The signs were clear, Dad was imminent. On a rainy evening in Seattle, I finished the fourth presentation of the day about the degree programs offered in my department at Washington State University and immediately checked my phone. The report I received from my cousin, who had visited Dad that day, set my course for the next two weeks.
At the last minute, before leaving on the week-long recruiting trip, I decided to drive my own car and pack for both Seattle and Los Angeles. I just had a feeling that I would need to head south, before returning to my home in Spokane.
Standing near the hospital bed tucked in the corner of the master bedroom at his home, I smoothed the hair on my dad's forehead, talking to him in quiet tones. My stepmom and the caregiver had slipped away to give me a few moments alone. Dad was mostly incoherent, but his words got really clear for a few seconds.
"Oh you came, I've been worried about you," he said while squeezing my hand.
He closed his eyes, but held tight to my hand, and I know he heard what I said next. "It's ok, Dad, you don't have to worry about me. You taught me well. We've got things handled here. You can let go, if you want. You can go see Grandma, and Aunt DiAnn, and Aunt Harriet. They are waiting for you."
That was Sunday, Oct. 30. I spent Monday partially him, and also trying to help my stepmom understand he was close. Dad passed away in the small hours of the morning on Tuesday, Nov. 1.
His service was a week later. I officiated and shared with his friends and family these thoughts.
Sojourns in the Land of Memory
In the months since April, when my dad broke his hip and the progression of his dementia accelerated, I have come to understand memory is the most profoundly beautiful, and utterly confounding, function of the human brain.
Today, we are gathered to revel in our collective, and individual, memories, of Marty Wagner – a deeply loyal husband, dad, uncle, cousin, friend, and colleague. Our task is to celebrate the joy of great memories, and chuckle at a few well-timed stories. We must also, in Dad’s honor, recognize how tenuous these memories are, understand that they will shift with time.
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| The photo we used at Dad's service. He won 11 Emmy's in his 55 years as a TV cameraman. |
Dad would appreciate the chuckling. One of my first memories of something he said repeatedly was his claim that he has “always been a flustrated comedian.” In my youth, it was all I could do to avoid jumping out of my skin and exclaiming, “Dad! There is no L in frustrated!”
Lately, I’ve found myself wondering if the tendency I noticed years ago for Dad to run sentences together, or not fully enunciate, was a sign that his memory was shifting, that words or sounds were escaping him. Last month, when he spent several days in the hospital, I walked into the room one evening and without much preamble, he declared, “This memory business has really got me down.”
Dad understood the confounding flustration of dementia. And because he taught me patience and respect for others, I decided to just roll with wherever his mind took us. He consistently had me placed in San Diego, where I grew up, went to school, and graduated from college, but moved away from 22 years ago. Upon my arrival each day that I was in here in LA, he’d light up and say, “Oh honey, you’re here. You must have gotten out of school early. How was the drive up?”
“The drive was smooth,” I’d reply, never letting on that I had only come from Glendale, where I was staying with a friend.
Dad knew those miles between LA and San Diego as well as anyone, which is why he wanted the latest on the traffic. For years, after he moved to Los Angeles for work in the mid-70s, he drove south every Thursday to pick me up from school. We’d start the afternoon either playing miniature golf, taking a round of pitches in the batting cages, playing air hockey at the arcade, or stopping off at 7 Eleven for a cherry Slurpee. When we’d eventually make it to my grandma’s house for dinner and to spend the night, we’d somehow find time to shoot baskets, play catch with the newly invented Nerf football, build LEGO sets, or fix this or that thing needing repair around the home and property where Dad grew up. The Farm, as he and my grandma called it. The farm whose only animals were a scraggly terrier and the best Siamese cat ever.
On Friday morning, my dad would wake me in plenty of time to ready for school, and not have to break any speed limits heading north on the 5 from The Farm in south San Diego County to my school near Old Town. On the commute, we’d play a game we called Cleanies and Dirties, which was a tally of all the semis we passed, one column for the trucks that sparkled and one for the dirt-splattered 18-wheelers. The Dirties almost always outnumbered the Cleanies.
