Dad

When I was 3, my mom remarried.



My siblings and I were the product of her first marriage. It ended before I can remember and was upgraded by a willing father figure and an older brother, and we were all much happier for it.

I remember the first time I called Danny “Dad”. He was backing out of the driveway and I called “bye Dad!!”; he slammed on the breaks and ran up with the biggest, goofiest grin on his face and asked, “What did you call me?” I thought I was in trouble until the threw me up in the air and caught me and spun me around.

Dad is a mechanic. At our house in Argyle, he had a shop that was a safe haven of warmth and sunshine and rock n roll. Mom banned music in the house except Christian and country, but looked the other way when Dad introduced us to AC-DC, Collective Soul, Queen. He would work on cars while I read manuals he didn’t need out loud to him, halting and faltering over technical terms. If I didn’t feel like reading, I crawled on the cherry picker and rolled around on the creeper, getting in the way and handing him tools. I loved the smell of fresh lumber, so he’d take me with him to Home Depot to pick out scraps for my projects. With a tennis ball cut in half and glued to a piece of sandpaper, I would smooth my little chunks of wood, hammered nails in crookedly.



Through Dad, I learned a lot about practical knowledge—how to work with your hands, finish what you start, use your manners, and be a good person. Danny had firm expectations of how we ought to behave and enforced them strictly, from coming promptly when called to proper table etiquette to respectful attitudes to everyone you meet, but he allowed a great deal of space for us kids to be individuals. He wanted us to think for ourselves, come to our conclusions on matters. When I asked him about baptism, he gave me a factual definition of it, explained how different denominations viewed baptism, and told me, “you can’t make this decision for anyone else. Not for me, not for your mother, not for your grandparents. Only you can know when you are ready and what you believe.”

I knew that Dad was sick. He hurt a lot, every day, especially after eating. Some days were worse than others. Still, none of us—even him—knew how bad it was until he collapsed while working out in the garage.

The doctor at the emergency room gave him a diagnosis and prognosis.

Hepatitis C.

Dead man walking.

They had little hope for Dad to get better. There was no cure, and by the time Dad was diagnosed, he had been living with it for ten or fifteen years. It had already scarred and damaged his liver horrendously. Several other doctors agreed, but Dad found a doctor that was hopeful.

I don’t know a lot about that time except as it affected me. Dad was in and out of the hospital with increasing frequency. Sometimes he would be gone for months, come back for a weekend and have to be picked up by the ambulance again. Several times our school bus would pull up with EMTs and a rig with flashing lights sitting in our driveway. We learned how to tell based on the paramedics’ behavior how serious it was.



They moved Dad’s bed to the dining room so we could spend time with him during the day, and so he could be close to the pot belly stove in there. He was cold all the time. His hands shook so much he couldn’t write. I had to have him sign an absent note one day because Mom had already left for work; it was so illegible, just scribbles on the paper, that they wouldn’t accept it and I hid in the band room to cry.

Mom was the sole provider for the six of us, so she worked from 6 am until well after dark. She spent nights at the hospital, came home to change clothes and go back to work. Royce or Jarrod would drive us up in the afternoons after school to visit—we’d sneak food from the family waiting room, read medical pamphlets, play games on the elevators, and generally pretend we were anywhere else.

A couple of times, the doctor would call us at home and tell us to come and say goodbye because he was vomiting blood. His blood transfusions were measured in the gallons. The toxins backed up in his body so he couldn’t see as he stroked my hair and told me he loved me; he had multiple brain bleeds, and his skin and eyes were yellow with jaundice.

It was a dark and horrible time for our family. There was a complete and utter dearth of hope. None of us expected it to get better.



And then...it did.

Three in the morning September 11, Dad called to say he was getting a liver transplant.

I remember sitting up there all day, waiting. Mom had to watch this outdated video about liver transplants; I can’t imagine it offered any useful information. When he came out of it, he had a huge incision shaped like a wishbone, down his chest and splayed across his ribs. With a functioning liver, he was nearly half the size he was before—he looked so small and fragile and happy, standing up for the first time in a long time, with wires and tubes and monitors attached all over his body.

