Those Whores!

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,

and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.

These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

It was 1972 and my dad and I went deer hunting for the first time. We drove for hours and on a lonely Nevada road I saw a beacon flashing in the middle of nowhere. I asked him what that was and he told me that it was Sherry's Ranch. "Who's Sherry," I asked. He told me that it was a whore house. "What's that?" I asked.

"Oh, you know, men can fly their plane up or drive out here so they can sleep with a woman," he told me. I guessed that they didn't have wives and I didn't understand why anyone would go out of their way for such a thing or how they could get anyone to fall asleep on such short notice. I thought a motel would be a better choice. Ely, Nevada wasn't too far away. Clearly I was thinking sleep, but he was thinking "sleep." It took a while, but I finally woke up to what he was saying.

After getting home from Las Vegas, I called my dad to check in. He was pissed off.

I asked what was going on and he said, "You know that damn Dr. Ruckdeschell? Now he's whorin' me out to 'nuther buncha god-damn doctors! Them bastards!"

"Dad, is this in regards to the thoracoscopy that you need to have?"

"Probably," he said.

I explained that he could expect to have a team of doctors and other health-care professionals lining out the door and going around the block by the time this was all done. He reminded me that he is in charge and that there would only be a line if he allowed it.

Just because they have a treatment for cancer doesn't mean he has to take it. I think he'll have the thorascoscopy, but I bet you he won't take any chemo or radiation. However much I disagree, I think that his eventual refusal of treatment and eating right will be his last-ditch attempt at controlling his life.

His life is about him. His end-of-life choices need to be respected. (Please remind me of this as things progress and I begin screaming.)

Alone Again

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,

and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.
These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

Along with not really liking Las Vegas, there are two other parts I also dislike. Driving to Vegas — and driving back from Vegas. I especially hate it when I'm driving alone.

I woke up early on Sunday. I had a few things I needed to do. I had to go see Susan's family. They had a care package for me and I looked forward to seeing them despite not being able to spend much time there. I then had to zip over to Jeff's. He's a friend I've had since I was eleven. He had a lawnmower that he's not using and wanted to give it to me. I haven't been very good at mowing my backyard with a broken mower, so after three years of neglect, it was going to get some attention. I suspected that Diamond, my dog, would freak out over the sight of watching me work.

The round trip took about three hours. I got back to my dad's house in time to see the end of a football game, visit with my dad and brother and ask if my dad had eaten (nope). He said he was going to the bar and would eat there. Cool.

At the end of the game, my brother loaded up his kids and headed out. I knew that if I stayed, the specter of my impending departure would hang in the air like a foul odor. Nobody wanting to acknowledge it, but clearly obvious. So I passed out the hugs and headed to the door.

My dad followed me to the truck and inspected the lawn mower and made small talk. Women talk about feelings, men talk about things. He was saying so much more than "clean the sparkplug." I told him I'd check out the carburetor as we spoke in our language of Man.

I told him I loved him and started the engine. I slipped my Explorer into "Drive" and pulled away from the curb. I looked back in the rear-view mirror to the saddest site I've ever seen. My thin dad with his long, gray beard was standing alone on the sidewalk. He was waiving goodbye.

We Know Dick

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,
and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.
These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

On Saturday we woke up and went out to visit Dick and Shirley who are my family's life-long friends. Dick, before my mother passed, was a few years older than her, but they shared the same Birthday. Dick has a serious liver condition and has been told he will be here for Christmas, but won't be around for summer. He's a great guy. I suspect that where he's going will be much cooler than Las Vegas in the summer.

My guess is that this was probably the last time I will have seen him alive. Susan use to work with him. I've known him since I was 5.

The Cancer Joint

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,
and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.
These writings are a means to help me cope

with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

When you move away from Las Vegas, you tend to forget how ridiculous things are there. There are neon signs for strip clubs that cost more than the building where the women are flossing their asses. Everything is competing for your attention and billboards show half-naked ladies (not that there's anything wrong with that) as they advertise the hottest strip clubs in town. But that's not what I'm in town for.

