Day 117

The Write Life published my essay, “Treasure Beach.” It was a difficult essay to write, but one I felt compelled to get down. Many of you have read bits and pieces of it since I have spoken of the Treasure Beach here. It has been part of my ramblings but in segments. I wanted to pull it together — the past and present — into one succinct essay. I wanted to tell the story of Dad and my son at the beach, describe their relationship and the depth of my son’s grief, and recognize that while being at the beach is hard and painful, it’s also starting to heal us. It was a lot to accomplish, and when I wrote the first draft something felt off. Something wasn’t quite working the way I wanted it to work. I asked my spouse to read it and she liked it, but she’s not a writer, she couldn’t diagnose the problem. She recommended I sent it to my writing group friends. I did and their feedback was immensely helpful. The writing didn’t work where I feared it didn’t, but they were able to tell me why. It was an easy thing to revise and the revision works, I think. But I’ll let you be the judge. You can read it here: https://thebluenib.com/treasure-beach/?fbclid=IwAR03i77GTpIIKbJ-PaRY-V_B7UPiElkOe8Vpg042bmVT0CaiZxvX68EUNc8

We — my son and I — were supposed to go to Mattituck today. But the weather forecast was calling for heavy rain throughout the day. Rain and possible lightning meant no beach. It also meant hazardous driving conditions. I don’t like driving when I feel like I’m trying to push through a waterfall, so my son and I stayed an extra day with Mom. She was very happy to have the company. She seems to be getting lonelier by the day. Her grief, the emptiness she feels is even worse, I think, than my son’s. But I won’t write an essay about her — not now, not yet. Even here I won’t say too much. Unlike my son, she’d hate knowing I was writing about her. After all, she was furious when she found out I was blogging about Dad while he was dying. I did show her my “Treasure Beach” essay with a warning that it might make her cry. I advised she might not want to read it. But she did, the tears falling freely from the first sentence. When it was done she told me it was really good, that Daddy would have liked it. Then she asked me how much I got paid. The question rankles me. It also reminded me of why I often don’t share my publications with her. The question takes away from the success of the moment. It belittles it. “You should write a book,” she told me. “Gather all your essays together. It can’t be that hard.” No, that’s the easy part, the part I’ve done multiple times for several collections. The writing is not hard. the finding an interested party to publish my collections of essays or any book length work is impossible. But Mom doesn’t get it, and I’m not sure she never will.

I took Mom grocery shopping and reprimanded a man in the elevator for wearing his mask only over his mouth, his rather long nose protruding over the top. It angered me. He ignored me, but whenever he saw me in the store after that he scurried away, crashing into the bananas at one point to avoid me. For dinner, Mom needed frozen peas, but the shelves in freezer were empty. What’s up with frozen veggies? Where have they all disappeared to?

This evening my son wanted to watch a Dog’s Journey. I wasn’t up for it, but I’m tired of him complaining that I’m difficult, that I don’t like to watch normal movies. And so I sat with him and Mom. Mom said Dad had been looking forward to seeing the movie. He had told her that he planned to watch it with his grandson. Dad — who loved dogs — would have loved the movie. And it was cute. But it made me cry — hysterically. At the end when Dennis Quaid is running around in the afterlife with Bailey, I thought of Dad and Fireball. It’s an image that has popped into my head numerous times. But instead of a wide open field, Daddy and Fireball would be running on the beach. When Bailey died the first time, Mom was crying. The grandfather in the movie was holding the dog, prompting Mom to comment, “When Fireball died, she died in our arms. Your father died all alone.” That will always haunt the both of us, the image of Dad alone in his hospital bed. He died with a stranger at his bedside instead of the people who loved him most. I was already sick. Mom was already sick, but still they wouldn’t let us see him. He was one of the most social people I know and he left the world alone.

After the movie, my son and I read together and then I went down to the basement to look at the picture I took of Dad and Fireball back in college. I’ve always loved photography and took several black and white classes in college. Back then it was all film and so I learned how to develop it. Fireball was the subject of one of my projects and the pictures still hang next to Dad’s desk. I had wanted, in my junior year, to switch colleges within NYU so that I could change my major from English Literature to photography. Dad wouldn’t let me. He thought a degree in art was foolish. Art meant a life of being penniless. But if I had chased my passion instead of settling for what Dad wanted would I have been happier? Would I have been more successful? Would I have a job? Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t pursue photography. Several times I made an attempt — I even applied to and was accepted into graduate programs — but I allowed my mother to talk me out of it each time. Why? Was my self esteem really that bad? Did I believe I would fail? I don’t know. Maybe. I eventually did pursue writing (another art form) — perhaps twenty-years too late. But even now, I wonder if it’s been worth it. Which path should I have taken instead? At what point in my past should I have taken a hard right or a soft left?