In Memory of Progenitor: 1945-2005

I remember back to September 2004, when I first started writing this blog. A few people read it, mostly people I knew, and they commented more about me writing the blog than the blog itself. I hadn't found my stride yet. I wrote about the exercise gym chain Curves and my issues with Dell, but a lot of my career angst and issues with corporate life were still corked.

Finally I wrote my first series about the corporate world--Paralyzed: Life of the Mid-Level Career Woman. I felt expressed and rather satisfied with myself. My greatest fan, my mother, wrote, referring to my blog, "It just gets better and better..." I thought, even though commenters were still unrealistically positive and related to me, I was doing quite well.

But then I got my first negative comment. One that very well may be my worst one ever, regarding the angst I expressed about being a single woman in the corporate world:

"Whining doesn't become you. You lead a life that is the envy of your peers. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and you took the one less travelled by..... and it HAS made all the didderence [sic]."

I didn't see the good in this message. I figured it was an old boss, or someone that I worked with who thought I was a complainer. The word "Whiner" always struck me as an insult--I never saw the implied compliment of being in a position of seeing things from a stance much more privileged than others. Though I am a whiner, I always saw myself as more of an observer of all things personally troubling--a very big distinction in my mind.

This being my first negative comment, I wondered whether I should delete the damn thing or be bold and leave it there. I did what I always do when I wanted unconditional praise and support; I called my mother.

"Did you read the blog today?" I asked.

"No--did you post something new?"

"The comments, Mom! The comments! Did you see what was written about me? I think this person may know me!"

My mother read the comment and then laughed,

"Well, of course this person KNOWS you, Hun! It's your father!"

I read the comment again and knew she was right: "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood..." He always used that line from Robert Frost's poem as a way to live life--or justify his own, in some cases. My father loved to take the road less traveled, often the more lonely and troubled road. I noted the typo--sloppy, even if the quote was profound and applicable. I felt exposed to the truth. It definitely came from my Dad.

Despite my personal style of exasperated embellishment life was never as bad as I made it out to be, and I was never as talented, or smart, as I needed to be to be happy. My father rarely praised me or told me I was better than anyone else, but if I ever got on the whiner track he knocked me back into place. Once, when I was nine or so and told him off with aplomb, he got down to my level and said in this wavering voice that always suggested that what he was about to say was important:

"You say things that could really piss someone off. I'm sure you know that you have that ability to do that, but you can't use it. Your father did, and look at him; he doesn't have many friends."

The few friends he did have stopped calling and coming over to the house. My Dad's best buddy became the TV set, and the talk-show hosts on C-Span, whom he liked to call and correct, or offer an alternative argument to, particularly if they were Democrats.

Dad didn't dislike Democrats--hell he would have then disliked me--he just thought that they weren't very sincere people. They were too afraid of being disliked to really state what their logic told them. They were too removed from their logic to be listened to.

Eventually my father "came out," as it were, and identified himself on my blog only as Progenitor. Progenitor liked to correct my grammar and use of words. He clarified once, when I mentioned the 8mm films I used to watch in school, that they were in fact 16mm. Once he clarified something I had written about him regarding his dismissive attitude toward health insurance. He explained that he was charged twice for one delivery room visit (the birth of me and my twin sister, Julie), which was totally unfair.

"For some reason your birth required an exact duplicate of your twin's maternity room supplies," he wrote. "Apparently, two can't live as cheaply as one, or be born at a bargain...my personal choice of medical treatment comes from the admonition of my doctor father to 'go soak it in hot water.'"

Dad always soaked in the tub for things--boils on his ass, stomach aches. We knew that an ailment must have been extraordinarily excruciating if he had to go soak in the tub, otherwise he'd self-medicate by pouring himself another one of his drinkie winkies and zoning out in front of the TV.

Over the past month he could have sat in the tub for a year and never felt better. After losing 80 pounds he finally gave into my mother's nagging and agreed that, yeah, maybe he should sign up for the insurance available at work--no rush.

Mom knew something was wrong, especially when he'd stopped drinking. Dad always loved his "drinkie winkies." He'd taught his kids how to make them when they were in grade school so we could bring him just the right amount of whiskey on the rocks. I used to feel quite grown up, getting on my tiptoes to reach for ice cubes on the top shelf of the freezer, then going to the bar and measuring out 2 ounces and pouring it in. Dad was always so grateful. I was less impressed as an adult, when I saw that he'd consolidated a week's worth of drinkie winkies into his coffee mug and downed it like cocoa every night.

