Roadblocked By Karma's Bitch Wheel

Today is Thanksgiving and I have an odd Thanksgiving memory of my dad.

I got out of the Air Force in 1982.  I had been in a motorcycle accident and needed an operation, which meant that I had to move in with my parents for a few months.  My dad was so happy to have me around that we fought almost every day.  I already knew who was boss, but he continually let me know (I was 22 and probably needed to be reminded).

In between arguments, we drank beer, smoked cigarettes and did chores around the house.  Growing up, I felt as if I lived on a really small ranch.  My dad, a working man, always had to be busy making or fixing things.  (I think our fancy blue couch in the living room was more for show than relaxation.)

There was a nasty recession going on in 1982.  My dad had been laid off and before going to work at the Nevada Test Site, he had gone from job-to-job and spent some time working in construction.  He used his own tools, and sadly one day burned out his Craftsman drill.

Craftsman is the Sears brand and back then they had a policy that if you break one of their tools, they would replace it — no questions asked.  So my dad came to me late one Saturday afternoon and said, "C'mon boy, we gotta go to Sears and get a new drill."

Sears was down the street at the Meadows Mall in Las Vegas.  I always felt as if my dad was really trying to say, "Saddle up the horses, boy.  We're goin' to town today."  (Oddly, my dad looks like a Mountain Man and even went as far as building his own black-powder rifle.)  So I saddled up the ho...er...ah...got in the truck and we drove two miles to Sears.

Sadly, we were informed that Sears was no longer replacing electric tools, but was shipping them out for repair.  That's when the yelling began.  The poor guy in the tool department suddenly had 200 lbs of idiot on his hands and since he couldn't make him happy, he sent us to see the manager.

I remember the brown paneled walls and carpet that seemed to be in between all colors and I could never put my finger on which color it was.  Was it yellow?  Or green?  How 'bout brown?  Maybe it was just dirty.

The secretary's desk was on an island of carpet and chairs across the room lined the beige tile floor.  I remember the dry feel of the paneling snagging the t-shirt at my shoulders as my dad stood there yelling at the secretary (who just wanted to do her job, go home and collect her check at the end of the week).  But once my dad started yelling, very little was going to make it stop.  She was fucked.

Finally, the secretary came to her senses and said, "Would you like to speak to the manager?"  From there it went from bad to worse.

I guess the manager didn't hear the yelling that had been going on.  As we entered his office, he said the seven words that sealed his fate:  "What can I do for you today?"  My dad turned it up a notch and took his voice from yelling, to screaming. 

The dude from Sears did a real good job of holding his own.  He matched my dad's tone and screamed back what the company policy was.  Man it was loud! They were both on their feet and if there hadn't been a desk between them, it probably would have looked like something from a Country and Western song as they would have been fighting and rolling on the floor.

Suddenly the door opened and the secretary's head popped in to signal the end of Round One.  I gave her a curious look and shrugged my shoulders to let her know that I had no idea who was actually winning this fight over a stupid fucking drill that in 1982 probably cost $15.  I'm surprised that nobody called the cops.  They needed to be called.

In the end, I don't think my dad let Sears fix the drill.  I think he threw it away and vowed to never shop at Sears again.  He now shops at Home Depot and owns tools made by DeWalt.

With his poorly differentiated squamous-cell carcinoma, this is my dad's last Turkey Day.  He's in Las Vegas and we're in Arizona.  Ordinarily we would have loaded up the truck and gone to see him, but I have to work tomorrow.  The company I work for has a motto: "Life. Well Spent."  It's a good motto.

Spend your life well.  You don't know how things are going to turn out.  Karma has a way of rolling in large and small circles.  For those of you who don't believe in Karma, the Bible says, "Sow the wind and reap the whirlwind."

Whenever I see the Sears logo, it reminds me of a grown man's temper tantrum.  Unfortunately, I see that logo every day.  It's on my name badge, the building where I work and my paycheck.  Ironically it's Sears who has thrown us a lifeline by giving me a job in the portrait studio — yet prevented us from visiting my dad.  Karma is a bitch.  One road blocked. Another one opened.

