THE WIND PHONE

My Amazing Dad Taught Me About Buying, Selling, and Dying

He took his role as a guide for me very seriously

Dad refused to let me flounder through life without his sage advice about everything. I couldn’t get out the door for an oil change without him stopping me.

“Don’t let ’em upsell you at the oil-changing place…you don’t need a damn air filter from them. You can buy one and put it in yourself for half the price. And don’t let ’em get away with not explaining mechanical problems, either. They’ll do that because you’re a woman. Don’t take that. If you’re paying for the work, you deserve the explanation.”

Sometimes, all the lessons were a little annoying, but I learned so much from him.

In his profession, he was the quintessential salesman. When I was a little girl, I learned quickly how to buy and sell. He talked about selling widgets.

“What’s a widget, Dad?”

“It doesn’t matter what it is! That’s just another word for a thingamajigger. If you need to buy a thing, you can dicker and get a lower price!

If you’re selling something, have the buyer throw out a price first! See what they’re willing to pay. Have a price in your mind. Know your profit point. Don’t let them see you get nervous. Keep it light. Don’t wiggle your foot. That’s a ‘tell’ and they’ll see you’re nervous. And don’t chew gum while you’re doing business, either. Look ’em in the eye! Tell the truth. They’ll try to bargain you down, but you have to eat, too. Tell ’em that. Be honest but don’t show all your cards.”

Dad had two fishing boats, a drift boat for fishing Oregon’s rivers and an ocean-going boat. He took his clients fishing all the time.

“There’s nothing you can’t work out on a fishing trip,” he said. He had a point there.

I didn’t have a boat, but I did work in sales and advertising for years. I could have used a boat, but I did well anyway. In Southeast Asia, I negotiated advertising deals every day with an international clientele. I enjoyed tremendous financial success. Growing up with a master salesperson taught me a lot.

Dad wanted me back home in Oregon, home from overseas in Cambodia. I was desperately bailing the boat of a sinking marriage. When Dad was sixty-five, I moved back to Oregon and lived near him for the remaining twelve years of his life. I was glad to be back, because my 44-year-old ex’s dalliance with a glossy-haired child half his age was causing me panic attacks. I wanted away from the cruelty of a cheating spouse; I wanted to go home.

Home to Oregon.

Home, where the incense-cedars are so fresh and green. Home, where the Canadian geese fly overhead during the winter months, slowing to spiral down and land on our lake. My family home in Oregon is a place where people love me, a place of family meals and laughter. I needed to leave Cambodia, where I’d been for eight years.

When I got home to the USA, Dad helped me get through my divorce. I cried a lot, and some days were worse. Dad took me to Starbucks, and we talked over coffee. I told him the same stories over and over. I was so monotonous, but my dad listened. Then we had projects to work on.

We went to farmers’ auctions and bought cattle. I worked in the barn and mowed a four-acre lawn every few days. I went on thirty-mile bike rides, pedaling furiously down long country roads. I couldn’t stay busy enough. If I sat around, I stared at my silent phone.

A decade later, Dad was dying. He had a near-death illness, and went to “Happy Nursing Home Village” to rehabilitate. I desperately wanted to get him home, no matter the hardship, but he needed so much care at first. Dad and I agreed he needed some time at the nursing home.

The staff there made me so angry with excuses and power trips. Even in his weakened condition, Dad realized the politics of the place were a challenge. He was supposed to get therapy, but we couldn’t get him on the schedule.

Although he was disabled and required a certain type of bed, they refused to bend the rules. Imagine! he had a leg that didn’t bend, a hip with a broken joint, and they wanted to punish him in a narrow cot. That was not going to happen.

Staring down a stubborn administrator, I said, “What if this were your father? Your mother? Do you really have rules that keep people from being appropriately cared for and comfortable?” Next, I called Dad’s doctor and put my cell on speakerphone.

I let the nursing home staff hear the doctor say, “What the hell is wrong with those people?” I played hardball, and the administrators had to acquiesce. I can be very persistent when it comes to my loved ones.

The final straw was when I took him to my home, six blocks away from the care facility, for his birthday. Dad begged to stay at my home until 7 p.m., but they said he had to be back at 4 p.m., which made no sense. He wasn’t a child, and I knew his medication needs. I called the facility and told the woman at the desk I’d bring him back later that evening. Dad rested comfortably in the recliner, so happy to not be in their miserable bed or his torture-device wheelchair.

“If you’re so great at taking care of him, maybe he doesn’t need to be here,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her words.

“Good point,” I said, “I’ll take that into consideration.” I’m sure she heard the icy tone of my voice.

That was December 2nd. On the 11th, I was loading him up and taking him home. The previous week, the nursing home “care team” argued hard, and set up a team meeting to reinforce that he needed to stay there.

Dad sat by me in that meeting, and when they insisted he needed 24-hour care, I agreed and shared the printed schedule I’d brought with me. Expensive? Oh, yes. It is ridiculously expensive to pay for in-home care.

Dad said, “But I wanted to leave you girls money.”

Would you rather have money or the knowledge you did your best for an old disabled guy who happens to be your father? Dad was coming home, and there would be no argument.

I patched together people to help with Dad, and knew it would be a lot on top of my full-time teaching. It had to be done.

I was not going to let my disabled father suffer discomfort. When the doctor, administrators, nurses, and therapists saw the schedule, Dad nudged my knee with his.

“We got ’em, Deb.”

Nursing homes in the USA can be like prisons, but I know the system, having worked in nursing homes as a young adult. It’s all about the money. I would not let them keep my father.

So, Dad taught me his final lesson — about dying. He came home December 11th and died the following May 12th. I’m sure he lasted that long because he was so happy in his farmhouse.

He fell in love with one of the aides I hired, and she baked him peach cobblers.

I have no regrets. Dad taught me what dying is like, too. He and I talked so much.

“Deb, it’s like when I close my eyes, I sleep — but I’m not sleeping. I’m seeing my entire life. People I haven’t seen for a long time, and it’s like we’re talking. It’s really happening, not like a memory! You won’t believe it. My grandmother, my sisters, my parents. They’re all laughing, and we’re having family time, and it’s unreal!”

I asked him if he thought it was the drugs, but no, he said.

“I’ve had two dozen surgeries. You know that. I’ve never had an experience like this,” he said.

Dad taught me about courage too. His death wasn’t easy, but I was with him, along with his favorite aide. His hospice counselor came out, and we had a heartfelt talk with Dad. Well, I talked. I told the counselor how wonderful my father was and that I’d be there. He got a hero’s send-off, and he was ready to go.

He ate mashed potatoes that day and decided to stop taking all the medications. I told the counselor I had the morphine, and that we were going to be fine, and I’d be there every minute.

My dad squeezed my hand three times, his hand signal to me that meant I love you.

How could he have known, when he was a thirty-five-year-old man, teaching his ten-year-old daughter the three-squeeze code, that our old hand signal would be one of our last communications? My eyes fill with tears to consider it even now. How can these miracles happen, these sweet messages of love in the darkest hours?

I miss him every day, but I learned so much from his lessons. I carry him with me. I pass on the lessons I can.

And I always buy my own air filters. There’s that. And so much more. I remember everything, Dad. I will not forget the lessons.

Thank you for reading.