The Nevada Cancer Institute is opulent. State-of-the-art architecture, polished marble floors, beautiful lighting and original fine arts adorn the walls and communicate that there is a lot of money being exchanged.

I have to sign in in the lobby. I was kind of irritated by that. Why do they need my information? Whatever. My dad goes down the hall and pays his copay while I look at the amazing artwork. I feel like I'm in a museum and the pieces are signed by notable artists. We go to the third floor and sign in (again). My dad has switched from cigarettes to hard candy. He's nervous. I promised that if he was good, he wouldn't get any shots. He just sat there.

In Brass, underneath the front desk are a series of letters that lets us know that that the lobby and free coffee is sponsored by Harrah's. I'm angered at how tacky their advertisement is. I was hoping that in a place like this, a visitor would only see advertisements in the magazines they are reading. And those have a big "Harrah's" sticker on the front of 'em too.

"Mr. Blei, you can come back now"

My dad has lost three pounds in two weeks. I wish I could do that. He's depressed and has no appetite. I think his cancer is changing things about him.

Dr. Ruckdeschel comes in with two silent assistants. He rearranges the room as he pulls a table close and says that I should scoot closer so I can see. He starts drawing lungs on a yellow tablet.

The PET Scan showed negative for metastasizing. His brain is healthy, no spread to his liver but he does have a tumor in his adrenal glands. But the doctor says they are benign tumors and nothing to be concerned with. BUT! my dad has a partially collapsed lung that fills with fluid. It could be caused by one of two things.

They want to do a thoracoscopy so they can see if there are tumors on the lining of the chest or lung. If there are, his cancer is elevated immediately to Stage IV and it's treated with chemotherapy and radiation.

If there are no tumors on the lining, the doctor said his tumor is messing with the lymph nodes and the treatment is a different type of chemo and radiation. Dr. Ruckdeschel said that if that is the case, there is a chance that his cancer could be cured. He said there is a one-in-three chance.

As we left the doctor's office, he stopped to get the ball rolling with the thoracoscopy and the lady said that he needed to go have some blood drawn. He looked at me as if to say that I had lied. He had been good. But they stuck him with a needle anyway.

On the way home, we made a detour. "Let's go to Decatur Liquor, but don't take Alta," he said. "It's torn up and would take all damn day to get through it." So we took Charleston and by 2:30 p.m. started drinking. I wish he liked good beer.

He won't tell you that he's drinking on an empty stomach, but he had a Hostess Cherry Pie, a slice of a small pizza and garlic bread. Other than that, his diet consists of light beer and cigarettes. He drank until 8 p.m. when he announced that he was going to bed. He headed down the hall and I headed off to visit old friends. I think he was glad to have that day behind him.

Vegas

If you are coming here for the first time, you need to know
that this blog, while once a showcase for my newest work,
and other photo-related issues, has been re-purposed.
These writings are a means to help me cope
with my dad's terminal lung-cancer.

He lives in Las Vegas and I in Phoenix.

Vegas. I have a love-hate relationship with that city. I grew up there. I was there when The Mob ruled and people were murdered execution style on the street. Eventually, The Mob went underground and Corporate America stepped in and screwed it all up. Gone are the $2.99 all-you-can-eat prime rib buffets.

A trip to Las Vegas for me isn't like it is for you. You get the cheap drinks, gamble, dance and have fun. I visit family and friends. For me, it might as well be Omaha.

I got into town on Thursday and on Friday took my dad to the Oncologist.

We woke around 8 a.m., and met at the kitchen table for coffee and cigarettes. I had the coffee, he had the cigarettes. I gave him a cherry pie and told him the story of skimming nickles and dimes from him to buy those sweet treats.