I work at Sears.  Thank God I don't sell drills.

Those Whores!

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,

and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.

These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

It was 1972 and my dad and I went deer hunting for the first time. We drove for hours and on a lonely Nevada road I saw a beacon flashing in the middle of nowhere. I asked him what that was and he told me that it was Sherry's Ranch. "Who's Sherry," I asked. He told me that it was a whore house. "What's that?" I asked.

"Oh, you know, men can fly their plane up or drive out here so they can sleep with a woman," he told me. I guessed that they didn't have wives and I didn't understand why anyone would go out of their way for such a thing or how they could get anyone to fall asleep on such short notice. I thought a motel would be a better choice. Ely, Nevada wasn't too far away. Clearly I was thinking sleep, but he was thinking "sleep." It took a while, but I finally woke up to what he was saying.

After getting home from Las Vegas, I called my dad to check in. He was pissed off.

I asked what was going on and he said, "You know that damn Dr. Ruckdeschell? Now he's whorin' me out to 'nuther buncha god-damn doctors! Them bastards!"

"Dad, is this in regards to the thoracoscopy that you need to have?"

"Probably," he said.

I explained that he could expect to have a team of doctors and other health-care professionals lining out the door and going around the block by the time this was all done. He reminded me that he is in charge and that there would only be a line if he allowed it.

Just because they have a treatment for cancer doesn't mean he has to take it. I think he'll have the thorascoscopy, but I bet you he won't take any chemo or radiation. However much I disagree, I think that his eventual refusal of treatment and eating right will be his last-ditch attempt at controlling his life.

His life is about him. His end-of-life choices need to be respected. (Please remind me of this as things progress and I begin screaming.)

Alone Again

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,

and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.
These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

Along with not really liking Las Vegas, there are two other parts I also dislike. Driving to Vegas — and driving back from Vegas. I especially hate it when I'm driving alone.

I woke up early on Sunday. I had a few things I needed to do. I had to go see Susan's family. They had a care package for me and I looked forward to seeing them despite not being able to spend much time there. I then had to zip over to Jeff's. He's a friend I've had since I was eleven. He had a lawnmower that he's not using and wanted to give it to me. I haven't been very good at mowing my backyard with a broken mower, so after three years of neglect, it was going to get some attention. I suspected that Diamond, my dog, would freak out over the sight of watching me work.

The round trip took about three hours. I got back to my dad's house in time to see the end of a football game, visit with my dad and brother and ask if my dad had eaten (nope). He said he was going to the bar and would eat there. Cool.

At the end of the game, my brother loaded up his kids and headed out. I knew that if I stayed, the specter of my impending departure would hang in the air like a foul odor. Nobody wanting to acknowledge it, but clearly obvious. So I passed out the hugs and headed to the door.

My dad followed me to the truck and inspected the lawn mower and made small talk. Women talk about feelings, men talk about things. He was saying so much more than "clean the sparkplug." I told him I'd check out the carburetor as we spoke in our language of Man.

I told him I loved him and started the engine. I slipped my Explorer into "Drive" and pulled away from the curb. I looked back in the rear-view mirror to the saddest site I've ever seen. My thin dad with his long, gray beard was standing alone on the sidewalk. He was waiving goodbye.

We Know Dick

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,
and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.
These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

On Saturday we woke up and went out to visit Dick and Shirley who are my family's life-long friends. Dick, before my mother passed, was a few years older than her, but they shared the same Birthday. Dick has a serious liver condition and has been told he will be here for Christmas, but won't be around for summer. He's a great guy. I suspect that where he's going will be much cooler than Las Vegas in the summer.

My guess is that this was probably the last time I will have seen him alive. Susan use to work with him. I've known him since I was 5.

