Father's Day Weekend
Kenneth Gardner Sr is the name of my father. On Saturday night, June 19, 2010 I arrived to Pensacola to drop off my nephew and cousin from their extended stay with us in Jacksonville. I spent the night at my parent's house so I could spend Father's Day, June 20th with my dad. I woke up on Father's Day to a very hot Sunday morning. I was so happy to be there and found so much enjoyment in the simple things, it's as if time slowed down and I began to savor many seconds of the day. I remember hearing the hard slam of the front door and looking out the window to see my dad with his coffee mug and an early morning mission with his truck. A while later I was in the kitchen with my mom while she made her world famous pancakes and my dad returned with extremely filthy hands from working with his truck, and to see the smirk on his face as my mom began to fuss at him as I interrupted with a loud, jovial "Happy Father's Day" as if to say "welcome home." I watched (of course after my mom made him wash his hands) my dad play with my son while he was sleeping, which normally, waking my sleeping 4 year old up is a first degree felony, but for some reason, I just smiled and watched my dad tickle him and pinch his nose. I sat at the table with my dad while he opened his Father's Day gifts that I bought him which included two shirts, a pair of shorts, a fedora hat (that he gladly put on and might I add looked very good on him), and a recordable greeting card that when opened contained my dad's favorite person's voice, my son, saying, "Hey Gardner, it's me Scooter...Happy
Fadders Day," in his best commercial voice that we could get out of him at midnight at the Mobile Hwy Wal Mart. After opening his gifts he ate lunch and we talked. After he finished eating he got up from the table, I said, "Well I guess this means you are headed to go get some sleep," he said, "Yep, I got to get on the road tomorrow. If I don't see you before you leave, then I guess I'll see you later, and ya'll be careful on that road." I told him that we would be careful and I watched him walk away. I watched until all I could see was the back of his white tee shirt and the tips of his elbows as he turned to walk down the hall to the bed. A couple of hours later I was back on the road with my husband and son, headed home to Jacksonville. Little did I know that I would be back on that same road coming back to Pensacola the next day.
The Call
Monday morning June 21st, the day after Father's Day, the day after returning from Pensacola visiting my dad, I got the phone call that I didn't expect to receive any time soon. I got the phone call that yesterday was indeed my last dad with my dad. He was gone. My brother was the one to call me. I almost didn't answer because I figured my brother was calling to speak to my husband who wasn't home. At times I wished that I didn't answer because it would buy me some time in that little space where all was alright for me in the world and as far as I knew it, my dad was alive. I did answer and on the other end was a very distraught and crying voice that through the sobs said, "Trenecia, he's gone. They found him in his truck. He's dead." He might as well have said it in Chinese, because I replied, "Who's gone? Who's dead?" He told me that it was dad. Dad was gone. Dad was found in his truck, and dad was dead. He was only 50 years old. The more hysterical he became the calmer and more controlled my voice became and I began to ask him questions, "Who found him? Where is he now? Does mom know?" He told me that my dad was found at a truck stop inside of his truck. My dad bled out from his mouth and nose (and we later found out that he bled out through his ears as well and he was not found at a truck stop, but on the side of the interstate yards from his exit for his delivery in New Orleans) and by the time that he was found he was already gone. The part that crushed me to the core was when my brother told me that he appeared as if he was trying to get out of the truck to get help. My brother informed me that he had not told my mom yet and that he was on his way to do so. Still maintaining my cool and calm voice I asked him if he would like me to call and tell her, but he explained that it would be best for him to tell her in person, which I agreed. I think that he knew that she would need to be comforted, but most of all he needed it just as bad. I hung up and put the phone down, and with the phone went my guarded emotions and I began to cry. I cried so hard that I began to vomit until I was interrupted by the sound of my front door opening and my husband coming home for lunch. He saw me sitting and crying on the floor by the toilet. He got down and said. "What's wrong, is it your foot?" I shook my head. He then asked, purely out of guess, "Its it your dad?" I told him yes and explained my phone call that I just received from my brother.
