'd pat me a little roughly on the shoulder with his big calloused hands which were fading with age.
I miss talking with him about the little stories of our lives. The patients he would like to hear about. Or the stories about the dogs or the horses or the cats or the neighbors he would tell me about home. The day to day events. And the way he made me feel. Loved. I miss that.
He left me his box of treasures in his will. I'm not sure why. It's locked. The key is attached to a leather fob that mom made him as a little girl. It's not very good, she says, but he kept it all this time. And he kept my letters and his important papers in the steel box. I wish I could have gone through it with him. I think we did once. He'd get it out occasionally. He left my brothers his guns and me his box of treasures. I guess there wasn't much that he owned at the end. Just mementos from a long life. Not many things, but he sure had a hold on many hearts. And a place in many memories.
I get letters almost every day still from people who loved him or love those of us he touched so deeply contributing to his memorial fund. I'm going to find a bench for him. Maybe a cement one like the kind they have at the ocean here. Something were we can sit with him in the sun. It's going to go in the garden at the river he helped plant before he took to his "supervisory" role when his hip and his heart kept him from participating as much.
He wanted to do more to help than he could those last years and months. He still fed the dogs and watered the horses and did the dishes in the days before he died. He felt good to be home and good to contribute; good to feel needed. Colin told him how much he appreciated him a few weeks before he died. He went to him and shook his hand and told him. Pop never wanted to end up in a nursing home; he thrived surrounded by lives he helped touch and create and influence. Both of my brothers told me separately that they thought about the type of man Pop was and that they wanted to try to be as thoughtful and generous as him. It's a rare man who is like him.
Rare and precious.
And missed.
I thought of him when I drove home by the ocean.
And then a limo driver pulled next to me in the traffic as we waited for the light the change.
His windows in front were even tinted but I saw him
Turn pointedly at me
Out of the corner of my eye.
I ate the snap peas I was having for dinner on my way home after my blood draw and dopplers.
I looked over at him.
He made strangling joking motions toward the many cars in front of us and smiled.
I laughed out loud and nodded
And the light changed.
I had to hurry to get over three lanes and pulled behind him at the next light.
He blinked his brake lights several times at me as he drove away.
I laughed again.
I think it was Pop saying hi.
I want to think that, so I will.
Just flashing red lights on the back of a car
Randomly spreading cheer and connecting with strangers,
Making the world a less lonely place.
That's what Pop did, wherever we went.
Everyone loved him.
They could tell
He was a good man.
Missed Pop
As I drove home by the sea.
It was my only break of the day
Between getting my lower extremity dopplers done at 5pm
And admitting patients all morning and afternoon
And writing notes all evening at home
Which I have just now finished
With the evil "convenience" of home access to the hospital computer system.
I miss him
Because I would have
Called him then.
As I drove home by the ocean full of surfers and waves
Where I wanted to be.
He would have said,
"Hello, Shawna!!
"How are you, Hon?"
"I'm good, Pop. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm doing okay.
You know, Bingo doesn't listen much anymore."
Or
"I've just been out feeding the ol' hound dogs."
Or
"My hips been bothering me."
Or
"I'm feeling kind of punk lately."
Or
"Colin and Becky made potatoes where Becky cuts them up real small.
"I like them real well. They're tasty!"
Or
"What have you been up to?"
Oh, I'm just working.
Mom brought me and my team some of her homemade split pea soup the other day when we were on call. Gram and Uncle Bill came with her. Yeah, they came out to visit from Michigan; we had a great time; we watched these people fly gliders for a long time. But anyway, with the soup, the med students and I went out to get it and the rest of the party supplies from Mom. Everyone loved it. They couldn't believe that my mom had brought it all in. That plus a lot of other goodies for an "unbirthday" party I wanted to have for the team for boosting team morale and good bonding. You would have liked it. We had a chocolate cake, too. Not as good as mom's German chocolate cake or the lemon bars, but it was fun. (He listened even when I rambled; liked it even.)
"It sounds real nice, hon!
I'm sure you all had a good time.
You have to work thirty hours at a time, though?
Are you doing okay? Taking care of yourself? You're not too tired are you?"
I do my best.
I don't sleep well sometimes, but it's okay.
I love it down here. I watch the sunset when I can. Ride my bike to the beach. Surf.
(I don't want him to worry; and I am truly happy here; if tired, too.
Some of the veterans I admit that night remind me of him.
One is 87 and used to be a stunt double for John Wayne;
He used to be a cad, I think, too. That's not like Pop, who was always kind and true with everyone. But he smells like Pop did when he got sick; he has trouble leaning forward as I listen to his lungs.)
"Sounds like you're doing real well, hon."
Yeah, I do alright. When I was taking the rest of the split pea soup home at 1am when I finally finished my work (was supposed to get out at 10 pm) it spilt all across my trunk and in the bag mom had brought (I don't tell him it's because I was driving too fast on the empty highway hearing the wind whoosh through the bike/surf racks I just put back on my car; he worries enough about me anyway; he would tell me to slow down and be careful. I never drove over the speed limit when I'd drive him to Chico for his doctor's appointments where he'd brag about me and then take me to lunch afterwards).
