Scars

Image by DanielGrzeskiewicz

    My friend Alia Arram died when I was seventeen. She died in a car accident. A mutual friend and her were in the car together. She had just gotten the car for her sixteenth birthday. He was driving it out to show her a good fishing spot and flipped it on a gravel road. He walked away. She died on impact. I went to her house that night. One of her brothers had to be sedated. Her other brother said, “I’m glad she at least got the yard mowed today”. Their family was from Israel. 

    The people in our church were bringing over food to their house to be supportive. In their culture, people fast and the men don’t shave for a month to grieve. Her father got mad and yelled “My daughter is dead and you are bringing me food.” Even at that young age I realized that their culture handles death much better that the traditional Midwestern culture I grew up in. A few days later a friend of mine and I snuck into the salvage yard by the courthouse to find the car she died in. (This was both easier than it should have been and dumb to do essentially right by the cops) I stood there and looked at the smashed vehicle for a long time. This is where she spent her last moments. Probably laughing with her friend. I had no way to process this. At the viewing, she didn’t look like herself at all. They did their best to cover up her injuries, but it didn’t work well. To see someone who had so much life drained of it just felt awful. The pastor who did her service pronounced her name wrong every time he said it. I learned at seventeen that you never know when it’s the last time you may see someone.

    My friend Reed Haverkamp committed suicide when I was twenty-one. He was the most creative person I had ever met. We connected in middle school as both of us were aspiring creatives. We would write weird screen plays then try to film them. I remember starting an organization called PPPP with Reed, which I believe stood for “People Purchasing Purple Penguins.” But my memory could be wrong. I dressed as a tacky salesperson in plaid pants and even a gross suede jacket person, and he filmed me trying to sell memberships to PPPP around the middle school. I think somehow we even convinced the middle school teachers to let us shoot on the roof of the school for the scene of someone trying to throw me off. Reed grew up next door to my parents’ best friends, so I was over there all the time.

        Eventually I started playing music in high school and so did he. He was also a bass player. I didn’t have any money, and I wanted to record my band so I was able to get a hold of a device called a four track recorder and I learned everything I could about engineering and production to make my first album of the songs the band and I had made. I was ordering books as I could afford them at Hastings books store to learn audio engineering. Then I would practice my craft with the band I was playing in. Reed thought this was awesome and asked me to record his punk band. In a very real way, that band was my first recording client. I learned a lot about recording and punk music from that project. They did a Sex Pistols cover, and I didn’t even recognize it. That’s how little I knew about punk music. 

    After I walked the stage at my high school graduation, Reed walked up to me and said, “You were one of the only people I cheered for most of these people are assholes.” That was the last time we ever spoke. I don’t think about Reed everyday anymore, that stopped years ago. But there hasn’t been a month that has gone by that I haven’t thought about him since he died, about the art he would have made, the adventure in life he could have had.

    A few years ago I was in bed sick and I got a call from my parents’ number. When I answered, I knew something was wrong because it was my dad’s voice. My dad doesn’t call to chat he just isn’t a chatty guy. He said, “We lost your Grandma today.” I replied with what I thought was fitting, “Well, that sucks.” Later my dad would tell me I was his last call and hearing me say that sucks made him finally lose it. My dad’s side of the family is pretty stoic. A trait that has certainly helped me in my own life. I was always close with my Grandparents. I grew up about thirty minutes from the farm they owned. They came to every school play I had, every birthday party, and I worked on the farm during the summer. One day my Grandparents stopped by and brought me a gift. It was a plaque with my last name on the top with this poem on it.

You got it from Your Father.
It was all He had to give...
So it's Yours to use and cherish
For as long as You may live.
If You lose the watch He gave You
It can always be replaced...
But a black mark on Your name Son
Can never be erased!
It was clean the day You took it
And a worthy name to bear
When He got it from His Father
There was NO dishonor there.
So make sure You guard it wisely,
After all is said and done...
You'll be glad the name is spotless
When You give it to Your Son!

    I think of this poem all the time when I have to make tough decisions. I certainly haven’t always lived up to it. But having a compass like that in life sure has been helpful.

    One summer I was working on the farm and Grandma drove me out somewhere to check on some irrigation. Once we were done, she hopped in the passenger side of the truck and told me to drive back. I had never driven in my life and this completely freaked me out. I told her I didn’t know how and she said she didn’t care. “It’s time to learn this is a farm. The tall skinny pedal is the gas and the long fat one is the break, let’s go.” I was scared at fourteen to turn the truck around, so I put it in reverse and drove it all the way back to the barn. Of course, I now know I did one of the most difficult things possible. My grandma got a huge kick out of this. 

