Category: Burningbird

I had a call from my brother Thursday morning that my Dad’s breathing was labored and he wasn’t doing so good. No, not so good. His wife said so, the nurse, all agree – he’s not doing so good. My brother was going to call me last night after seeing Dad and tell me how he’s doing, but forgot. In the meantime I planned another trip over again today, but the weather promised rain and wind, and my little bubble on wheels does not do well on an Interstate in wind and rain; among the truckers who blow past you without any regard to the effect they have on a small car, or the rain they throw into your face. When Mike didn’t call last night, I called and left a message that I’ll come on Saturday, instead.

My brother called this morning and said, no, Dad was on his feet, eating in the dining room though his breathing was extremely labored, but he didn’t look bad. Seeing Dad on Saturday should be good enough. So I’ll go see Dad tomorrow, though these trips are beginning to take their toll. Too many times lately of having to go see Dad because this might be the last chance to see him alive, each time a four hour drive there and back. Each time bringing a plethora of emotions, most not particularly noble.

I have to now start making decisions about when I will and will not respond to an ‘event’. And this is probably the most difficult decision a family member has to make because any of these little crises could be the last chance to see him alive. However, if I continue heading over each time, I am going to continue getting more exhausted until eventually I’m going to get into a wreck and possibly kill someone. And I can kiss the work I have good-bye if I have to keep changing schedules because ‘my father is ill’. I need this work, and the people who have hired me, need me to be committed to the tasks.

After tomorrow, I am going to see my Dad once every seven to ten days (depending on work schedule) and enjoy his company, as is; no longer view each trip as potentially ‘the last’; no more rushing over in the middle of the week whenever something happens.

A year ago I could have joked with my Dad that he needs to make sure to kick the bucket right after I visit, so I wouldn’t feel guilty. A year ago, he would have laughed, and his eyes would have twinkled, as he promised solemnly he would do so. But that was a year ago, this is now.

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

Slashdot has a story about a car accident involving a small group of people driving to Paris from the SANE 2004 conference. Richard Stallman, the leading open source advocate had been in the car but had been dropped off earlier. Unfortunately, a young man, Hans Bakker was killed, and the other two in the car seriously injured.

Much of the Slashdot thread is condolences to the family, but there is the usual Slashdot irreverence to events, the dark humor, and to anything that the readers consider ‘phony’. There is something merciless about being anonymous, but oddly, there’s something honest, too. Overall the thread touches, greatly, on how we respond to the deaths of others, especially those people who we don’t know, directly.

Dave Rogers had written a comment in one of my posts in response to another person who brought up the 3000 killed on 9/11 that I think fits this event in a way (I hope, Dave, you don’t mind the association) and is worth bringing to the front page. Excerpted from the entire comment is the following:

Everybody dies. I just read an article on CNN about flu vaccinations coming out next month for the upcoming flu season. The article mentions that about 36,000 Americans will die this year, as they do pretty much every year, from the flu. Where’s the multi-billion dollar effort in public health improvements to mitigate the loss of life from the flu? “Ah,” you say, “You poor deluded fool, those are natural deaths. Nothing we can do abut that. Regrettable and all that, but it’s not the same thing as terrorism!”

I grow tired of mentioning that about 45 thousand Americans will die in automobile accidents this year. About 16 thousand Americans will be murdered by other Americans this year. And about that same number of Americans will kill themselves. Somehow that all just seems to be part of the cost of doing business to everyone except the people who loved them.

Everybody gets to die. Not everybody gets to choose how or when, except perhaps for those poor, desperate 16 thousand that take their own lives, but everybody gets to die. Not everybody gets to live. Not when they choose to live their lives in fear.

But when 3 thousand Americans are killed in a terrorist act, which might otherwise be termed 21st century barbarian street theater, well, then we have to go and do something!

There’s no overstating the horror of 9/11. But there is the possibility, which has long since become the reality, of turning it into a fetish, an obsession, and an excuse.

Dying is easy. Living is hard. Everybody gets to die. Not everybody gets to live. There’s a danger in paying so much attention to the deaths of a relative few, however horrifying, that we lose sight of what it means to live. There’s more to life than the fear of death. There’s more to living than trying to protect yourself by killing others; or endorsing and supporting the killing of others. Living in fear makes people do terrible things, and no one is immune to that – not “them,” not “us.” But living is hard. Living life in faith is harder still.

Dying is easy. Living is hard. Everybody gets to die. Not everybody gets to live.

I’ve been trying to write a post on how not choosing to die is not the same as choosing to live. It reflects much of what’s been going on in my life, and the lives of my family; it also touches on two young men, webloggers, who when faced with life and death, chose death. But I haven’t been able to finish the writing because I’m still waiting on the denouement.

Until then, ponder Dave’s very compelling words, and read the comments at Slashdot. If the discussion there has ‘degenerated’ into the usual quarrel as it always does with this site, there is still much food for thought.

I left late yesterday, with the day already ending; tired and numb from the trip. The traffic was light, scattered along the road like crumbs on a path to follow.

In my rearview mirror, I spotted them first: a line of semis approaching me fast. I’d seen this before–a series of trucks moving as one, with road cleared of trouble ahead. Normally I would pull to the left and wait for them to pass. This time, though, I waited a break and popped my little car into the queue.

Into the night, over hills, and around corners a line of nine semis broke the night and the law. Nine large trucks moved as one from lane to lane, passing this slower car and that; nine semis, and one little Ford Focus.

It was a ballet of wheels and motion as the leader would pull out into the passing lane and then the truck behind him, and the next, and the next. The truck ahead of me was metallic with orange lights at the top, and ahead of him, a large moving van, and ahead of him, dark green with black writing, I think. Behind me rode a plain white truck, no markings to see, and behind it was darkness, it was the end of the line.

We drove to the west as the sun began to set, a bright orange ball that burned the prairie around us. Past fields fill of cicada whose sound echoed behind; past other cars who quickly pulled to the left, intimidated by nine determined semis, traveling all in a line. Nine semis, and one Ford Focus.

Through the rosy glow a line of lights spaced just so. I wondered if the semis resented my intrusion, this little golden bug among great gods of steel. But they gave me my space, and waited my move in the chorus we played, as we weaved and we waved, and I think they must have thought me cute – a mascot, perhaps.

Finally the ride tired and I wanted the peace of the night and I pulled over one more time to the left. The white truck behind me hesitated, as if in encouragement, but then with a shift of gears, waiting no man or woman, it leaped into the space and pulled ahead. I watched then as nine sets of red lights, all in a row, wound itself into the night and vanished from view.

I am going to make a poem out of this, you wait and see: the ride into the night of nine big trucks; nine semis and one little Ford Focus.