The Fight
My husband guessed my dad, because in October 2007, a month after my dad walked me down the aisle and the day the infamous tornado tore through central Pensacola, my dad was diagnosed with small cell lung cancer. He was advised that if he didn't treat it, he could expect to live for another 6-9 months. If he does treat it, it may go away, but if it does and it comes back, it will come back with a vengeance and be much harder to get rid of. My dad told his doctor that he wants to live long enough to see his Scooter (my son) go to school. So the fight began. In the beginning his treatments were very intense-daily chemo and radiation. Eventually the tumor in his chest went away, but like the doctor forewarned it came back and it came back more aggressive. So much so that his treatments, stopped working in Pensacola and he had to start going to Houston to the M D Anderson Cancer Center two weeks at a time to receive experimental treatments. Any procedure that my dad was faced with including putting a stint in his lung to help him breath, he did it because he wanted so bad to live. He fought like hell, but it started to take a toll on him. My first visit home from Jacksonville, my jaw almost hit the floor when I first saw him. He had lost a lot of weight. My last visit with him my jaw was still on the floor because my dad who has always been a XXL guy was now in a size medium shirt with a 36 waist. I was so worried about him. In the beginning he didn't look like a "typical" cancer patient. He still had his beer belly and his hair and a descent appetite, but this year it all caught up to him and he looked sick. Its was so easy for me to be hopeful when physically there wasn't many signs of his illness, but when it started to show, I became very scared. I figured
IF or I guess
WHEN my dad was going to die we would have time. I figured either he would get better all together with no signs of the cancer, or get tired of his treatments in Houston and decide not to go anymore, or the treatments would stop working and we would have to prepare to say our good byes. I never image that he would go so instant out of nowhere. My dad's mom passed away in 2006 from cancer, his brother and father passed in 2009 from lung cancer, and now my dad has died from lung cancer in 2010.
The Journey
My tears began to dry but my anger began to brew. We quickly (so quickly that I had to go buy clothes) packed our bags as well as my computer and printer and was headed back to Pensacola.We arrived in Pensacola before dark to my mom's house. I talked to her twice before we made it in town and like me, she sounded fine on the phone. I guess she figured she needed to put a tough voice on for me as I felt that I needed to do for her. We embraced and went in to the kitchen and talked. Later that night I could not sleep, I think I had an hour's worth.
My mom left the house the next morning with my uncle and aunt to go to New Orleans to pick up my dad's semi truck and belongings. My husband and I went to Tracy Morton's Funeral Home to began to make final arrangements. Initially I was going to get information about options, cost, and our situation with my dad physically being in another state. Tracy was so professional and straight forward with the process and cost. After leaving her facility we went to Joe Morris to receive information, but my experience with them was a complete 180 from Tracy. First of all, when someone in Pensacola dies, the first thought as far as arrangements is Joe Morris Funeral Home, so with that being said, their lack of professionalism probably comes from some sort of "Old School" mentality that they don't have to
earn your business because Joe Morris is just "understood" as the place to go. With Tracy, it was a quiet peaceful setting. You walk in and are escorted to a conference room with soft lighting and offered a refreshment. You explain the specifics and she lays out your options including prices. She is gentle, but to the point. Joe Morris, we walk in to a small office full of four people who were all employees. Two guys are having their own conversation, one lady behind the desk asking us question, and a guy standing behind her
all in the conversation. It was loud and no since of privacy. We explain the situation with my dad being in Louisiana and the guy
all in the conversation chimmed in with, "Oh, that ain't no problem, we'll go pick him up. You just pay ($400 something) and we'll go get him." Ok, I'm was fine with that, but Louisiana state law is that a body has to be embalmed before crossing state lines. He replies, "Don't worry about all that, we'll get him." Still
sort of ok with that, I ask about price options and was told (while one of the guys in a suit with gold teeth was looking at me extremely funny-I'm talking nose twisted up, not trying to hide it funny) that once we pay the $400 something to go get my dad, then "we'll worry about
all the other stuff." Well, the "Helen Gardner" came out in me and needless to say, I politely left...
WITH a price list in hand. Tracy Morton's cost was a bit more, but you get what you pay for and after that country bumpkin, back woods experience wtih Joe Morris, she was clearly worth it. Oh, by the way, while I was assertively demanding and looking at the lady behind the desk like she clearly lost her mind in regards to me knowing how much their services would cost, the gold tooth suit guy piped in with, "Where do I know ya'll from?" " I know ya'll." "Who are yo' people?"
Anyway, my mom, uncle, and aunt made it back with my dad's truck that afternoon. Seeing it pull up made his death more real than him not being there when we arrived. My dad was a truck driver and he was on the road a lot. So it was a simple equation, if his semi truck is in the yard then he is home, if its not, then he is on the road. When we got to Pensacola the night he died his truck was not in the yard, but seeing it pull up without him made the equation wrong, because now his truck was in the yard, but he was not home.