After Dad was diagnosed with cancer, Mom and I took him to his first Chemo appointment. He didn't have the strength to fill out the forms, so I did. I took the liberty of filling out the section about his lifestyle. I checked "yes" next to smoking and the number 3 in the blank next to "packs per day."

"Don't exaggerate, Jory! It's more like two, two and a half!" my mother said to me. She had been looking over my shoulder. I wondered, what was the point of protecting him now? Dad yelled over from the examining room table,

"Oh Keeeeerist! Who gives a shit!"

Mom started to take an interest in the forms and helped me fill them out.

"Put down his mother has had cancer...hmm, Joel, when did Nana have cancer?"

"Keeerist! Leave it alone."

The doctor came in and gave us Dad's chemo schedule. He asked if we had any questions.

"Can I drink?" Dad asked. It was clear he wasn't asking about the multivitamin drinkboxes the hospital had let us take home.

"Don't think that would be a good idea, Joel," the doctor said.

"Keeeerist."

The first few days Dad was home were rough. He was immobile and unable to wash himself or go to the bathroom without help, but he refused to acknowledge that. If only my mother and I could lift him a bit higher, hold him up a bit longer, we would have no problem. He hadn't eaten for a week; he'd hardly taken in any fluids. Still, I found myself wishing he wouldn't have to eliminate ever again.
~~~~~~~~~~~

"Are you going to go talk to him today?" Mom asked.

I found myself annoyed by the question. "I said I would--what's the rush?"

"I just want to make sure we get him while he's--you know, with it. He seems to be really reacting to the chemo."

We walked into his office. I led, then Mom followed, pulling up a chair at his desk, across from him. "Christ," I thought, "could we be any more obvious!" I was becoming more and more annoyed, and realizing that my annoyance was actually fear.

"Dad? You got a minute?" He stared back at me, as if to say, "Do I have a choice? I'm freaking immobilized here!" Mom gave me a chair. I couldn't believe that she and my father hadn't talked about this yet, what I was asking him about now. It seemed way overdue, and yet, premature, like we were jumping the gun, like we were insulting him. He would definitely think that. He'd say something rude or diverting and I would have to take it in and keep going, which I'd always let him do in the past when I had to talk with him seriously. I said I would ask and I knew I had to get an answer.

"Dad...we were wondering how you wanted things--just in case."

"In case of what?"

"In case...of...Do you want to be buried? You know, if..."

He put me out of my misery and blurted out, "Plots. We have two plots."

"We do?" my mother chimed in with surprise. "Where? When?" She'd been sorting through his desk as she spoke and found where he'd put his teeth that had fallen out recently. He'd stored them with his paper clips.

"The safe," he said.

I looked over at Mom, "He's said enough," I said with my eyes. "We'll investigate this later."

"Great, Dad." I said. "And, we were thinking--actually the hospital brought the forms over and thinks we should have you sign them--a living will. We think--and the hospital thinks--we should have a plan, just in case."

Dad stared at me with green-gray eyes that had grown twice as large since he'd lost all the weight. They didn't blink. They just stared. I continued.

"So, I take it then that you'd be fine with Mom having power of attorney--just in case--and that we have some people come over to witness the signing--just so we have it done right, just in case."

I waited for him to turn away in disgust, like he did while I filled out his medical forms at the doctor's office, whenever he mocked truth he didn't like, but he didn't.

"You da boss," he said.

Later we found a deed for two burial plots for my grandparents that they'd bought in 1967. I knew that recently my grandparents had requested to be cremated, when their time came.

"Do you think they'd want Dad to have one?" I asked Mom.

"Knowing your father," she said. "He just figured we've got two for free now. We might as well use them."
~~~~~~~~~~~

The doctor knew that he'd need to go back into the hospital a few days after his first chemo treatment. At first we were relieved--someone else would be taking his bedpan. But after a few days I was dismayed, as the bloodclots in his feet got larger and swelled up his feet and legs, as he got weaker and now needed someone to hold his straw when he attempted sipping beverages he could not actually drink, I realized, he may never come home again.

Every 15 minutes or so a nurse came in to take Dad's temperature and blood pressure, clean his urinal, and check on him. Initially he was annoyed with the constant interruptions, but he started to become more passive, letting them handle him without uttering a "Shit" or term of annoyance.

