Remembering Dad Paula L. Strand

Ronald William Pelton 1941-2022

I think of dad whenever I hear the song American Pie. They don’t play it much now, but when I was growing up it was on the radio at least 100 times a day.  And, I liked it. 

It was on once when we went fishing. Except I don’t remember the fishing. Only the station wagon and that song. “…Long long time ago. I can still remember. How that music used to make me smile.” It played as dad grabbed the fishing rods before he exited the car.

I can’t remember our conversation on the bank that day. Maybe it’s because I was only 8 or 9.  Maybe it’s because the conversation didn’t matter.  Only that we were enjoying an afternoon together. And, it didn’t happen often enough. Or, maybe I just remember how American Pie made me feel, and I want to feel that way again.

I remember driving down Burck St., with speed bumps and a little elementary school on the right. His neighborhood was dangerous, especially at night.

Dad made a good little friend there, Marie. He would get up at 4:00 in the morning to get his beloved newspaper, and meet the trash men so he could return Marie’s trash can to her apartment next door.

Marie yelled and fussed, and cussed because it wasn’t safe at that hour. He could get robbed. She would cuss at him words he’d never heard before, and then come upstairs and watch TV like nothing ever happened.

Ronald Pelton

He stopped taking her trash can in. In fact, he stopped sitting outside with her and the other neighbors too. Not right away.  About two years later. But, he never stopped taking all the neighbors who needed help a ride. It was getting harder for him to walk and he just couldn’t be bothered.

Dad fell in his apartment because I hounded him to start using his cane, even at home. I asked him if he was ashamed to use it. Because there is no shame in growing old. Just use it.

“I’m not ashamed, Paula. Marie has a hurt knee and she can’t walk. So, I gave her mine.”

I went down to the local Walgreens and bought him the perfect cane, for the perfect height, for an imperfect father who was struggling to walk even before he fell.  For a dad who was desperately holding on to his independence to live in his apartment as long as he could. For a dad who was ashamed to tell anyone who he really was. We kept that secret.  I told him, “You use this when you walk.  It will help you.”

He called me while I was at work. I could hear Marie in the background talking. “Paula, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” I had a picture of the TV commercial with the old lady on the ground, holding her panic button to call for help.  I immediately burst into laughter because dad has the corniest humor of anyone I know. “Paula, I’m not joking. Not this time. I’ve really fallen and I can’t get up.”

“What happened? Why hasn’t someone called an ambulance?” He didn’t want an ambulance called. He was firm about that. Because last time when he called me, when his legs were swollen and he couldn’t move, I sent him to the hospital. No problem found. He got a $1,000 bill that he couldn’t pay. This time when he called, I was 55 miles away at work, without a car. I had to make a decision.

I called my ex, and asked him to please go check on dad.  He’s fallen. He can’t get up. He’s refusing an ambulance. You know how stubborn he is. If you think he needs to go to the hospital you call it.

While on the line I asked dad how he fell.  He fell walking in his apartment, while using his cane. It hit the edge of the carpet where it met the tile floor. The carpet I insisted he have so his feet didn’t get cold.

“Don’t worry, dad. Steve’s on his way.”

Steve opened the door and saw dad on the ground. He managed to pick him up and get him into his recliner.  Dad thanked him.  Now he could go back to normal. “Wait just a minute. How will you go to the bathroom?” asked Steve.

“Oh, it’s simple. I’ll use my cane.”

“Show me.”  Dad tried three times to get up. He wiggled, he pushed, and he leaned on his cane.  But, he could not get up out of his chair. He could not take even one step.

“I’m calling it.” He called an ambulance and they took dad to the hospital. Steve texted me photos of his swollen legs. His feet were dirty. It looked like he wore his compression socks and never took them off. I felt shame.

Dad, he was waiting to get a surgery he desperately needs after his fall.  I was visiting him every week, bringing him candy and chips, and steak from his favorite restaurant, the Outback. But there he laid.  Waiting.  He was always waiting. His son couldn’t come. Because he died last year. But, I came.

Dad spent thirty years in prison waiting. He wants his family back.

He was waiting on the red tape between Medicare, Veterans Insurance, and Medicaid to approve his surgery.  He has a broken knee cap and a broken shoulder, and I was powerless to do anything else for him, except wait.

We thought he’d only be in rehab for a few weeks for therapy and then be released. That was because the hospital slapped a knee brace on him and said he’s fine to go home. Can we release him to you? I fought the ER doctor. He can’t walk. He can’t go to the bathroom. He can’t shower. “Have you looked at his feet?”