    At my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary my grandma gave a speech where she thanked all the mentors that she and my grandpa had over the years that had helped them make their marriage a success. This blew my mind as it always seemed like they were just so good at being married. I was a pallbearer at my grandmother’s funeral, and I considered it a great honor to be taking her to her ultimate resting place. 

    Not too long after that, I got another call in the morning from my parents. It was my dad’s voice again. “We lost your uncle Paul.” Paul was my mom’s brother and the relative I was geographically closest to growing up. Paul took me to my first rock show (REO Speedwagon) We stayed close over the years and he was always there for advice. When I lived in Grand Island I wanted to put in a wooden privacy fence, so I called Paul for advice since he owned a construction company. We discussed concrete vs just putting posts in the ground, how to set up proper drainage and everything. This year I put in a tiny little free library in my front yard, and as I was digging the hole for the post I realized I knew how to do it because of Paul’s advice years ago. So in a small way some kid may read a wonderful book because of Paul's advice. I wrote something for Paul’s funeral that the pastor read, it was just a few stories about Paul. I wrote the line “Paul could be a little bit of an ass” that the pastor left out. The tiny church was full of people, as was the overflow. I was a pallbearer at his funeral as well. At the end of the ceremony me and the other pallbearers were wheeling the casket to the hearse, and I heard my aunt and his now widow cry out “Oh Paul” as she stretched her hand out to the casket. Reaching for him one last time. That moment will be etched in my brain forever.

    After the burial, the person who ran the funeral home gave me his keys and told me to drive the other pallbearers back to the church in his car. The pastor who knew Paul well sat in the front seat next to me as we drove. I said to him, “You left out part of my story.” He said, “Yes I did.” “Paul would have gotten a kick out of me trying to get the pastor officiating his funeral to say ass.” The pastor smiled and said, “Yes he would have.”

    About a year later I got a call from my sister that my uncle Mark had been in a freak accident and that he was likely paralyzed. This was just at the beginning of COVID. At first I didn't really believe her and thought everything would be fine. That the doctors would work it out, or that it wasn't as serious as she said and she was being dramatic. Or maybe I just didn't really want to think about it. Mark was my dad’s younger brother and was one of the smartest people I had ever met. He used to teach me chess and would show me how my moves were bad by rearranging the board to how it had looked three or four moves ago to prove it. Then putting the board back exactly how it was. It was infuriating. Mark didn't want to be a quadriplegic, especially late in life, so he signed a DNR (I believe video signed) and drifted off one night a few days after his accident. I knew that once he had signed the DNR, he would not be around much longer. Once he had made up his mind, I knew there would be no changing it despite his wife saying she would care for him in any way possible. Mark didn't want to burden anyone, and I don't blame him. Personally, I think he made a very courageous decision, but that’s a discussion beyond this article.

    I texted a few of my best friends and told them I would like to hang out that night as I didn't think Mark would make it. I felt it in my gut. They of course agreed. On the way to their house, I stopped to get some booze. As I stood there deciding what to buy, I thought "If I am drinking to Mark tonight it better be the good stuff." So I bought the best whisky they had at the store, which I believe was "Gentleman Jack" but I don't remember. We drank to my uncle that night, with the feeling that he would not be in this world when I woke up the next morning. My friend and I played piano together before I went to sleep and I had a dream that night where I was playing Mark's life on piano and it was beautiful, the melody and everything was perfect, but I could tell the song was about to end. I didn't want it to end, but I could feel it coming. Then it ended in a perfect stillness. I woke up to texts that Mark had passed through the night. 

    Mark was described as a gentle giant. Even though Mark and I were separated with distance my whole life, it was clear how kind of a person he was. He was always looking out for others and he would always discuss Chess, or Stanley Kubrick (our mutual favorite director) whenever I wanted. Others have written a lot about my uncle since his passing, so I won’t keep beating that dead horse. But you have no way to process these things, so you go on. Life is mostly lived in your head and it has this background tapestry, once that tapestry gets disrupted and with so much finality you have no way even fathom it.

    A few months later, I was working from home and got another call from my parents’ number. It was my dad’s voice on the line again saying that Grandpa (His and Mark’s dad) was in the hospital and we had better come visit him for the last time. My sister picked me up on the way and we went to his hospital room in my hometown where my parents still live. He had his eyes closed and I could tell he was barely hanging on. It was time to say our goodbyes. Two of his own children were there, my uncle and aunt, holding his hand and loving on him. It was beautiful. My sister held his hand and told him she loved him. There was so much I wanted to say, to tell him, to thank him for, but I couldn't muster a single word. Nothing seemed right, there wasn’t language to express what I wanted to say. I simply tried to breathe in the moment. 