"Who is that?" the nurse said to him, pointing at me, trying to engage him while pleasing me. She didn't know that this little exercise embarrassed Dad more than when he cleared the whole oncology ward with his first bowel movement in a week. Still, I wondered what he would say.

"Jennifer," he said, referring to my older sister. The nurse assumed that he was still in a confused state. I knew that he was using up his last few ounces of clarified wit.

"No it's not, Joel," the nurse said, like she was talking to a kindergartner. "Who is that?"

I wanted him to put us out of our misery and shut the nurse up. Just say my name, Dad, or just say it's one of the twins, which is how he often referred to me and Julie.

"Alpha," he said.

The first--and only--joke he'd made all week.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My Aunt Heidi seemed quite composed when she arrived from Ohio. She knew how her older brother could be and knew he wouldn't be any more pleasant now that he was sick. She'd also received calls from her other brothers, who'd seen him and told her to come up quickly, before it was too late.

"He was always so proud of you kids," she said to me. "Last time I talked to him--one of the rare few times," she quipped, "he said you were writing."

"He told you that?" I said, surprised. I hardly knew what my father knew of my whereabouts anymore. The last time we talked about my writing, my Dad had asked to read it. Encouraged, I sent it on. When I spoke to him again, he said, "It's good, but I'm still better than you." I didn't take the comment personally but was peeved that a parent would ever say that to his kid.

"He's not necessarily a fan," I said to my aunt.

"Really? That's not what he told me. He said you were a damn good writer." Typical Dad--always saved his compliments for when you weren't around.

I don't know why I was so surprised by this, especially considering what happened in college. I used to write a weekly column for my College Daily, and though it was popular it was controversial. For every letter by someone who loved it there were two or three by someone who thought I was a cruel hack. I got used to these letters and even welcomed them--you know what they say about publicity--all of it is good, and my editor loved to print the pronouncements of my suitability for hell. But one day she made an exception.

"I thought you might want to see this first," she said. "We don't have to print this one."

The letter began, "Though, judging by the letters in this paper, I am sometimes hesitant to admit parentage to Jory Des Jardins," was how it began, as closely as I can remember, "this was a damn good piece." I wrote the column he referred to during the Gulf War, taking on the persona of a scared college co-ed writing a letter of support to one of the GI's that had been stationed in the Gulf. It was the first war I had been alive to witness as a thinking, voting adult. At the end of the letter, I give up any pretense of humor and simply beg the soldier not to die. Apparently, according to my father's letter, he hadn't had such a moving experience since watching John Wayne for the umpteenth time in The Sands of Iwa Jima.

It was one of the only times I knew I'd done good.
~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mom wants him to be cremated," my brother said to me in the car, on the way from the airport. He'd just picked up me and b-friend and was taking us back to the house. "I need to get you back home quick. The funeral home scheduled a meeting at two to discuss the arrangements."

I thought, "Jesus, he's only been dead for seven hours! The body's not even cold yet!" I also thought that that phrase wasn't funny anymore.

I was surprised that my mother wanted to go against my Dad's wishes, but more because over the past few days she'd empowered herself to make decisions about Dad without fear of pissing him off. She'd chosen that he spend his final days (which turned out to be just one day) in hospice care, and she decided to have Last Rites performed for the benefit of his Catholic family, despite knowing that, had he awakened during the ritual he'd have said, "Keeeerist, Joycie! Enough!"

"We talked to him last week," I said to my brother. "He said he wanted to be buried."

"Mom thinks he was just trying to be practical," my brother said. "She asked him this week if he wanted to be cremated and he just sort of nodded his head," we knew these days that was the best we'd get.

My mother's eyes were puffy, but she looked surprisingly good for someone who had been awakened at 5am to be told her husband was dead. She'd called my brother and sister, who lived nearby to meet her at the hospice. While there they bumped into a nice funeral home director, who happened to be there to pick up another body.

"It was like kismet," Mom recalled. "And the funeral home is right by the hospital. It just seemed like they should handle Dad's arrangements."

We drove to the funeral home--Mom, my sister Jenna, my brother Joe, my twin sister Julie, who'd also just arrived with her husband and babysitterless two-year-old Bella, my uncle and Dad's brother Paul, my uncle and Dad's other brother Mark, Mark's wife, Jill, and b-friend, who was just now meeting my extended family in admittedly less-than-ideal circumstances. We were ushered into a conference room and joined by another funeral director, who earnestly started going over all arrangements.

