Absolution of the Heart

There was a moment after he passed that I thought I felt him go.  Like a whispered  breeze, my father's spirit drifted lazily from the room.  I imagine him there a young man, hesitating to look at the faces gathered around his lifeless body. His thoughts conveyed with a simple look that said, "All Is Well."  His eyes narrow and a sliver of light passes from them and on into heaven.  The thousands of thoughts that were buried deep within those eyes explode into time and space, forever gone, forever to remain a mystery.

I went into shock after he died.  I didn't realize it then but I could feel my body and mind go into some kind of self-preservation mode.  Looking back I think I went through the day-to-day motions and conducted myself accordingly.  There were funeral plans to be made, burial decisions, etc.  My brothers and I helped our step-mother set things in motion that would ultimately result in dad's cremation and ashes being spread in their back yard rose garden.  (Have I mentioned Dad was raised Catholic?  He never practiced to my knowledge, but that didn't make cremation any easier on my grandmother.)  But I think I was numbly wandering though my actions, as I'm sure is common for people at times like this.  The day after didn't feel much different than the day before.  It's only hindsight that helps me see how vastly out of sorts I was then.  Today I believe I suffered, or may still be suffering, from Post Traumatic Stress.  That's not an unlikely or unreasonable assumption is it?  I mean, I haven't looked up Websters definition so I can't attest to any clinical similarities. But I'm sure I must be fumbling around like an infant, bumping into the furniture and instinctively falling to my butt to keep from tipping over.  When I returned home after the ordeal I know I felt like a different man.  I'm sure the people closest to me would attest to it today.  I have a distinct recollection of a conversation I had with my girlfriend at the time.  Before I left for Texas she and I were cruising along nicely.  When I got back I felt very differently towards her.  A few weeks later I told her I needed to take a break but asked her to bare with me because I could still feel love for her in some deep crevasse that I just couldn't access.  To her credit she stayed with me, as did everyone else who was important.  But, sadly, I never found that love for her again.  And I believe today that I've just barely begun to recognize and find some of the other parts of me that were lost back then too.

It's March now and the 10 year anniversary of Dad's death just came and went this week.  It's so true; time has wings and soars on the prevailing wind.  My own life has made drastic changes since his passing.  It's safe to say I am not the same man now than I was then.  I've packed up my life and taken it around the world and back, both figuratively and literally.  But these things I've written about here always stay with me.  I carry them always, stuffed deep inside a pocket fraught with holes.  So try as I may, the best parts of me spill through fabric and litter the ground around me.  Sometimes the whole world can see, and sometimes only those who look closely can.  I like to think that no one notices the messes I make but more often than not I am surprised.  This blog, if it can be called that, is my attempt to tear things wide open and throw the contents of my heart and soul out onto the floor. I haven't wanted to tear down anything accept the walls surrounding my heart and mind.  I don't expect the earth to rock off its axis as a result.  I'm not trying to change anything other than my own perspective, and even then I never hold my breath.  I'm sure though that there will be some people who read these things and won't be able to stop from getting upset.  I've had a difficult time reconciling that.  Obviously, more people were affected by my father's death than just me and I expect they all worked through it in the ways that best suit them.  This is mine.  For better or worse, I haven't  wanted to spend time worrying about protecting the innocent.  Pain is pain, and I know better than anyone how it can wear you down.  But I just don't have the energy to be concerned with such things.  For that I apologize.  As for the rest...I stand behind every thought and will have to have faith that the rest gets sorted out on its own.  This blog has also been my therapy and these words a self-prescribed drug.  It's about creation though, not about some kind of product or end result.  I've been trying to create a nook for myself ever since I started writing...not just Terra either, but All Is Well too.  It's a quiet place where I can go about the business of my life in relative peace.  Although, it's felt criminal, at times, to look into the eyes of those around me and lie about who I am or what really makes me tick.  But I've done just that, lie, and can safely say that I've done it well.  So maybe these words are also a seat inside the confessional of my mind, where the best that can be hoped for is absolution of the heart.  I'd be happy with that, if nothing else.

-Jim Franks        

Death Throws

Deep breaths.  I draw in air through my nose and then let it seep out past my lips.  As it goes I hear a moan that hurts to realize is my own.

