I am currently in touch with what it means to sob. Big heaving messy tears&snot. My dad, my wonderful, kind dad who also had moments of spiked anger where he’d throw things in frustration because he didn’t know any other way. A man of his generation but also not. Born in 1926 and bred up through so many events: the Depression, WWII, Space Age, and divorce (an incredibly minimalistic list here). A move to SoCal for art school and then a career as a graphic artist. A man who loved jazz, martinis at 5 (or 3), a good sit on a porch or backyard or balcony. Someone who took up collaging in his eighties and submitted (and was accepted except for once) to the annual mixed-media Redlands Art Show every spring. Who adored reading (TC Boyle, Annie Proulx, David Sedaris were specific favorites) and watching Ken Burns documentaries on PBS (he liked The Crown too). An early-humor adaptor of Monty Python’s Flying Circus. Who modeled so much of that love of art, reading, writing, listening, and humor to me. Who Dennis and I moved out to be near in January 2020 and spent the last three-plus years gloriously traversing Yucaipa and Redlands with dinners at his place, days on his patio, me&him off to Silver Sneakers on weekday mornings, getting through COVID as Dennis, he, and I formed our pandemic bubble. Spending holidays, weekdays, weekends sitting and talking, eating and drinking. How will I fill my time without him?

He left us all last night forty-five minutes before Saturday became Sunday. He was peaceful, had moved through some pain and fear and Dennis and I were with him. That this happened fairly quickly feels both a blessing and a mindfuck. Last Sunday we went out for my birthday and he was present and accounted for, Monday he fell and broke his shoulder, after a night in the ER and home on Tuesday, he fell again Wednesday night and was back in the ER Thursday. By Friday he was in a hospital bed and not recognizable in spirit as the man who brought all the joys listed above. We’d already years ago, and then regularly, had extensive discussions about end-of-life wishes, which were written down unchanged. That morning, I had the toughest conversation I’ve ever had with a doctor who I will appreciate until the end of time. She was blunt and clear: He would not reset to normal mental or physical functioning. She gave me options, we would watch him, give him treatment, etc. for another 24-hours then reassess. If he remained as he was, there were choices, of which I chose the first: A peaceful end right there in the room we had all to ourselves. On Saturday morning, that choice became a reality. Dennis was there. We listened to Ella and the Duke on our bippy-boxes (his term for our iPhones). We all supported each other in helping him find whatever light he was going toward. And he found it at 11:16 PM. The process amazing, terrifying, humbling. The body very stubborn. His peace broken only once when he opened his eyes, panicked, agitated, trying to get out of bed, his beautiful blue eyes not clear but cloudy with fear as he asked me to help him, which I told him we always would. And then we did. And then it happened and now I sit gutted, relieved, finding it hard to write through sobs, while also incredibly grateful for him. For us. For what we had.

He was and remains my inspiration. As one of his classmates in Silver Sneakers said, “He made it easy to love him.” No words ever rang truer. His humor, his whole being, even as he started to fade before our eyes, his will to make that martini, root for those Dodgers, put the shopping cart back in its place rather than leaving it in the middle of the parking lot (he hated when people did that). All of it added up to Dean, Dean-o, the Baron of Bryant Street. Beloved of many. Father of mine.