"Mrs. Des Jardins," he said to my mother, "I understand that you don't want a funeral service."

"That's correct," Mom said. I looked at her, impressed. She was making decisions that weren't popular with the mainstream, but she knew that if the the tables were turned Dad would have said, "Seven grand for a dead person? You've got to be kidding."

"Well then, the procedure will be quite simple." As he went over the details in the contract my two-year-old niece started to get restless and roam the room, pulling a wastebasket over her head and mercifully diverting all of the tension elsewhere.

The Director continued with the obituary notice: "Would it be OK if we say he is the beloved husband of Joy?" Mom nodded yes. He turned to my Dad's brothers, "And cherished brother?" They nodded in unison.

"And beloved son?" the Director said. At that we all paused for a moment. The arguments between my father and grandfather have become the stuff of family lore. My Uncle Mark tells with glee of the time my Dad and Grandfather got into a fight that started to get physical, and my grandmother calmly asked Mark, the youngest, to "Get the door please," so that my father could flee and jump the bushes without any obstacles.

"How about troubled son?" my uncle Paul joked. We laughed appreciatively.

The Director continued, "Will you be accepting any donations in his name? And if so, to where?" A long pause followed. My father was a political man, but not one for causes.

"Greenpeace," Mark said, and we erupted once again.

"The Democratic National Party," Paul quipped, and by now we were in laughing hysterics.

"None, please," my mother clarified for the Director, who seemed confused.

"Mrs. Des Jardins would you like to pick out an urn for your husband?" he handed Mom a catalog of what looked like overpriced humidors. As Mom started to browse, Joe, looking over her shoulder, exclaimed "Fifteen hundred dollars for a piece of wood? I don't get it."

"Just pick out what you want," someone called out to my Mom. "Don't feel you are obligated to break the bank for appearances."

Mom turned to the Director, "What if I don't choose an urn here? How will I get his ashes?"

"You would receive them in a container from the county," he said. I envisioned Tupperware. We all knew that if Dad had his choice he'd pick that.

"I can't do it," Mom said. "We have to pick out something. Maybe not something ridiculous, but at least something decent. Something I can look at."

We wondered where we would spread his ashes. I suggested Lake Michigan, where he loved to sail.

"You know," my mother said. "That's illegal."

I wondered, who would notice? Plus, the illegality of the act seemed to make it more appropriate for Dad. He loved to rabble rouse. We couldn't go to McDonalds without him creating a ruckus and getting kicked out. By the time I was 10 Mom had banned him from going anywhere in public with us. He didn't mean to be mean to people. He was just saying, in his own way, "Hey buddy! I'm here! I matter." Yet, ironically, we knew he'd be contented with Tupperware.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There's been a surprisingly soothing, almost joyous tone in our house today. I can only define it as relief that Dad's pain has ended, as have the question that lingered silently in our heads, "How long?" The feeling gets cut from time to time, and out ooozes pain, and sadness, and a little guilt for feeling relieved. My guilty tendencies make me crave for a few more weeks of suffering for Dad, or more accurately, suffering for us so that we could feel like he didn't slip away so easily. We were enjoying ourselves too much, I thought. Then I realized the absurdity of my statement.

He got a raw deal, Mom said to me today, crying. What Mom meant was, once Dad found out he was sick, that was it--he was immobile, unable to think, unable to make decisions, unable to express his final thoughts. I wonder if he really didn't have a choice. I think being comatose for his last few days was convenient for Dad. He wouldn't have to entertain the people who kept coming to visit him. He could be alone with his thoughts. And then, at night, after they left, he could die. He wouldn't be a spectacle any more.

"I think," Mom said, "that going so quickly was, in his way, his gift to us." I thought that was complete bullshit, but then I thought of that letter he wrote to the college newspaper in my defense and thought, maybe she's right. Dad did loving things when he thought we wouldn't notice.

My Mom says she's OK with not having had any substantive conversation with Dad in the weeks before he died. "I never knew what was in his head--how he felt about dying--but I think he wanted it that way," she said. It occurs to me that Dad, in the same fashion he let others know his feelings about you but never told you himself, did let others know how he felt--on my blog. I'd written about my mother losing her job this year, eliciting an outpouring of love and best wishes from my mother's co-workers and, uncharacteristically from Progenitor.