Our morning was filled with conversation about how his possessions were to be divided between my brother and I. He clearly stated that he didn't want us fighting! I explained that years ago, he and my mom made out a Will and entered everything into a Trust. I said that it was a good plan and that since it was a legal document, it had to be followed to the letter of the law. I'm the Executor of the Will and I think he found some peace in my response.

We got ready to go to the oncologist's office. I looked into the ashtray that I had seen my dad empty after we woke up. By noon, there was more than a half a pack of cigarette butts in it. Despite his nervousness, his smoking was right on schedule. Like a train.

On the way out the door, before my dad could take control, I pulled out my keys and told him that I would drive. He started to argue and I told him that after seeing the doctor, he was possibly going to be too depressed to get behind the wheel. He got into my truck and we headed west, towards the outskirts of town.

I think that when Susan, Mark and I left Las Vegas for Phoenix in 1994, there might have been a dirt road going through the neighborhood where the Nevada Cancer Institute now stands. On the way, my dad told me that he was going to smoke in my truck, whether I liked it or not. (He was true to his word.) I was amazed at how far it was and how new the surroundings were. We passed Desert Inn Road and I speculated that there is a generation of people living in Las Vegas that don't have a clue what Desert Inn is named after. (They'll probably change it to Tony "The Ant" Spilotro Pkwy and Mayor Oscar Goldman can have a parade.)

The truck wound it's way into a parking lot that was filled with nothing but valet parking. WTF! Going through the parking lot I finally spied a spot about the time my dad started in. "You know, the reason I wanted to drive was because I got that little handicap sticker on it from when your mom was alive, and we could have parked - " I cut him off as I made a turn and put the truck into "Park." I told him to hush up and finish his cigarette. I pointed to the blue and white logo on the space next to ours. "Yeah dad, with that little blue sticker, we could have been one space closer to the door."

We walked to the lobby.

As American as Apple and Cherry Pie

 

Back when I was a kid, America was the place to be.  It was only half as fucked up as it is now.

When we moved out of the trailer park, we moved into a house in North Las Vegas.  It was a "good" neighborhood (which to my dad meant that everyone was White. Yes, he's a bigot.).  Up the street was a low-rent apartment complex that members of a hard-core motorcycle gang lived in.  I went Trick or Treating one Halloween and there in the living room of a Biker's apartment was his Chopper.  It was cool.  I had never seen a Harley where the coffee table was supposed to be.

My dad was the type of person who rarely played catch with a football, but he sure could drink and smoke.

Now on the other side of the Biker's apartment complex was a Stop & Go convenience store.  I was 6 and my parents would send me to the store for the usual things, you know, bread, ketchup, dogfood, beer and cigarettes.

I know, you're thinking, "Bullshit! A little kid can't buy beer and cigarettes!"

Yes I could.  My dad would write me a note.

After writing the note, He'd say, "Here boy. Go get me some beer and cigarettes and bring me the change.  And don't be gone all damn night!"

I'd walk past the Hell's Angels to get to the convenience store and get what my dad wanted.  A couple of times he forgot to sign the note and I'd have to go back to get his signature and come back (Fuck!).

Right across from the register at the store is where they kept Hostess pies.  Apple, cherry, berry and lemon.  If Heaven were flavored, these pies were it.

One thing I never wanted to do was to get caught stealing.  Taking something from a store would guarantee an ass whoopin' that would be difficult to recover from.  So with my dad's change, I would buy an apple or cherry pie, dump the rest of the change into the bag and eat the pie on my way home.  What the hell, it was only .15¢. When he would question where his change was, I'd say, "I dunno.  I put it all in the bag."   Today I consider it an "Asshole Tax.

In 1966 the Surgeon General screwed up my gig by putting this warning on the side of a pack of smokes:  "Caution: Cigarette Smoking May be Hazardous to Your Health."

First it was beer and finally, they stopped selling me cigarettes — even with a signature.  My pie-eating days were over.  The items I was sent to fetch, cost about what I had close to the exact amount for.  Skimming had become too dangerous.