Is it even possible to simply consider the death of a parent in any way other than painfully?  If we are lucky we won't have to observe it with our own eyes.  We'd count ourselves fortunate to receive a call in the middle of the night notifying us that they were just simply...gone.  That'd be easy, albeit still fraught with pain.  But then wouldn't the guilt of missing such an event still overwhelm us to the point of misery? Who should bare witness to such a thing if not the child whose life is owed to the dying?  Hell, I don't know.  Better men than me have certainly pondered and debated these subjects for years to no better avail than the one I sit here writing about now. This was a man who I can't remember in my life for blocks at a time.  Not moments...blocks.  Yet his passing was no less difficult for it.  He may have felt like a stranger to me at times, but he was still the only father I was ever going to have and I had no idea...read, NO IDEA how hard it would be to watch him pass from this life to the next.

I'm not sure if I wanted the time to fly by or not. But the eight or so hours the doctors estimated dad would survive once home came and went with him still clinging to his life, leaving us all to wallow in ours as we watched his struggle.  The hours stalled. They hung there before my eyes in midair offering absolutely no reprieve. Maybe it's my recollection of it today that seems frozen, but then I just knew that somewhere out there in time's vast expanse was an end that I needed to arrive at but couldn't get to.  Each event of his passing morbidly unfolded like a giant piece of dirty canvas cloth.  It was heavy and wrinkled and smelled of death, and I couldn't find its corners to save my life. These were the end times, the last gasps, his death throws.  I believe now, after seeing such things with my own eyes, that every living being fights to avoid its end. A cut tree will sap and try to regrow before finally falling to chord.  A marriage will flounder and reel and put its occupants through hell before finally dying on some courtroom floor.  And the human spirit kicks and claws for life before succumbing to death and arriving at the entrance from which it came.  This is the natural order of things, and the way of the world I was now living in as I watched my father die. Maybe it's something I had to see as his son, as if somehow the birthright he left for me wasn't made of the gold I always hoped for.  Instead, it was made of burning images searing their way through salty tears onto the fabric of my mind.  If he wanted to leave me with something permanent then he succeeded masterfully, because after baring witness to his passing I would never be the same again.

I guess morphine makes the pain go away.  I imagined him ingesting the black liquid and then just peacefully slipping away to the place that would lead him home. But it wasn't like that.  He fought his end and even in a comatose state I saw desperation in his eyes.  He laid writhing and grunting animal sounds that would scare the bravest man, which I certainly was not one.  They were like the fits of a caged animal.  They came and went, sometimes violently, as the long hours passed.  He was there in his living room on display like some dying king for all his subjects to see and pay tribute too.  I guess I kind of felt like I was there worshiping him that way.  As I watched him my mind relived moments from my life that he was a part of.  I could see him there as a young man, my daddy, baring rough features and a sometimes gentle demeanor.  I could hear his voice telling me some story I'd ask him about.  I so loved talking with him about anything or nothing at all.  Then I could see his aging, drunken face as I tried to plead with it to stay or just say a kind word.  Then I saw the apologetic man who would show up trying with one hand to keep a hold of the hat his prideful other was trying to throw across the room.  How he must have struggled with himself about the shame of it all.  And then I saw an old man with gray hair and a wrinkled, weathered face that still looked like my father but somehow like me too.  That old man tried to love me, especially at the end.  I recalled some of our last conversations, where he told me of the cancer's toll and that he wasn't yet sure if we needed to have a difficult face to face.  Seeing him there on his death bed I knew he'd lied to me about that.  It hurt me to know he didn't have the courage to tell me it was time to think about saying our goodbyes to each other. Today I feel differently about it though.  My father was an optimist so how could he have known that he'd lose this fight?  I have to believe he didn't because the dying man in front of me wouldn't have wanted those images to be my last of him.  I believe he had courage to fight for his final breaths, even if not for my final goodbye.  But that was always his way. That was my father too, selfish to the end.

I sat with him several times watching him fight.  The sound of his breathing beat the air like a war drum, and then it faded to almost nothing.  He would take shallow, quick breaths and then deep gulps of life, followed by long moments of silence.  His chest wouldn't move for what seemed like minutes and minutes.  And then he'd breathe again letting us know he wasn't ready to go yet.  Even though he was laboring I hoped that what I was seeing was his metaphysical struggle and that there wasn't much actual pain.  I administered morphine several times trying my best to see to that.  I bet he liked that blissful state.  I imagined he was seeing golden colored skies and high Texas plains of green grass and mossy oaks.  Or maybe he was adrift on the dark blue sea he seemed to love so.  Or perhaps he was visiting with his God and getting instructions for the salvation I know he received.  That's a conversation I think he would have enjoyed and have taken his sweet time concluding.