"As I think you know, I have a very large soft spot when it comes to mothers, in general; but when it comes to yours, I am especially motivated to chat by a unique bond that only comes about after the first 20 or 25 years of living and sharing the same life with a person as exceptional as your mother. You have not yet reached that rare state of communication when speaking with a mate is not necessary, I have. I, and she, have become such a communal person that we each intuit the other. I hope that you and your brother and sisters will share with your significant others (this is as pc as I will ever be, I promise) this extraordinary bond which occurs over time, I think; and over steroetype. My original views of male-female bonding and mother father relationships have, in the best way, been vindicated.

Though I had very little to do with it, my kids turned out pretty well(this is false modesty, they are super, even the left coast one). This indicates that a mother's influence is most important, and that the best thing a father can do is stay out of the way."

I called my mother right away when I read this. She'd read it too.

"What's he, crazy?" Mom said, then joked, "He must have been drinking."

I think he might have been prescient. He might have known he was sick. And he might have known how painful it would be to say later, when he was dying. He figured we'd get to absorb this in our own time, painlessly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So here I sit, in the only quiet room in the house, his old office. The place still smells of smoke--the curtains in the office are stained by it, despite previous attempts by my mother to have them drycleaned. There is no natural light--during his last few days he preferred to sit in the dark in his chair--a cheap, pleather recliner that became his bed over the years, as he got too lazy to make it to bed. Sitting in it now, I can feel where the springs have gone out on the right side, where the cushioning slumps. The headrest still smells of that combination of his sweaty head and the leave-in shampoo we resorted to when we gave up hope of moving him to a shower or sink. Three remotes are on the side table--one for the TV, one for the cable, and one for the Bose portable sound system, which he resorted to when he got sick of watching TV. I'd come in to give him a pill or empty his plastic urinal and would catch him listening to classical music in the dark, just staring at the ceiling.

So many times, when I caught him doing this, I wanted to ask, "What are you thinking, Dad. Are you scared?" but I never did. Once, when I thought I caught him watching me I asked him if he would like some company.

"I'm fine babe," he said. "I just want to go to sleep."

The last time I saw him alive I said, "I'm leaving for now Dad, but I'll be back. I love you."

He closed his eyes and quickly replied, "Thank you, Baby."

I realize this story is too maudlin for Dad's taste--all the better reason to write it when he's dead. I, of course, hesitated at first, wondering if, somewhere, he'd cringe like he did in the hospital, when anyone looked at him wistfully or with sadness. And I say now, to the air, it's not up to you anymore, Dad. Like you said before the light in your head went out, I'm the boss.

Comments

[Chris Owen]

Thanks
A fitting reminder of how parents come in all shapes and sizes.
it seems the more feisty they are, the more diificult to show love but still know love!

[Career Break Guru]

I was interested in what you said about comments on your blog. I have just started writing mine and it's interesting to see who comments and what they say. I post quite a variety of stuff and I guess some appeals and some doesn't. It's here if you want to take a look: http://careerbreak.blogspot.com

[Marilyn]

Jory, reading this made me cry...and even laugh. Although my father is not cut entirely of the same cloth, I do know what it's like to be a daughter who never hears the compliments directly...only third-hand after the fact. This is an incredible tribute to your Dad. Surely he must be smiling at you from wherever he is, thinking: you did good.

[Koan Bremner]

When I die (which I will, invincible and immortal though I sometimes feel) I hope that someone will write something even a fraction as moving (and loving) about me as you have just written about your father, Jory.

He's still alive, while you remember him, write about him, and talk to him - alive in your heart. I sense that you already know this.

[nina]

Oh, Jory, what a wonderful piece.

[patti digh]

thanks for your honesty - about the process of dying, even quickly... about the anxiety and awkwardness, the cruelty of the process, the unknowing and the gone. thanks for taking the road.

[Gonçalo Moura]

I came to your blog after reading your "More Space" essay... And the first post I read is this. Which ressonates with some similar situations that I've been through in the past.

Well, just let me say that this text is honest. Not sincere, honest. So honest that it feels like a punch to the gut...

Wish you only the best, and that you get through this difficult time the best you can...

[Bob Patterson]

Jory, I am a friend of your Moms. My thoughts and prayers have been with your family. You are a wonderful writer, and have great skill in bringing the reader to your world. I look forward to meeting you at some point in the future.

[Jen McClure]

Jory - This post is so beautiful and moving. It must have been difficult and yet felt liberating to write it. Just wanted you to know your writing really touched me. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family as you go through this time together.