That was 15 years ago. Since then, he has had to take anti-rejection medicine that suppresses his immune system and allows his new liver to reside unimpeded in his abdomen. An experimental treatment brought his hep-C viral load to zero, but it was free to scar his new organ for ten years before it was stopped.

Dad was having trouble lately and went in for testing, which is how we got a new diagnosis for him: liver cancer. There were a lot of questions surrounding it, a lot of tests to be run because the tumor wasn’t acting like it was because his immune system is suppressed. He was supposed to undergo six months of chemo. If it was successful, he would qualify for another transplant.

The cancer could have been caused by his former illness or his anti-rejection medicine or some weird combination of both.

It felt like the transplant pushed the “pause” button, and someone pushed play again. Delayed pain—it didn’t go away, it was just put off. This hit us all in a very sensitive place of our hearts, a door we had quietly closed and tried hard to not look in.

My heart hurt for Dad though. He hates the hospital, says he’s been inside enough for one lifetime. I did as I had before—my best to keep him in good spirits, to keep him company like when he was working in the shop all those years ago.

We were hopeful—we had a plan, it was hard, but we did it before and we could do it again. His condition was causing him to retain fluid so he had to undergo a simple procedure to drain it. The wound got infected with MRSA, which became septic, and was rushed to Baylor hospital. As before, we gathered around him and tried to keep track as different specialists, those concerned with his liver, kidneys, cancer, transplant, or infection came through the door and each gave us part of the puzzle. We weren’t able to piece together all the information to make a clear picture, didn’t know how optimistic we should be, how much we should prepare ourselves.



After several days, he was released home on hospice with liver and kidney failure.

Last week, he got another infection and his condition deteriorated rapidly. Once more, family gathered to pray and hunker down in the storm. It became more and more clear that there wasn’t going to be another 3 am miracle phone call, no more pause button.

Dad passed away yesterday morning. He was fifty-five.



It is hard to explain how it feels. Part of me is...grateful. Thankful that we got another 15 years (and ten days) with him. That God answered his prayer from 2003 to keep him alive long enough to meet his grandchildren—all ten of them. That he isn’t in pain any more, because he was in a lot of pain all the time.

As grateful as I am for all of that, it still hurts. A thousand things a day make me think of him—fruity pebbles (which he would never share with us) and hole-in-the-wall Mexican food, low-budget science fiction, classic cars and classic rock, and 100-degree days. He knew what he liked and what he didn’t and was quite vocal about it. I haven’t much experience with death. I don’t know if I should avoid those memories so I can keep moving forward, or if I should immerse myself in them. Make a big bowl of Spanish rice so spicy it brings tears to my eyes, crank the thermostat up to 80, and watch reruns of M*A*S*H* and just cry for the man that chose to be my father.



Benjamin and Dad had a special bond, forged out of common interest (eating candy or spicy food, watching monster cars, and working outside) and a shared loneliness. Helping Ben through this has been the hardest part—his behavior problems and frequent outbursts. He doesn’t understand and he’s so sad and so angry. I feel like I’m leading him blind because I don’t know how I’m supposed to go, so I don’t know how to guide him through it.

So I tell him what my dad told me:

Dad was best in times of crisis, particularly after there had been a death in the family. He told me, “however you feel is okay. If you want to cry, that’s okay. If you want to laugh, that’s okay, too. There is no right way to mourn; you have to go through it the way that feels right to you. And Andra, I’m so sorry you have to go through it.”

--Andie

Dirt Roads

I know it’s a bit cliche to talk about dirt roads when you live in the South. Every other song on the radio professes the singer’s love of old dirt roads, and two out of every three facebook posts insist that those who grew up on dirt roads have more common sense than those who grew up in the city, like and share if you agree!  I’m not really a product of that mentality.   I don’t wear cowboy boots, I don’t particularly enjoy football, and country music makes me cringe.

But all of that being said, I do have a certain fondness for dirt roads.