The Cancer Joint

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,
and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.
These writings are a means to help me cope

with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

When you move away from Las Vegas, you tend to forget how ridiculous things are there. There are neon signs for strip clubs that cost more than the building where the women are flossing their asses. Everything is competing for your attention and billboards show half-naked ladies (not that there's anything wrong with that) as they advertise the hottest strip clubs in town. But that's not what I'm in town for.

The Nevada Cancer Institute is opulent. State-of-the-art architecture, polished marble floors, beautiful lighting and original fine arts adorn the walls and communicate that there is a lot of money being exchanged.

I have to sign in in the lobby. I was kind of irritated by that. Why do they need my information? Whatever. My dad goes down the hall and pays his copay while I look at the amazing artwork. I feel like I'm in a museum and the pieces are signed by notable artists. We go to the third floor and sign in (again). My dad has switched from cigarettes to hard candy. He's nervous. I promised that if he was good, he wouldn't get any shots. He just sat there.

In Brass, underneath the front desk are a series of letters that lets us know that that the lobby and free coffee is sponsored by Harrah's. I'm angered at how tacky their advertisement is. I was hoping that in a place like this, a visitor would only see advertisements in the magazines they are reading. And those have a big "Harrah's" sticker on the front of 'em too.

"Mr. Blei, you can come back now"

My dad has lost three pounds in two weeks. I wish I could do that. He's depressed and has no appetite. I think his cancer is changing things about him.

Dr. Ruckdeschel comes in with two silent assistants. He rearranges the room as he pulls a table close and says that I should scoot closer so I can see. He starts drawing lungs on a yellow tablet.

The PET Scan showed negative for metastasizing. His brain is healthy, no spread to his liver but he does have a tumor in his adrenal glands. But the doctor says they are benign tumors and nothing to be concerned with. BUT! my dad has a partially collapsed lung that fills with fluid. It could be caused by one of two things.

They want to do a thoracoscopy so they can see if there are tumors on the lining of the chest or lung. If there are, his cancer is elevated immediately to Stage IV and it's treated with chemotherapy and radiation.

If there are no tumors on the lining, the doctor said his tumor is messing with the lymph nodes and the treatment is a different type of chemo and radiation. Dr. Ruckdeschel said that if that is the case, there is a chance that his cancer could be cured. He said there is a one-in-three chance.

As we left the doctor's office, he stopped to get the ball rolling with the thoracoscopy and the lady said that he needed to go have some blood drawn. He looked at me as if to say that I had lied. He had been good. But they stuck him with a needle anyway.

On the way home, we made a detour. "Let's go to Decatur Liquor, but don't take Alta," he said. "It's torn up and would take all damn day to get through it." So we took Charleston and by 2:30 p.m. started drinking. I wish he liked good beer.

He won't tell you that he's drinking on an empty stomach, but he had a Hostess Cherry Pie, a slice of a small pizza and garlic bread. Other than that, his diet consists of light beer and cigarettes. He drank until 8 p.m. when he announced that he was going to bed. He headed down the hall and I headed off to visit old friends. I think he was glad to have that day behind him.

Vegas

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,
and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.
These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

Vegas. I have a love-hate relationship with that city. I grew up there. I was there when The Mob ruled and people were murdered execution style on the street. Eventually, The Mob went underground and Corporate America stepped in and screwed it all up. Gone are the $2.99 all-you-can-eat prime rib buffets.

A trip to Las Vegas for me isn't like it is for you. You get the cheap drinks, gamble, dance and have fun. I visit family and friends. For me, it might as well be Omaha.

I got into town on Thursday and on Friday took my dad to the Oncologist.

We woke around 8 a.m., and met at the kitchen table for coffee and cigarettes. I had the coffee, he had the cigarettes. I gave him a cherry pie and told him the story of skimming nickles and dimes from him to buy those sweet treats.

Our morning was filled with conversation about how his possessions were to be divided between my brother and I. He clearly stated that he didn't want us fighting! I explained that years ago, he and my mom made out a Will and entered everything into a Trust. I said that it was a good plan and that since it was a legal document, it had to be followed to the letter of the law. I'm the Executor of the Will and I think he found some peace in my response.