It took about twenty four hours, and the span of my lifetime, for him to go.  No more fighting, no more life to summon strength for.  No more oceans to drift or desert expanses to wander.  He let out one last long breath and then never inhaled again.  My hero, my tormentor, and the greatest mystery of my life was gone.  My father was finally dead.

-Jim Franks    

The Throne Verse

Faith?  What do any of us know about faith anyway?

When I went to Iraq the first time I took the only piece of religion I'd ever owned with me.  It was a simple gold cross on a chain.  But I didn't wear it; I carried it with me in my bag.  (Those who know me understand why I carried it instead of wore it.)  My best friend and spiritual brother, Randy, gave it to me when we were 18.  He'd always been a believer but I never had the faith he seemed to posses in quantities ample enough for the both of us.  So when I went to the land of Allah I figured it may serve me well to take the only symbol of Christianity I had ever owned.  It wasn't genuine faith; it was simply a perceived defense I imagined would protect me from the coming Muslim threat.

My interpreter and friend, Fadhil, was a devout Muslim.  I learned more about his faith during my time with him than from any other source before or since.  He was very insightful, and much wiser than his youth portrayed.  I spent almost a year working side by side with him and a genuine friendship grew from the experience.  Probably the most lasting impression I took away from that relationship was a new found belief that the same God exists in every man's heart,  regardless of the manner in which we choose to worship Him.

When I was finally transferred to northern Iraq for work I had to say goodbye to my friend.  On our second to last day together he presented me with a gift.  It was a simple silver charm on a chain. Inscribed on the charm was a common Muslim verse from The Quran called "The Throne Verse."  That's what it's called in English, but the words written on the charm were Arabic.  They read:

"Allah, there is no God but He, the Living and Self Sustaining.  Neither slumber nor sleep overtakes Him.  Unto Him belongs all that is in the heavens and on the earth.  Who is there that can intercede with Him save by His leave?  He knows what is in front of them and what is behind them, while they encompass nothing of His knowledge except what He wills.  His throne extends over the heavens and the earth, and He is never weary of preserving them.  He is The Most High, The Magnificent."

Fadhil knew this verse by heart and recited it to me as I looked at the Arabic words on the little charm.  I was very touched, to say the least.  His gesture was so significant that it's hard for me to explain it today, so I won't even try.  Being so moved by my friend's kindness I felt naturally a need to return the gesture in kind.  So the next day, which was our last together, I wore my cross.  When we were alone together I briefly explained its story, where it came from, who had given it to me, etc. and then I took it off and gave it to him.  He was stunned and tried to refuse it.  But as is the Muslim way, he could not refuse my gift because to do so would be offensive.  (He had done this when presenting me with gifts so many times over the previous year that I relished the chance now to throw his own custom right back at him!)  He accepted my cross and placed it on around his neck and told me that he would "cherish it forever."  In America that sentiment is thrown around loosely, but when Fadhil said it to me I believed him completely.  That man took his life into his own hands every day that he came to work for us.  He had to do so in secret.  So to now not only be in possession of such a thing...a blasphemous infidel symbol of western faith, but then to also be wearing it around his neck.  Wow...think of the consequences.  (About a year later, because of death threats, Fadhil would have to take his wife and children and flee Iraq for Syria.  He returned to Iraq after a year or so and last I heard was OK and working for the Iraqi Correctional Service.)

So there we were; me a "Christian" pretending to know my western God and now wearing an eastern symbol of Him.  And Fadhil, a true man of a universal God, wearing what I today believe to be a western symbol of hypocrisy.  I'm not saying here that the symbol of Jesus is false, that's not for me to say.  My knowledge and faith was nonexistent at that time.  I simply mean that my understanding of faith, of spirituality, of life and death...was make-believe.  I was the hypocrite.  But I always believed that my understanding of God began in earnest after I received that charm.  I wore it faithfully for several years until one fateful day it broke from around my neck and sank to the bottom of a lake in Idaho.  I was heartbroken at its loss and have considered many times going onto the Internet to try and replace it.  But somehow the thought always peacefully melts away.  I feel like my time with The Throne Verse was well served but that it ran its course.  Someday a thousand years from now that lake will dry up and someone in need of faith will find that charm. They'll translate the words and instantly know, like I did, that God meant it just for them.