There is a certain mysteriousness about them.  The roads that take people where they want to go are paved and marked and maintained.  Yet over here to the side, there is a barely marked path of brown and red clay that will take you somewhere else.  Somewhere that wasn’t traversed enough to warrant that kind of attention.  

A paved highway can take you to a specific destination, but dirt road can take you anywhere.  Somewhere with a personal significance to you, that these others cars on the road have no business being on.  There is a magic to it, in a way.  A sense of an older time, when people were not in such a hurry to get anywhere.

There is a dirt road just east of Lamesa, Tx that holds a special significance to me.  Country Road H is its only label.  It cuts along the cotton fields with scarcely a single tree or house in sight.  The land is as flat as any on Earth, and you can see cotton and dirt for miles and miles.

Along this dirt road, there is a very small patch of land, barely more than an acre.  To walk it now, it does not look like much. Simply more land for cotton to grow on.  A black patch of brush where a tangle of old trees huddle together. I close my eyes and can picture it all as it stood nearly three decades ago.    A caliche driveway leads up to a red house with two archways. A porch swing that always had a stray kitten on it.  I can smell the food being cooked in the kitchen, and can hear the constant near-silent ticking of the clock.

This was my great-grandmother’s home.  It is gone now.  But I will never forget it.

My great-grandmother was Tula Fern Roberts, but everyone just called her GG.  She was very proud of that title, and made sure to point out its significance to anyone and everyone.  “That stands for ‘Great Grandmother’”, she would say with a smile.  Even in my oldest memories, she was small and frail, but she never let that slow her down.   I spent a lot of time out at her house, especially in the summertime, and I cherish those memories.

She was always happy to play with me, or cook me up some extravagant snack.  I remember craving something sweet, so she took me to the kitchen and we made s'mores and drank eggnog.  After I was done vomiting, we sat in the living room together and watched Matlock and Murder, She Wrote because some stereotypes cannot be denied.

I was a young boy still unaware of who I wanted to be as an adult, and GG always pushed me to nurture my creative side.  She was a poet at heart, and was very proud of the work she got published.  She always encouraged me to write what I felt in my heart, to put something of myself down on paper and send it out into the world to be seen and read and felt by others.  She always made such a big show of my own writings, telling me how proud she was of me and encouraging me to follow up with more.

In the evenings, we would sit on the porch swing in the cool air and watch the clouds kicked up by cars traveling that lonely dirt road.  I did not know it at the time, but the conversations we had out there taught me lessons that I would carry with me the rest of my life.  The importance of family.  The value of hard work.  The responsibility one had to nature, to care for and assist the world around you.  I was a blank slate then, wide-eyed and curious, and Tula Fern made sure that I got a proper foundation placed on me, one that I could eventually build a life from.  I loved my GG, very much.

Later in life I discovered another dirt road that was destined to shape my life.  Well, not so much of a road, as a dirt alleyway.

About half an hour south of Lubbock is the charming little town of New Home, Texas. For many years, my mother’s parents lived next door to the local Church of Christ, where my grandfather preached every sunday.  My grandparents, known affectionately as ‘Grannymom and Daddad’ to us, and Joyce and Jerry to everyone else, were another powerful force in my life at a young age.  Just behind their house was the aforementioned dirt alleyway.

Now, that may not sound like much, but what you need to understand about this part of Texas is that at times when the wind blew, it blew as much dirt as it did actual air.   And so some fences, particularly west-facing fences would accumulate piles and piles of dirt in some absurd mockery of a snow bank.  This was a fun play area for me, because the piles of dirt in the back alley were a source of adventure for a young boy.

Understand, this was not like the alleyways of the city, where they are bordered by tall grass and overflowing trashcans.  No, see in New Home, there was one main street that led into town.  By the street was the row of houses where Joyce and Jerry lived.  Behind the homes lay the alley, but on the other side of the alley was, once again, cotton.   And so it really was more of a dirt road than an alleyway. But in either case, it was my magical little world.  See, at the time I fancied myself a cowboy, with my cap-gun six shooters and straw hat, I’d hide around the fenceposts and fire at the bankrobbers and outlaws that dared show their faces in my town.