I stayed in my "get er done" mode. I made the arrangements, the phone calls/ answered the phone calls, designed the funeral program, and was even up to 3 am in the morning just to write his obituary. I've mastered not showing emotion, so I would get through the conversations and hugs from family and my mom's friends with a smile, even though I just wanted to curl up under the covers and cry. I don't like attention-at all. Staying busy gave me a chance to ignore the anger that I felt. I was so angry. My dad wanted to live. He fought so hard to live and I thought that the way he died was just too cruel. He died alone, on the side of the interstate, and even worse I'm afraid that he probably died in fear or even panic. Bleeding out of his nose, mouth, and ears probably meant that he choked on his blood, and I know the fear of just choking on water that went down the wrong way- I can't image choking on blood. He pulled over and tried to get out of his truck, he knew he was in danger, and he didn't make it. He just didn't make it, but even still, he tried. He fought to the end. I know, I know, "
it was just his time to go." Ok, I'll give you that, but if it was his time, then why not let him go peacefully in his sleep, or hell, even at home....or the state of Florida-FYI-just getting my dad physically from New Orleans to Pensacola cost $1500. Everything happens for a reason...God has a plan...yadda yadda..I still don't see why his cards folded the way they did.
My dad comes from a huge family, none of which reside in Pensacola, so when I say I made/answered the phone calls there was a lot of it going on. He was one of ten children. His family came in by plane, bus, and car. We scheduled a private viewing of my dad at the funeral home on the Sunday before his funeral so his family could see him before the actual ceremony. I was not nervous about going to see my dad. I took an "it had to be done" approach, for we needed to make sure that we approved of his appearance. I was the last to come in to see him, and I was very pleased with what I saw. Sometimes when you see someone made up in a casket, they look fake, too dark, or aged. My dad actually looked better than he did the week before, on Father's Day. His face was "filled out", so he looked the way he looked before he lost so much weight. He looked asleep, minus the very loud open mouth snoring that he was so known for gracing the halls with. The main thing that bothered me a little was that his head was slightly turned. Almost like he was looking out of the casket, instead of straight ahead, but I'm sure it may of had something to do with the way he was found when he died...I guess.
The Ceremony
Instead of applying my makeup and fine tuning my hair, I was rushing to the church to provide the ushers with the funeral programs that I designed for my dad's funeral. Already, there were people at the church-either viewing my dad's body one last time or trying to get a decent seat. I raced back to my parent's house to find everyone lined up and ready to head to the church that I just left from. I decided that I wanted my mom, brother, and I to be driven to my dad's funeral in his pick up truck. My mom was under the impression that my husband would drive and I was under the impression that my uncle would drive, in the end I was the one to drive us. My dad loved his pick up truck. He took pride in owning it; I took pride in driving my mom and brother to his funeral in it.
I was ok sitting front row, right in front of my dad, but when his casket was closed and some lady stood right in front of me so I couldn't see him as it closed, it took all I had not to jump up and push her out of the way. I'm sure it was some sort of comfort measure, but it pissed me off. I still want to push her right now. That was the official last time that I would see my dad and before I had a good enough chance to realize it, some lady was blocking that moment for me and all I could see was the tip of his hands.
You know how funerals go, they are are sad, no matter how uplifting and positive you try to make them. I asked my brother-in-law's friend Bishop Locke pf All Saints Holiness to sing and he was amazing. I enjoyed the "expressions" part where people told stories about my dad. All of them from close friends and family showcased how much fun he was as well as very worrisome. The best expression came from the pastor's wife. She connected his journey to his death as God calling him on his CB radio "breaker, breaker, 1-9," it was good, real good. The pastor went in a little deep, did the usual calling people out without being specific and turned my dad's funeral into a Sunday morning service. Tracy, the funeral director told us that she would cut him short if he ran over, and from the look on his face until he actually told her that he was using up all his allotted time, I knew she was behind us giving him the "flat handed slice across the neck" to cut. His message was ok. Not quite relevant to my dad
at times, but it was ok. Even though he had a lot to say, after the funeral everyone talked about his closing rendition of the Three Little Pigs. Yes, the Three... Little... Pigs. Not the quick overview of how its best to take the time to build a strong foundation in your life, like a brick house because sometimes you have things that happen, like The Big Bad Wolf (aka maybe the devil) from the Three Little Pigs that may come along, and if you were trying to go about life doing things fast and loose without laying your bricks and build a weak foundation of your life with a straw or with twigs, then like two of those Three Little Pigs, you are going to be screwed. No he gave the
FULL "I'm in preschool and have never heard the story before in the 'yelling southern church pastor voice-ah (lol, no I didn't just spell voice wrong- I said it in my yelling southern pastor tone)
with the "little pig, little pig, let me come in," and the "huffed (blows) and puffed (blows) and blew pig # 1 & 2's house down" version.