“His feet?”

“Yes, look at his feet.” So, they found him coverage through Medicare and shipped him off to rehab.

We planned his stay for only a few weeks. He would get therapy and then go home. Then, we learned his injuries were worse than we were led to believe. The rehab center didn’t like the way his knee looked. And, his shoulder was more painful than it should be.  After three months in rehab dad called me in the morning, just before I was heading to work.

“I just had a religious experience. I can’t explain it. My head is still in a fog. It’s just, I had this sense, this knowing. It’s unusual, unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I feel as if I’ve been here before. In my dream, my experience, I was sitting around alone. Bedridden.”

“I told you there may be something to reincarnation!”  I laughed it off.  “If this happened before then you didn’t learn your lesson!  What do you think your lesson is?” 

After all we’re just waiting to get his surgery so he can get physical therapy and then go home. To his life. Where he sits in his apartment and watches tv, and gives rides to his neighbors who need things from the store. Where he drives over to Navy Federal Credit Union and brings them candy.

They call him the candy man there. Where the teller told me she remembered my dad. So, she’d break a minor rule to help me out with Medicaid. She was the one who opened his bank account, actually.  “He’s such a nice man,” she said.  I thought you have no idea who dad is. But, yes, he could be nice.

He wants to go back to his life. The one where he took his 20 year old, rusted Nissan Pathfinder to the car wash twice a week. The one his son gave him when he got out of prison. The one Ronnie rehabbed the motor in, and fit with new tires. The one last symbol of freedom and independence.

He took his car to the car wash because he’s proud of it and he wants to keep it clean. So what if the paint is faded on the hood, and the bumper is held with duct tape.  He brings the workers candy.  They all wave and rush to his car when he shows.  Seems the candy means more than a tip.

He’s going home to his life, where I come by once a week with meat from Hemps.  He cooks it on his table top grill.  He enjoys cooking on that grill. Making me a meal. Really, he just wants someone to come by and show they care.  Sometimes he dresses up when he knows I’m coming.

It’s 5 months now and he’s still waiting. He’s lost 75 pounds. He says it’s the food here.  He doesn’t like the taste. But, then he quit drinking water.  He even lost interest in soda.   His skin is dry, and he itches all over.  

They found cancer.  It’s everywhere.  It’s in his liver, his stomach, his lymph nodes under his arm. It’s in his bones behind his neck. There will be no treatment. He’s stage 4. He’s too frail to be a candidate for chemotherapy.  And, he’s bedridden. Suddenly, his spiritual dream has more significance.

Pam, two years my junior, told me he missed some appointments for his follow up care on his liver cancer. The doctor would call and remind him. But, he didn’t go. Why didn’t anyone tell me? I would have taken him. How could I not know this? I saw him every week. Pam didn’t know it then. Only now, when it was too late. The doctor just told her.

I group texted my two sisters after the oncologist’s news. I wanted to include my brother too.

“Dad is not a candidate for chemotherapy.  They recommend hospice care.”  This was sent twenty minutes after I left the doctor’s office. After I had my little cry in the car.

Then I went to his apartment and dropped off cigarettes for Marie. I looked up at his place from the street and had another good little cry. I would miss coming here.  Visiting.

Mostly, I would miss his humor. He never lost it. Even towards the end. Last Sunday at the nursing home I asked him if there’s anything he needs. Any food? Jesus, my on again, off again boyfriend, and Marie was there.

“Why do you keep asking me about food?”

“Because you’re not eating, dad. Look at you.  You’re too thin. Okay, if not food, is there anything else you need?”

“I need someone to scratch my ass.” The room instantly filled with bellowing laughter. Marie told me to go get some gloves. She would do it. I told her not to press me because I may just call your bluff. Yea, I’m not doing that.

Pam answered the group text within seconds. “I figured. Any idea on time?”

I don’t know yet. I was totally blindsided. I expected to get a treatment plan. He would suffer a little but he would get better.  Then we would get his orthopedic surgery.

“So they will refer him to hospice now or wait for a certain point? I assume we should end his lease at the apt. and clean it out.” Pam’s response upset me. I furiously started texting at 80 words a minute, accusing her of being insensitive, and did she care to know how he’s feeling? 

Then she added, “I hope he’s not in pain.” I hit the x back button several times, well, many times.

  She texted one more thing. “I guess someone will tell us his next steps. Social worker maybe?” I was glad to have Pam’s help with the VA behind the scenes. They are complicated, and slow, and I didn’t have the patience to deal with them.