Thursdays and Fridays were his days off in the years that he worked The Price is Right Monday thru Wednesday and traveled with CBS Sports on the weekends. Because we saw each other every week, Dad liked every now and again to surprise me. Not tell me about something new in his life when we talked on the phone early in the week. Like the time I ran out of my classroom looking for the familiar El Camino parked along the curb, only to find Dad standing beside a brand new baby blanket blue Chrysler Cordoba. He suggested I take the back seat on the passenger side, where I soon found he had stashed my favorite flavor of Lip Smackers lip gloss in the nifty seat pocket – Dr. Pepper. Grape was good, too, but my dad knew Dr. Pepper-flavored gloss smeared on a kid’s lips was a dream come true.
Oh my, the stories I could tell about Dr. Pepper. Grandma kept it on hand always. Dad and Mary stocked the pool house fridge with it. Dad and I were in total agreement that it must only be gulped from a can. Not a bottle, definitely not over ice in a glass. Straight from a frosty can. We went through a brief root beer phase, but otherwise never strayed from our beloved Dr. P.
I saw Dad’s flustrated comedian make an appearance frequently starting in 2015 when he had heart surgery. Humor was his way to deflect worry, or connect with the healthcare staff. A kind nurse or dietary aide might ask, “Do you need anything, are you comfortable?”
Dad would grin and ask, “Got a Dr. Pepper stashed up your sleeve by any chance?”
It wouldn’t be a proper painting of my dad’s life if I didn’t mention one other ingestible item about which he and I were of one mind – chocolate cake with white frosting. Do not add green or pink or some other useless color to the frosting. Definitely refrain from the urge to include raspberry filling. This delight, made several times a year by my grandma, was perfection with a thin layer of butter cream frosting between two layers and coating the outside of “perfectly chocolate cake,” as the Hershey’s cocoa powder can named the recipe.
Soon after I moved to Spokane, Washington, to attend graduate school, I had the privilege of working with a poet and essayist from the Midwest who visited my university to share her writing expertise. One evening this summer, when thinking about Dad, I remembered her collection of essays and jumped from my couch to search my bookshelves. I Could Tell You Stories: Sojourns in the Land of Memory by Patricia Hampl waited there for me, one of about half my books that survived a fire that engulfed my apartment building three months after I finished my degree.
I didn’t actually start reading it again until this week, rather I kept the book near, sometimes carrying it to work in my backpack, sometimes leaving it on the coffee table at home. In many ways, the subtitle was enough. Sojourns in the land of memory are exactly what Dad and I shared during my visits over the past several years.
Much like his new car surprise, Dad would sometimes wait to unveil a new train car added to his outdoor layout when I could see it in person. Four or five years ago, he led me to the back corner of the yard and waited for me to pick out the latest addition. I saw the tanker car painted like the chubby Tootsie Roll cans available every Christmas season and could not stop grinning. He and I sat in companionable silence on rocking patio chairs and watched the trains on three different tracks circulate through the Old West town Dad had built up over the years.
“It’s like watching a fire,” I mused.
Now it was his turn to be delighted. He’s spent the years since telling me how much he loved that idea, how clever the observation was. Our own little trip through his memory each time we talked.
That was my dad, always ready to say how proud of me he was. He never wavered in his love, he taught by example, he trusted me to do the right thing.
Hampl writes in her essay titled Memory and Imagination, “I am forced to admit that memory is not a warehouse of finished stories, not a gallery of framed pictures.”
In other words, memory isn’t perfect. Those galleries do exist, though. One in each of our minds. And the stories we share today about Dad, about Marty, will add new pieces to our galleries, will help us to frame them in a fashion that will allow us to grieve, and celebrate, and always hold him near.
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