When I got home (I won't tell him that I parked illegally in our apartment parking lot, knowing I'd have to turn right back around at 6 am before any cops came by to care if I were there or not), I cleaned up the soup--sort of. I used the bathroom sink which was a bad idea because then it got all clogged up and I had to get out the pliers you gave me from your cool old metal tool box and try to pry the stopper out but they were too big so I had to use one of my little medical tools to get some of the carrot and ham chunks out first. It was pretty gross but I was numb and tired and didn't really care. That didn't work that well either and I worried about waking up Joe downstairs so I found my liquid draino and that finally did the trick.
I tell him I wish he'd been there to help. He always fixed everything like that. Took care of the details. He might have been miffed that I'd done something so ridiculous, but he'd still help me fix it with a smile; and he'd have good ideas about what to do to fix it. He'd love me even if I came home at 1:30 in the morning with split pea soup splattered on the legs of my scrubs and then clogged up the sink and tried to clean it out while laughing resignedly at myself.
He'd love me no matter what I did. He'd be happy to talk to me whenever I'd call. He knew I was busy and wouldn't call often so he wouldn't disturb me. I saved messages he left on my voice mail. "Ha-hi Shawna! It's just ol' Pop," He'd chuckle as he said it, "Just wanted to see how you're doing, shug. I'm just sitting here watching the ol' boob toob. Give me a call if you get a chance. I know you're busy. I love you, hon. Bye bye for now."
I'm logistically okay without him. I have been taking care of myself for a while now. Mom might have it worse. She asked how often to get the tires changed; or the oil; or how to use the coupons at Costco. Pop always took care of that stuff for her. And for me when I was around. He brought our lunches at school when we'd forget. He never let us fall through the cracks. Never let us fall if he could help it.
He always made everyone he talked with so happy. He was like the sun that never expected anything from the earth. Just kept shining and giving without expecting anything in return. Look what can happen with a love like that.
I try to be like that. In the midst of the sometimes disgruntled work place, I try to remember Pop and smile and say I'm well even if I hurt. Making other people feel better takes away some of my own hurt, too. It all works out in the end. "It'll all be okay," he'd say. "Don't let it get to you, Shug" and he'd pat me a little roughly on the shoulder with his big calloused hands which were fading with age.
I miss talking with him about the little stories of our lives. The patients he would like to hear about. Or the stories about the dogs or the horses or the cats or the neighbors he would tell me about home. The day to day events. And the way he made me feel. Loved. I miss that.
He left me his box of treasures in his will. I'm not sure why. It's locked. The key is attached to a leather fob that mom made him as a little girl. It's not very good, she says, but he kept it all this time. And he kept my letters and his important papers in the steel box. I wish I could have gone through it with him. I think we did once. He'd get it out occasionally. He left my brothers his guns and me his box of treasures. I guess there wasn't much that he owned at the end. Just mementos from a long life. Not many things, but he sure had a hold on many hearts. And a place in many memories.
I get letters almost every day still from people who loved him or love those of us he touched so deeply contributing to his memorial fund. I'm going to find a bench for him. Maybe a cement one like the kind they have at the ocean here. Something were we can sit with him in the sun. It's going to go in the garden at the river he helped plant before he took to his "supervisory" role when his hip and his heart kept him from participating as much.
He wanted to do more to help than he could those last years and months. He still fed the dogs and watered the horses and did the dishes in the days before he died. He felt good to be home and good to contribute; good to feel needed. Colin told him how much he appreciated him a few weeks before he died. He went to him and shook his hand and told him. Pop never wanted to end up in a nursing home; he thrived surrounded by lives he helped touch and create and influence. Both of my brothers told me separately that they thought about the type of man Pop was and that they wanted to try to be as thoughtful and generous as him. It's a rare man who is like him.
Rare and precious.
And missed.
I thought of him when I drove home by the ocean.
And then a limo driver pulled next to me in the traffic as we waited for the light the change.
His windows in front were even tinted but I saw him
Turn pointedly at me
Out of the corner of my eye.
I ate the snap peas I was having for dinner on my way home after my blood draw and dopplers.
I looked over at him.
He made strangling joking motions toward the many cars in front of us and smiled.
I laughed out loud and nodded
And the light changed.
I had to hurry to get over three lanes and pulled behind him at the next light.
He blinked his brake lights several times at me as he drove away.
I laughed again.
I think it was Pop saying hi.
I want to think that, so I will.
Just flashing red lights on the back of a car
Randomly spreading cheer and connecting with strangers,
Making the world a less lonely place.
That's what Pop did, wherever we went.
Everyone loved him.
They could tell
He was a good man.
posted by S. at 11:36 PM
1 Comments:
I want to be like him, too. Colin is a thoughtful brother. You should cherish him.
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