    They say, "The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago, the second best time is today." My grandfather was a man who planted trees. He lived a life of honesty and integrity. It was clear in his own children who had obviously inherited his sense of values. He tried to make sure his business dealings were fair, and he treated everyone with kindness. I watched his example my entire life. Part of me thinks he died of a broken heart as his wife and one son had already passed. But at ninety-five, no one is going to say so. At his funeral part of me wanted to yell "High score, perfect run." He really maxed out life, and he had the family and friends around to prove it. I hope I can live a life half as well as he did. 

    My Grandfather was a successful entrepreneur and while closing out his estate there was a piece of property I considered buying. One of his longtime business associates called me to discuss it, during the call he said, "If you have half of your grandfather’s business acumen and integrity you will do pretty well in life." I replied, "I am hoping I can manage ten percent. I think I would do pretty well with that." He laughed and agreed. But that’s how people viewed my grandfather. You don't build a reputation like that overnight.

    A few weeks after the funeral, I wanted to properly grieve my two uncles and two grandparents. I thought back to my friend Alia who I had lost twenty-plus years before and how her family fasted. I read more on how their culture handled the process of grief and I wanted to try it myself. We were on lock down for the pandemic, and I didn't think I would get another chance like this. I decided to do a thirty day fast and reflect on the grief, to lean in to it so to speak. To let the grief and sadness fill me completely rather than to put it out of my mind. Or drink it away, as people tend to do. Now I have several medical professional friends that I can text anytime and I have blood pressure monitors, glucose monitors and many other tools to monitor my health so I would not go into a prolonged fast without both medical supervision and your own monitoring tools. But I found it to be the absolute right thing. I meditated every morning with specific programs designed for grief. I read books like "Top five regrets of the dying" and I let it all fill me up. I actively ran to grief rather than away. I would think about Mark and tear up, but that was ok. That’s what this time was for and it was magical. At day twenty-six I started having weird symptoms, and I texted my friend that now teaches trauma and southeast community college after a long career in the medical field. He told me not to push through the symptoms, so at day twenty-six my fast was coming to an end. I wasn't really sure how to end it, so ceremoniously I went to Subway and got a veggie sub in the drive thru. One of my favorite bands "Waterdeep" had just put out a record, so as I sat in the Subway parking lot eating my first food in twenty-six days. The song "This is now" came on with the following lyrics.

"It’s always funny when you go back in time 

The strings won’t tune, and the words won’t rhyme And everything you thought you’d sent away 

It shows back up and it’s got something to say  

You can look at the sights; You can touch and taste But they focused lights and the set’s in place 

They say take a deep breath, and swallow your soul. 

And don’t get cute. We all know your role.  

But even if it’s only in my mind 

I’m not gonna be that person this time 

And even if it’s only in my heart, 

This is not gonna tear me apart 

Cause I don’t care how familiar it feels 

Time travel isn’t real.

This is now, and I am me.  

It’s always sunny in a certain field 

The rain never comes, but the crops still yield 

I know you think that’s a bald-faced lie 

But sometimes I wish that you’d just stop by  

Cause you can look at the sights. 

You can touch and taste. 

Go on. Have a look around the place. 

Feel free to grab a stalk of sugar cane. 

Make yourself at home. No one needs you to explain"

    I'm not too proud to admit it made me tear up. It was the perfect end to the journey of mourning. Not saying that I am over everything. Far from it. But to really explore the sadness was a beautiful, painful and necessary journey.

    I spent a year trying to write this; I rewrote it, scrapped the rewrite and started over. The only gift I can truly give people is my own creativity, and I wanted to give a proper homage to these great people that have been part of my own rich tapestry. There truly are not the right words. Maybe that’s why there are songs, poems, and books to try to get it right. It wasn't until I saw an interview with Stephen Colbert that Anderson Cooper gave where they discussed grief. Colbert discussed losing a brother and father at a young age and Colbert talked about how it scars your soul forever. That he even wished it would be an external scar so people would know, and that IS the perfect way to describe it. The people that you love dying leaves a scar in your very being. It’s not meant to go away. Maybe life is actually more beautiful because it’s temporary. Things have value because of scarcity, and life runs out for all of us. But these people live on through us. Through the scars in our souls like a tattoo. When I face a decision, I will remember the kindness of Mark, the integrity of my grandfather, the no nonsense of Paul, the generosity of my grandmother, the creativity of Reed, the joy of Alia. They live on through our scars, and that’s pretty beautiful.