Susan and I were in the supermarket the other day and I passed by the fruit pies.  They brought back memories and I told her the story.  She threw two pies in the cart and told me that I was taking them to Las Vegas and that before his doctor's appointment, I was going to tell my dad the story.

The apple pies now cost $1.15.  The cigarettes have cost him his life.

Step By Step

Parents help their children grow and develop.  My dad wasn't there for potty training, my alcoholic biological father was.  My dad did however, teach me to walk (again).

May 4, 1967 was a sunny day in Las Vegas.  Not a cloud in the cobalt blue sky.  It was perfect weather for a boat ride.  It's a day I'll never forget.

We had been out on Lake Mead dozens of times in my Uncle Tom's boat.  We would fish or sometimes go to an island and picnic and water ski.  My dad thought it was nice and decided to buy one for our family. 

After looking around for a used boat, my dad settled on a pretty ordinary looking watercraft.  It was a lot like Tom's but a different color.  My dad had taken it out for a test ride and agreed to take my mom and I out for the day as long as the seller mad a few repairs.

My dad was born May 4, 1940.  It was his 27th birthday.

We drove to the lake in my dad's jalopy of a Dodge truck, loaded up the boat and we were off! 

While in the boat I was forced to wear a bright orange life jacket.  I wanted to be older so that I could wear a ski vest instead.  The canvas chaffed my little-kid-skin.  On this day, finally, I got to wear my new swimming trunks that my grandma had bought me in Hawaii.  They were red with a cool white Hawaiian print. 

Lake Mead is a big lake.  The boat's motor hummed as we sped along.  Boats made waves that we easily crossed.  My cousin John had shown me that if you reach over the side of the boat, the lake's cool water would splash up onto your hand.  To this day I still reach over and think of John (who was killed by a drunken driver).

With my hand in the water as we went, we zig zagged and play raced Tom's boat.  The last thing I remember is crossing their wake when everything scrambled.  Suddenly the boat was on top and the sky on the bottom and the boat's motor screamed in anger.  Hard lefts!  Hard Rights!  Then it all switched.  "Aw SHIT! What is going on!"

And then it all stopped.

I could hear the slopping of the lake as I lay on the bottom of the boat.   I couldn't get up and my leg hurt really bad!  I think I was screaming.  My pants were really tight on my right side and I couldn't move my leg at all.  It was broken.

My dad tried to fix the boat.  We were dead in the water.  The steering cables had broken and threw us out of control as we crossed Tom's wake.  We couldn't get the engine started, but who cares we couldn't steer.  Tom tied a ski rope to our boat and began the long tow back to the dock.

My femur was broken two inches from my pelvis.  If this would have happened today, they would have pinned it and I would have been OK after a few weeks.  But this was 1967.  They cut off the brand new swimsuit from Hawaii.

I spent several weeks in traction in the hospital and when they finally put me in a full body cast.  It went from my arm pits all the way down my body and down my right leg.  It also went down my left leg to the knee.  I spent the summer in that cast and celebrated my seventh birthday in it.  My muscles had atrophied so much that I couldn't walk when it finally came off.

The doctor gave me exercises to do so that I could build up muscle mass.  I had to scoot on the floor to get around, the doctor was afraid I would fall if he gave me crutches.  Over time, my leg got stronger and my dad was there to help me learn how to walk.  He took his saw to a shovel handle and said it was my cane.  I was weak and afraid.

When lung cancer spreads, it goes to a couple of places:  the liver, the adrenal glands, bones and the brain.  Regardless of where it goes, it's still lung cancer and needs to be treated as such. Bone and joint pain is a common complaint.  A few weeks ago, my dad started walking with a cane.  If I know him, he's probably got my old cane, or taken his saw to a shovel he'll never use again.

Step-by-step he's gotten me to this point in my life.  Thursday I'm going to Las Vegas to take him to the doctor and step-by-step, begin the process of getting his affairs in order.