Dad passed away today. Just a few minutes past noon on a beautiful Thursday in Centennial, CO. Dad was in his room, surrounded by, well, everyone. My mom (Wonder Woman)... my brother and his wife... Julie and I. Two of the at-home helpers who had spent countless hours with my father were in the other room. Phone calls had already been received; neighbors had just finished stopping by for one last "Hey Gordy."
It was fast. It was peaceful. It was heartbreaking.
Dad had PSP-- Progressive Supranuclear Palsy-- a degenerative brain disease that affects roughly 1 in 100,000 adults over 60. It sucks as much as it is rare. It took away my dad's balance, then his eyes, then his brain, then his speech, and finally, his ability to swallow. So it takes away everything, and fast.
These first two pictures were taken just five days before he passed-- during a walk along the South Platte River with Colin and I.
All the other pictures were taken within about the last year-- including the pics from our wedding last April. He surprised us all by dancing that night. Baller.
There is a strong urge to hate everything about this; a real desire to find something-- some way-- to avenge my father's bullshit luck.
It is bullshit, of course. All of it. My dad certainly had his faults, but he was a good man. He didn't deserve this. A disease that robs you of your mind and your body before robbing you of your life? No treatments. No cure. What a sonofabitch.
At the same time, I'm not selfish enough to pretend the Onstots are alone in this pain. I've reported on countless families who've dealt with similar circumstances-- diseases that cause similar grief but have different names. I know families who put their own kids in wheelchairs, knowing full well they are unlikely to live long enough to graduate high school. And then there are the accidents, the murders, the freak once-in-a-lifetimes, blah blah blah. Forget PSP-- LIFE is the sonofabitch.
Of course, my father didn't think that (and as much as I want to right now, neither do I). Dad was an optimist. He saw life as this thing where you hang out with people and make them laugh and eat good food and drink good drinks and make people happy... and try to be a good father and husband by hanging out and laughing and making them happy. I never once heard him complain about his disease. Never. After all, why focus on the crap when there was still so much happy to be had?
My father worked in the oil industry his entire career-- his job took him to California, Alaska, Colorado, Kazakhstan, Kuwait, Nigeria and China. He never bothered learning new languages, because I think he figured the universal language of smiles and laughter sufficed.
Dad was a terrific slow pitch softball pitcher, a shitty soccer player, a great soccer parent, and an above average croquet player. During epic croquet matches in the Onstot backyard, he got joy not out of winning but out of targeting the rest of our balls-- so that he could then send them flying to the far nether-reaches of our backyard. Dad did this while looking you in the eye with a giant grin on his face. While playing cards, he would turn over game-winning cards with a triumphant snap-- this, after pretending for a second that he didn't have what he needed and would have to draw. When he saw our surprise and dejection, he would laugh and call us suckers. What a jerk.
Dad loved to sing, and didn't mind dancing. He always helped my mom clean up after dinner. He coached my earliest soccer and Little League teams. With soccer, all he knew to tell me of any value was "hustle," but I listened. With baseball, he loved to use lines like "protect the plate" and "use two hands"... lines that my own kids will one day undoubtedly hear. He truly was one of those who believed that as long as you give it your all, you're coming out on top. I appreciated that. Who wouldn't?
Most importantly, my father loved his family. He made my mother happy. He raised two boys who seem to be normal and loving and who love being together. He made my world a better place, yet our world is a bit worse off with him no longer around.
Gordon, you'll be missed. You already are.