I explained how the next step is to get a cat scan. It seemed pointless since they weren’t going to treat. But, I insisted.  They found his cancer inadvertently while scanning his heart for calcium deposits,  to clear him for the orthopedic surgery. I needed a sense of how much time we have. I needed to plan. 

I mean there’s his car, his bills, his apartment, his funeral, his burial.  It must all be planned.  NOW!  Because that’s what planners do.  They don’t wait.  They take charge so when the final day comes they can just focus on that. On the pain. On the words to say at the funeral. On anything else but all the banal tasks that need to get done.

When I called his church to discuss planning a memorial service, they told me to call back when he’s actually dead. Don’t worry. We can come up with a date. Just not on a Saturday from now to the end of the year, as there’s weddings.  Or, on a Friday up until lent. Any work day will do after that.

“Well, one step at a time,” said Pam.

“Does he know what’s happening?” Linda, the youngest, chimed in. I don’t think that he does. He has dementia. He seems confused.

Then she called to make sure I’m okay. I’m not okay. But, I have no choice. And, I was glad she called. I didn’t want this feeling. The one I had when Ronnie died. I didn’t want to go through it again.

Dad called Marie on Friday at midnight, before the cat scan. She thought she heard him say, “Marie, I am going to die.”  But, she wasn’t sure. She kept asking him to turn down the TV. It was blaring in the background. When he wouldn’t turn it down she hung up.

Dad knew more than I believed. I discussed tricking him with sugar pills.  Leading him on that as soon as his cancer is gone then we’ll get your surgery. And then you’re going home. The cancer doctor insisted on explaining it to him.

Dad won’t talk to me about his cancer at all. He hasn’t said a word. Only a nod every time I ask if he understands. I told him he won’t die alone. I will be here. Mom will too.

Mom said, “Let me know when his death is imminent. No one should die alone.” I wondered if she thought of her son when she said that. When his sudden death surprised us all while his family was out of town. Mom and dad were divorced nearly 30 years.

I called back his church, and scheduled a priest to come and do a prayer of healing and a communion. Dad didn’t want last rites. The priest scheduled to come on the Tuesday, after Labor Day. My phone rang on Labor Day around dinner time.  It was the priest.

“I just left your dad”, the priest said. “He got the prayer of healing.”

“Wonderful, I said. And, thank you. But, I thought you were coming tomorrow?”

“A deacon came today to do the communion. He barely ate a piece of his wafer. He called me. I decided to come today instead.”

When we got off the phone, I called mom.  It was raining hard, and she was unsure if she should go tonight or tomorrow morning. She thought about delaying her trip until tomorrow. I said, “Mom go NOW. The priest called me for a reason.”

Mom drove two hours in the rain. She wouldn’t leave his room except to shower or eat.  Dad looked through her, she texted, not at her.  She said, “He doesn’t recognize me.”

I told her, “Don’t worry.  He knows.”

Mom and dad, they played a game when they were first married.  Dad would tap his finger on her arm to a song, and get mom to guess which song it was.  Mom rubbed his arms, put a damp cloth on his dry lips, and then decided to start tapping a song. 

He had to know she was there at the end. No one else knew about their little game. His color and warmth came back, just for a few minutes. Then his breathing got shallow. Mom ordered oxygen, so he would be comfortable. At 2:35 AM he stopped breathing. She called the nurses first, then she called called me.

I was having a good little dream.  Pam had shut off his cell phone. That only made sense. In my dream, dad called me.  He wanted to know why his phone wasn’t working.  Could I explain why it quit working? I can’t call anyone. In it, I told him, “I don’t know. But, we’re talking now. So, it’s okay.”

Mom’s call woke me up. She told me he’s gone. She was so happy she didn’t miss it.  I was too.  I was relieved.

I wanted his suffering to end, and I prayed for it to end. Just take him to your bosom, God. Please. He needs to quit suffering. Mom told me Pam prayed God would take him to heaven in a ’57 Chevy. After all, we don’t know how God works.

Marie, she has no idea who dad is. He never told her. Once, I almost slipped up in front of her while we were talking about how he wanted to go work for the Spy Museum in DC. I quickly changed the subject, and Marie never caught on. 

Dad was ashamed of his past. He wanted no one to know it. He wanted his life to be as it was before he lost his reputation. Before he went to prison. Back to a time when he mattered.

Well, he mattered to me.

Paula L. Strand