[Steve Sherlock]

My father is still with us but my mother left almost as suddenly many years ago. You wrote of many of the same things that occured then. This is a good reminder that for all our differences, male/feamle, our individual preferences for religion or politics, in life we are more alike than not. Death just makes this more obvious.

Jory, thanks for sharing this.

[Yvonne DiVita]

I am speechless. I am overwhelmed wishing I could hold you and your Mom ... and cry with you and laugh with you, and just feel all the feelings that being a daughter, a Mom, a wife, and a woman, bring to the surface at times like these.

Your Dad was a character, Jory. This immortalizes him - but I think you have more to say. Will be watching for it...

[Britt Bravo]

This is a beautiful piece. I am going to send it to a friend who lost her father not that long ago.

[Lisa Stone]

ROAD LESS TRAVELED

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth

Then took the other as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet, knowing how way leads onto way
I doubted if I should ever come back

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood
And I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference

Robert Frost

Thinking of you - L

[jen]

Jory,

As usual, a wonderful story. Pity it was under such sad circumstances. My condolences to you and Joy.

[craig]

Yes, you are the boss, girl. I'm glad you realize that now. As someone who will soon join your Dad in the ranks of the unliving I wish you a long life and a prosperous one. I hope you always chase your dreams....
Love,
Craig

[Erin]

Well done, Lady! Thanks for sharing these stories......

xo
erin

[Mary Cary]

Jory-
Your writing is an amazing gift. I've been thinking about your family so often these past few days. And, I knew checking out your blog was probably the best way to find out how Joyful handled—and continues to handle—it all. Please give her a hug for me, and have her do the same right back to you.

[regina]

Jory - thinking of you and your family and appreciate you letting us in to share some of your special and heartfelt experiences take good care...

[De Novo]

A tremendous ode to your father as well as an excellent commentary on the relationship.

Warm wishes to you and your family.

[Tracy]

You and your mom are always making me cry. Sorry for your loss, I feel your pain. I sent this piece to my sisters who chose not to speak with my dad anymore. Maybe they can see that other dads are as quirky as mine (he’s only my dad now). You and your family have been very courageous. Great comments from your readers: I agree with and echo their sympathy and compliments.

[Colleen]

From the tiny snippet you shared, two things are obvious: that your dad was a fine writer, and that he had a profound depth of feeling for his family.

How wonderful that you get to carry on this great work, but in your own, completely different way.

I am so sorry for your loss, but somehow I feel like as long as you are around and writing, he is here, too.

Thank you for your shining example of grace under duress.

[Cousin Nicole]

Brilliant. You have the perfect balance of words to explicate the ironic, unbalanced DJ family. We are unique. I am overwhelmed at the way your words have come to life in what is my “Uncle Joel”, your father. This is moving and I can imagine the hysteria which erupted in the funeral home, due to the distasteful jokes which no one can get enough of; even in the most serious of times the DJ clan comes through in tradition of making light of a situation. When reading, the part that struck me deep down,

“I think being comatose for his last few days was convenient for Dad. He wouldn't have to entertain the people who kept coming to visit him. He could be alone with his thoughts. And then, at night, after they left, he could die. He wouldn't be a spectacle any more.”

This is a prefect portrayal of Uncle Joel, he was the show all of his life, and yes, my dad has some great stories about growing up with Joel as a big brother, but I do not think that the show genre he was presented with at the end was his preference. I think that you are an amazing writer, I laughed, I cried at the great story that is The DesJardins Family.

[Jeremy]

Jory, I read this post the night you posted it and have returned to it several times since -- it is truly wonderful on so many levels.

First, it's just beautifully written, with the right details and views from a distance...really telling the story of you and your dad without editorializing or lapsing into chronology. It's an honest tribute without the sugar coating.

Also, it forces me to think about my relationship with my own prickly, scared, distant dad. Not in a "oh, I'd better quickly patch things up before it's too late" kind of way, but in a more reflective acceptance of how we deal with each other as grown-ups.

And finally, you got me pondering my role in the lives of my two young daughters. It's not like I don't think about the importance of my relationship with them all the time anyway, but your writing helps me internalize my responsibility to be a great dad, a real dad, the dad they need.

[Sour Duck]

I enjoyed reading the parts of your father you shared. Thank you.

[Beth]

Jory:

My deepest condolences for your loss. Thank you for sharing this piece, it made me cry. A big hug.