We got ready to go to the oncologist's office. I looked into the ashtray that I had seen my dad empty after we woke up. By noon, there was more than a half a pack of cigarette butts in it. Despite his nervousness, his smoking was right on schedule. Like a train.

On the way out the door, before my dad could take control, I pulled out my keys and told him that I would drive. He started to argue and I told him that after seeing the doctor, he was possibly going to be too depressed to get behind the wheel. He got into my truck and we headed west, towards the outskirts of town.

I think that when Susan, Mark and I left Las Vegas for Phoenix in 1994, there might have been a dirt road going through the neighborhood where the Nevada Cancer Institute now stands. On the way, my dad told me that he was going to smoke in my truck, whether I liked it or not. (He was true to his word.) I was amazed at how far it was and how new the surroundings were. We passed Desert Inn Road and I speculated that there is a generation of people living in Las Vegas that don't have a clue what Desert Inn is named after. (They'll probably change it to Tony "The Ant" Spilotro Pkwy and Mayor Oscar Goldman can have a parade.)

The truck wound it's way into a parking lot that was filled with nothing but valet parking. WTF! Going through the parking lot I finally spied a spot about the time my dad started in. "You know, the reason I wanted to drive was because I got that little handicap sticker on it from when your mom was alive, and we could have parked - " I cut him off as I made a turn and put the truck into "Park." I told him to hush up and finish his cigarette. I pointed to the blue and white logo on the space next to ours. "Yeah dad, with that little blue sticker, we could have been one space closer to the door."

We walked to the lobby.

As American as Apple and Cherry Pie

 

Back when I was a kid, America was the place to be.  It was only half as fucked up as it is now.

When we moved out of the trailer park, we moved into a house in North Las Vegas.  It was a "good" neighborhood (which to my dad meant that everyone was White. Yes, he's a bigot.).  Up the street was a low-rent apartment complex that members of a hard-core motorcycle gang lived in.  I went Trick or Treating one Halloween and there in the living room of a Biker's apartment was his Chopper.  It was cool.  I had never seen a Harley where the coffee table was supposed to be.

My dad was the type of person who rarely played catch with a football, but he sure could drink and smoke.

Now on the other side of the Biker's apartment complex was a Stop & Go convenience store.  I was 6 and my parents would send me to the store for the usual things, you know, bread, ketchup, dogfood, beer and cigarettes.

I know, you're thinking, "Bullshit! A little kid can't buy beer and cigarettes!"

Yes I could.  My dad would write me a note.

After writing the note, He'd say, "Here boy. Go get me some beer and cigarettes and bring me the change.  And don't be gone all damn night!"

I'd walk past the Hell's Angels to get to the convenience store and get what my dad wanted.  A couple of times he forgot to sign the note and I'd have to go back to get his signature and come back (Fuck!).

Right across from the register at the store is where they kept Hostess pies.  Apple, cherry, berry and lemon.  If Heaven were flavored, these pies were it.

One thing I never wanted to do was to get caught stealing.  Taking something from a store would guarantee an ass whoopin' that would be difficult to recover from.  So with my dad's change, I would buy an apple or cherry pie, dump the rest of the change into the bag and eat the pie on my way home.  What the hell, it was only .15¢. When he would question where his change was, I'd say, "I dunno.  I put it all in the bag."   Today I consider it an "Asshole Tax.

In 1966 the Surgeon General screwed up my gig by putting this warning on the side of a pack of smokes:  "Caution: Cigarette Smoking May be Hazardous to Your Health."

First it was beer and finally, they stopped selling me cigarettes — even with a signature.  My pie-eating days were over.  The items I was sent to fetch, cost about what I had close to the exact amount for.  Skimming had become too dangerous.

Susan and I were in the supermarket the other day and I passed by the fruit pies.  They brought back memories and I told her the story.  She threw two pies in the cart and told me that I was taking them to Las Vegas and that before his doctor's appointment, I was going to tell my dad the story.

The apple pies now cost $1.15.  The cigarettes have cost him his life.