And then I’d come inside, covered in dirt, tracking it all over the carpet, and Grannymom would make that exasperated face of both annoyance and amusement.  She’d march me straight to the bathroom and throw me in the shower, reminding me to wash the dirt out of ‘all my cracks and crevices’.  Afterwards, I’d watch a cowboy movie with Daddad or read a book quietly with Grannymom.

 I’ll always remember Joyce as being an icon of quiet kindness.  I learned from her that despite all the craziness one might encounter in the world, there was nothing more important than simple kindness to others.  Joyce was always very interested in whatever nonsense I was up to at the time, and always listened to me with rapt interest.  I learned that it was okay to be excited about things I enjoyed, even if they were not things that others around me enjoyed.  From that, I also learned that it was important to respect people for their differences, even if you don’t necessarily understand them.

I learned a lot from my grandmothers, Tula Fern (GG) and Joyce (Grannymom).  I cherish them, greatly.  And I can scarcely set foot on a dirt road without being instantly transported to those days as a child, dirty and happy, unknowingly absorbing lessons from two of the most wonderful women I’d have ever the honor to meet.

I suppose this has all been a very roundabout way to say what I really came here to say.

My daughter, Tula Joyce Wearden, enters the world in a few months. And you can rest assured that she will walk the same dirt road paths I did.

Family Dinner

As Sunday was Macy's birthday, and Monday was DadDad's, last night found our little Weard-o's over for another family dinner! 

Gabriel was his usual sunny self, getting loves from everyone. He couldn't give his patented Gaby kisses because he is still contagious with the thrush, but he was generous with his smiles and throaty chuckles.

Emerald announced moments after we arrived at Steve's that she was going to starve if she didn't eat immediately, signing to anyone that would pay attention "more food". She ended up ruining her appetite gorging herself on vanilla wafers, and didn't end up eating the ribs and corn-on-the-cob, which attempts I am convinced would have been very comical. Of course, she made room at the end for ice cream with fudge sauce. :p  

I think it bugged her a little bit to watch other people open presents when she wasn't getting to, but she held herself in very well, especially for being really very tired. She has been trying to wean herself off naps, which I full-heartedly believe she is NOT ready for. She gets so worn out with the short little cap-naps she's been taking.

It amazes me sometimes how much Emerald understands and how social she is becoming--we told her to go "fist bump" a girl Emerald had never met before and she passed by everyone else and headed right for her! It shocked me--she grows up so faster than I am comfortable with!! 

All in all, we had a good night with well-behaved little children. Maybe next time, Emerald will eat more than just sweets! 

--Andie--

Memorial Day

 

This past Memorial Day, Rhonda and Ken bought Emerald an inflatable froggie swimming pool, and this adorable striped swimsuit. Can you believe it's all ready a 3T?! The previous attempts at getting Emerald to swim had been a little unsuccessful--she enjoyed floating in the water at my parent's house in Tyler last July, but she was still very tentative.

This time, you couldn't keep up with her! She ran from the pool, to the slide, to everyone outside, and back again all night! It wasn't that big of a surprise then that she ended up eating TWO AND A HALF of Rhonda's grilled Bratwurst, plus sauerkraut, potato chips, peanut butter crackers, lemonade, and some of the delicious blackberry sundaes. She must really be showing that German Huse/Black!


Michael wasn't able to be there--he had to work every day this week, and it is really wearing on him. He can't wait for Sunday, when he finally gets to kick back and relax. I feel sorry for him--he would have loved to see Emerald splashing around, and I know that he is sick to death of my "thrift" meals (I'm a little too frugal for my own good some days).

Gabriel didn't seem to be feeling well--even though he is generally a very active baby, he was content to sleep in Grannymom’s arms the entire time. Poor sleepy little guy.

I guess all that play wore on her--on our walk home, she fell asleep on the ride, and stayed asleep almost the rest of the night.

She is so super cute!!

--Andie--