When I was preparing to go back to Baghdad the second time I went in search of another charm.  I shopped and shopped until I found just the right one.  I thought it was important that I return to the Land of Allah as a believer, not a hypocrite.  I didn't feel the need for protection this time.  There was nothing there to fear.  My God and their God always were, and always will be, one in the same.  That's what I believe.  The silver and black cross I bought and wore proudly back into the desert, and every day since, signifies that for me always.

-Jim Franks

Quaking Aspens

An aspen tree sways west.  On its way east the quaking leafs ripple and glint just for me.  They wave and sparkle in a big hard sun as if to say, "Here I am...can't you see me?"

I see you there and you are beautiful.  Let me tell it to you.

-Jim Franks

Bleed It Out

In Texas homes have to be designed to keep their occupants cool.  That's not a statement about social status; it's a fact of practicality.  It gets really hot there.  Having grown up in Southern California I was accustomed to stucco and forced, swamp cooler air keeping the heat at bay.   But in Texas they use lots of brick and sunken floor plans that are void of sunlight to help keep cool.  It is a design that lends an almost subterranean existence to the way people live in order to escape the heat.  It was in a Texas house like this where we brought Dad to die.  It was made of brick and the living room was sunken and dark.  The carpet was thick and smelled of every cigarette Dad ever smoked over it.  The sofas were comfortable and inviting and the view from them was of family photos, shelves of books, and a TV that was too small by current standards.  It was a good room to die in, at least I thought so.  It was an appropriate place for the end.  Death could come and wait for his charge in the cool comfort of Dad's living room.  It would be OK because this was home.


The amount of anguish I feel when writing these events amazes me.  It explains why there are months between them.  It takes me that long to build courage, recover, and then build again.  And they frighten me.  I wish I understood why.  I am trying to understand now.

Hospice delivered a big hospital type bed to Dad's house.  We moved the furniture around and the living room became a rest home, an ICU, a chapel, and a bit of a nut house.  The bed was on wheels and could be raised or lowered so we could move him around easily.  I honestly don't remember the time between leaving the hospital and arriving at the house and laying him on that bed.  I must have blocked it out.  It's odd to me how some things are so vivid about the whole affair and then others are so vague.  I believe Sharon and Joe rode with Dad in the ambulance.  Or maybe it was just Sharon.  I honestly don't remember.  It wasn't me though.  That I'm sure I'd recall.  It must be the gray hairs on my head causing the loss of memory.  More likely though it's the trauma of the event that's wiped moments from my mind and added more grays than my years warrant.  Regardless, I can still see that big bed in my mind.  It was empty, and then it wasn't.  He was all of a sudden there swimming in those white sheets that would soon become his death shawl.


When he left the hospital the catheter that had been helping keep him alive was left in his neck.  I'm only understanding now that the reason they left it in place was because they knew there was no reason to take it out.  He'd be dead soon so why bother.  I didn't like it and wanted to wipe away any remnant of the ICU Death House that I could.  So I decided that I'd take it out myself...because I was qualified to do that, totally.  I guess I thought it would make him look less sickly, or maybe more dignified.  Hell, maybe I was just morbidly curious.  I don't know what I was thinking.  Then I was stunned...by the length of the plastic tube, as I pulled it kept coming, and coming, and coming out of his neck.  Then by the amount of blood that began to pour out of the hole I had created.  There was so much blood; dark, rich blood.  It was coming out of him like a faucet had been opened up. And it wasn't the bright red fluid of my conscience thought either.  No, it was an iridescent black color that shimmered as it fell through my fingers like some strand of wet dark pearls.  It spilled onto his sheets and painted an ugly tapestry that reminded me of Death's terrifying presence.  The difference between a little blood and a lot of it can be choking to the senses.  I had seen blood before.  I once saw a man that had his throat viciously slashed open.  There was a lot of blood then but I felt none of the fear or panic that I felt at this moment.  I thought I had just killed my father.  I was certain that he was going to bleed to death because of my ignorance.  The perverseness of that moment is oddly humorous now.  I am not laughing as I write this, but I sure I wish I could.  Then the panic and dread I felt was quickly eased by my grandmother.  She came to my side and calmly instructed me to just place pressure on the wound. It was so simple.  After a few minutes the bleeding stopped.  Oh, my grandmother, the saint that she always seems to be, helped me overcome a fear I hope to never experience again.  But it's unjust, almost offensive, that she had to be there at all.  No parent should have to watch their child die.  But in a moment, one of her own certain grief, she had the presence of mind to be calm and think clearly and help me. I am such a selfish man.