The End
The end, the closure (or lack thereof), and the return back to new life without my dad. I stayed in Pensacola
an extra week after the funeral so my mom would not be alone. I returned back to Jacksonville ready to get out of "funeral mode" and back to my life, but it didn't happen as I planned. Once I returned, I didn't have to put on a front for anyone and things got very hard. So hard, that I would go from laughing to crying in seconds, it's like the pain would just creep up out of no where. Every since I moved to downtown Jacksonville I was looking forward to the 4th of July festivities that were scheduled at The Landing. When we sat on the balcony of my gym at The Landing looking at the fireworks right in front of us, over the river, I began to cry. It was so beautiful. I cried because for many days I pictured that moment, looking at the fireworks among thousands of people, but never imagine the state that my life would be in and that my dad would be gone. My dad, who I remembered taking us downtown in Pensacola to see the fireworks on the 4th, did not live to see any this year. I just couldn't wrap my head around that, something so simple as fireworks-my dad would not see again.
Some days I go to my emails and scroll down to the ones that occurred in early June or even May and I reread those emails, just so I can mentally get into a space of time where my dad was alive. Some days I get angry. Angry at the world, angry at God, and angry with the people that I thought were my friends. While I was in Pensacola my friend Mary came around to visit me while I pulled my dad's funeral together. She was even there the morning of the funeral with cases of accessories for me to wear to the ceremony. She reached out to people that she
thought would care about my loss via Facebook and emails. She was there at the funeral. Besides Mary, I had two friends Ashley and Aarin that I had not seen since graduating from High School who came and visited me, and my friend Vicki who showed up and gave me a well needed hug at the funeral. I had a few "I'm praying for your family" lines posted on my Facebook wall and an email from Kendall, Cornelia, and Tiearra. Oh, and the UPS store that I use to live near sent me a plant. Once I got home, no one called me. No one checked on me(besides my mom). I felt so alone. I became angry at the people that I should of heard from. The people that I had known and been friends with for years, that I supported and was there for at the drop of a dime no matter how far, no matter the circumstances, I was there for. I am too good of a person to have sucky friends! If you attended my wedding you know I had four bridesmaids, four women who I've known and cared about for years, I'm talking years, well Mary, who was there for me, was one of them...the other three....well....I named the only people that was there for me...enough said, huh? Anyway, I guess no one called because aside from my family and few, very few friends, there really wasn't anyone to call me. Plus I put on such a tough front that I guess most people that that I was ok.
I'm getting there, but its hard, especially when I have a four year old who constantly talks about his grandfather, not knowing that he is no longer with us. My dad loved my son SO much. It hurts that he only got to spend four years with him. My son is what brought me and my dad closer together. Once my dad was diagnosed with cancer, I never took my time with him for granted-especially once I moved to Jacksonville. I can tell you our last phone conversation on the phone was June 17, 2010 and we talked about wedding photos and the Celtics Vs Lakers playoff game. By the way, we were both rooting for the Celtics.
I will get better and I can say that I am better than I was a few weeks ago. I miss my dad. I'm still angry that he is gone. EVERY SINGLE TIME I hear someone over the age of 50 say their age, I always think, "...my dad was only 50..." Losing him has taught me
just how precious life is (and how expensive it is to bury someone-just to dig a hole and close it a Holy Cross cemetery is $650 Monday-Friday $800 on Saturday, that's not including the cost for an actual plot which is $900 and the required $600 concrete vault that the casket is placed in....if you are reading this and do not have life insurance, please do your family a favor a get a policy-nothing fancy, just enough for them not to faint when the bill is tallied up) People say it all the time, "life is short," "life is precious," "you only live once," and you hear it so much you take it for granted, but when those phrases jump up and slap you in the face because you lose someone, they have a deeper meaning. I want to travel. I want to try new things. I want to be healthier. I want to instill some of my dad's qualities in my son, to work hard, party hard, and spoil your grandkids! Seeing my dad be so strong and so courageous in his final days, made me grow a deeper love and appreciation for the man he was. So many people grow up with out a father. I had one who was there. He wasn't perfect and sometimes we didn't always see eye to eye, but he loved me and would do anything for me. Look at this throwback picture. I don't know what was going on with his haircut, but look at the love in his face.
I will miss him so much and will try to use some of the many memories I have to help get through these tough days and continue to smile through the good. I will end with this well known poem that I used in his funeral program.
God saw him getting tired,
a cure was not to be.
He wrapped him in his loving arms
and whispered ‘Come with me.’
He suffered much in silence,
his spirit did not bend.
He faced his pain with courage,
until the very end.
He tried so hard to stay with us
but his fight was not in vain,
God took him to His loving home
and freed him from the pain.
Kenneth N Gardner Sr
December 9, 1959- June 21, 2010