Along with the bed, the hospice nurse that came with it brought morphine.  She sat down with everyone present and instructed us on how to best care for Dad during his final hours.  Before we left the hospital his doctor explained that once removed from life support he may only live a few hours in our home care.  I don't remember the exact time given, but I think 8 hours or so was expected.  The hospice nurse wasn't exact either but generally concurred with the assessment.  So for the time being she explained how we should simply keep him comfortable and administer morphine orally to him as we best saw fit.  She left a small bottle of it with a dropper cap and when we thought there was pain we could give him the liquid ease in metered doses.  She also explained that we'd have to change his bedding as his body expelled its contents and soiled them.  Then finally she advised that we, the living, should take care to comfort each other during what she described would be a traumatic and emotional time.  


So our vigil began.  There was family there; Dad's wife, his mother, his sister, and one of his brothers.  To the best of my recollection there were extended family and spouses there too but I honestly can't recall.  And then, of course, there were "The Boys."  I had never before been as acutely aware of my role as one of "Jim's boys" as I was during this time.  My brothers and I were always "The Boys" to our Texas family.  Maybe it was a southern thing.  Or maybe the label grew out of some kind of disassociation they had with us because we grew up apart from them.  I don't know.   I had never felt like it was a burden to be his son before and Lord knows I was trying my best to fulfill my destiny and responsibility during those final days of his life.  But today I feel a little resentment for having been labeled that way then.  I felt branded and who were they to coral me into that pen?  I feel like I'm coming to terms with the weight of it now, but at the time I didn't know how heavy the burden was.  I didn't want it.  And today the honest truth is that he didn't deserve it.  Who were they to tell me of responsibility?  Did they ever make him feel the weight of his lack of accountability?  Did they remind him about all the missed birthdays and holidays?  Did they label him with some other name as he sped passed our lives in his Cadillac or Corvette but couldn't be bothered to send our mother a check?  How did they brand him for being the King of Broken Promises?  I dare say they never did.  They never called him father because they didn't have to.  They were enablers one and all.  No...he was always just "Jim" to them.  And so not only did I have no choice but to be his son, I also had no choice now but to bare witness to a living nightmare and then also help ease its passing.  I felt marked and helpless and forced to watch my father die, when all I ever wanted...ALL I EVER WANTED was to see him live.  It wasn't fair, but then when is it ever?  I'm glad today that I have finally purged some of the resentment.  It feels good, and I have no regret.  I said it, and like the bloodletting image burned into my mind of those last days, I can't ever take it back.


I think I've digressed a bit.  I will forgive myself considering the circumstances.  But let me get back to it.  Now comes the really hard part, the images and moments that I've buried away for almost ten years...The Death Throws.


-Jim Franks

Release

It sits inside me a hot stone burning my chest and belly.  There's not any warmth, and it does not sooth me.  My insides wrap around it and keep the thick, dark, ugly truth safe from harm.  Waiting, it is always waiting for me to come.  Patiently it stays deep inside me, wanting nothing more than to be set free.  My life passes by and buried in the melody is the poison that would kill me.

I will get to you.  I will come and tear away that leaking bloody shroud, and when it's gone you'll be exposed and unable to hide within the void that's kept you safe for all this time.  My fingers will get between my own bones and then my hands will tear at the flesh you spent years burning black.  Once I am steady and my grip is firm I will finally tear it all apart.  I will be exposed then, opened up.  Release me.

-Jim Franks

Heat of the Summer

A new summer arrives to find me and it wonders where I have been keeping myself since last year.  Its heat comes in slow waves and for now is nice enough to keep me in the conversation.  But I know soon it will start to burn, and then I'll resent the intrusion.

I don't seem to have many answers for my old friend, or at least any of the ones we are both looking for. And there's not much certainty these days, accept for the unmistakable feeling that hoping for any is a mistake.

-Jim Franks