MEMOIR/THE TOP SHELF

Turning Dad On

One of those days you never forget

For anyone here who thought they were about to read a stomach-turning confession, I’m sorry to disappoint.

Of course, I’m being cheeky now. This story that I want to share with you is about the day I turned my father on to weed. Because if anyone deserved to get his buzz on, it was him.

Six years ago, when both my parents were diagnosed with stage four lung cancer, my sister moved them out of their apartment and into her home to begin the Herculean task of caring for them.

She did what I probably never could. Our estranged brother certainly couldn’t as he did everything but abandon us. Oh, he showed up on occasion, Starbucks in hand, but he never actually contributed anything.

After our parents, and then I was diagnosed with cancer, I believe he wanted to distance himself from us as if the disease was “catching.” Or, maybe he’s just a selfish asshole and I’m giving him too much leeway.

What made this situation so remarkable, to me was the grace with which my sister and her family accepted this “new normal” that turned their lives upside down.

The twin hospital beds in their living room. The kitchen table strewn with our parents’ medications and financial records. The oxygen tank and other medical-related paraphernalia in the family room. The total lack of privacy 24/7. And all this, just the tip of the iceberg.

Our folks lasted for nine months. And during this time, my sister adjusted her work schedule as a hiring manager for a major grocery chain so she could take Mom and Dad to their doctors' appointments and chemo sessions.

Diane, my hero, arose in the wee hours so she could fulfill the commitments of her job and then be home and available for whatever our folks needed. And, they needed a lot. As much as you might imagine for two people in their early 80s in the midst of the battle of their lives.

As I said, a Herculean task. Some people just have the “stuff,” you know? While the rest of us look on in wonderment.

Even as I try to describe it to you, I’m understating the situation. But, if you’ve been a caregiver to a loved one, you get it. You know what’s involved and you’ve experienced both the emotional and physical toll.

During this time, Diane and her family decided to take a much-needed trip to Mexico at an all-inclusive resort, far away from doctors and oxygen tanks and the all-pervasive sense of dread that shrouded their household day after grueling day.

I should inject here that, as grim as the shit got, my sister made sure that there were fun times, as well. Our mom, especially, was a real hoot with a wicked sense of humor and she and Diane recorded several videos that rival anything you can find on TikTok. Thankfully, I have some of them, albeit, viewing these digital last bits of a parent is bittersweet as you might imagine.

Diane and her family were to be gone a mere six days. She asked if I would stay over for the first three while our brother was slated to take the “second shift.”

I was happy to step up. Thankfully, the company where I worked at the time was very supportive. I had recently finished my own round of radiation therapy for breast cancer and was told to just take the three days off and not worry about it.

But, in spite of their assurances, I was worried. Not about my job, but about being alone with my father for three days. My mother was enduring one of the many hospital stays that had them both bouncing back and forth like ping pong balls, so it was just us.

My dad’s name was Lawrence but most people called him Larry, or the Yiddish iteration, “Leibel.” Except for my mother, who always referred to him as “Lorry,” peppered with the occasional, “asshole.”

He was never easy to live with.

For as long as I can remember, my dad and I had a contentious relationship. Through the years, there were long stretches of silence between us, but that said, there was never any doubt that we loved one another, and I know, that in his writer’s soul, he was proud of me.

Why “writer’s soul?” Because I’m convinced that’s where I inherited my love for this craft. My dad was always penning poems and letters and other written bits that showed he ached to be someone other than who he was. I believe that was the tragedy of his life: Never giving himself sufficient credit for the man he ultimately became, or for the lengths he went to in order to care for his family.

Trepidatious or not, I was determined to make my time watching over my dad a success, one that I’d remember, after…

Well, it certainly was that! My three days with my father consisted of my literally waiting on him hand and foot. And I was happy to do it, but he resisted me nearly every step of the way. For example, although he allowed Diane to drive him to his doctor visits, he wouldn’t let me. He insisted on driving us. I’m not sure if he didn’t trust me behind the wheel of his car, or what the hell it was, but I’d sit there in the passenger seat wondering WTF?? Why am I even here?

I rattled around that house like a ghost, uncertain as to what to do at any given moment. Should I ask Dad if he wants to watch a movie? Sit on the deck? Fly a fucking kite? What?

Mostly, I let him be to do as he liked, which largely consisted of his working his beloved crossword puzzles during the day, and downing an impressive quantity of vodka at night.

Oh, he wasn’t the only tippler, trust me.

Truth be told, I couldn’t wait to get back to my own home, selfish as that sounds, but at times, there was an almost palpable tension in the air.

I wasn’t my sister and never would be and it was she who had our father’s adoration. And she deserved it. Even before our parents became ill, Diane was always there for them.

When they got loaded and fought, viciously, it was she who they called to bitch about the other. I did not envy her that role as age did not mellow them out, as one would think. Their battles were as heated as they’d ever been.

Even though Dad could be difficult AF, there were a couple of high notes during my stay. Literally.

I’d been talking about getting our father stoned on weed to help mitigate the effects of chemotherapy and all the other shit he was going through. Since no one else had a problem with this, I went for it. And, amazingly, so did Dad.

One afternoon, I retrieved my pipe and the weed I’d brought with me, sat Dad down in the family room and “gave him the tour,” so to speak.

Thankfully, the smoke did not appear to irritate his poor lungs in any way, so he had several pulls off that little wooden pipe. Several. Yet he insisted that he wasn’t stoned.

Well, all I can say is, if he wasn’t buzzed, his mood sure as hell improved, somehow. And I was ecstatic for it. So happy in fact that I made his beloved liver and onions for dinner. I was a bit hesitant because, if I couldn’t make it exactly the way my mom did, I knew I’d be in for some shit.

But sometimes, folks, things work out. As Mom did, I pre-soaked the liver in milk to help remove that awful ”livery” taste, which works, by the way and that evening, fried it up with lots of sliced onion.

He loved it and I felt enormous pride for not having fucked it up.

By dinnertime, Dad was no longer stoned so he was allowed his usual tipple. Not like I could have kept it from him, anyway. Too, what did it matter at that point? Why should he be denied whatever simple pleasures he had left?

Lest you think my visit ended on a warm fuzzy note, gird your loins, guys. It was anything but. My family never did the warm fuzzy thing until we got a few pops into us and then the shit could turn real bad, real fast.

I’m not sure which of the three days my father uttered the words I’m about to share, or what incited the remark. In fact, to the best of my recollection, I didn’t say or do anything to anger him as I always walked on egg shells when we were together.

“I wish she’d just fucking leave already.”

Or, something to that effect.

In fact, I was in the next room when he leveled this zinger and I don’t believe he knew I’d heard him. But, how can I be sure? Perhaps he wanted me to hear.

At that moment, I knew, without question, that our relationship would always be rocky, at best. How could it be otherwise? He was dying. We’d need another lifetime to repair what ailed us. A miracle. And we all knew that none was forthcoming.

I don’t believe my father’s intention was to hurt me. Considering what he was enduring from a disease that would only worsen over time and ravage his body in ways none of us ever expected, to me, he was a champ. In fact, both my parents had balls for days. If I learned nothing else from this grim “milestone,” it’s that.

As it turned out, my stay with Dad was a hell of a lot more successful than my ex-brother’s. It appeared that his version of caring for our father differed from mine and Diane’s. At some point during his stay, he hooked up with one of our cousins and fucked off for several hours, leaving Dad alone, during which he fell, and like that iconically awful advertisement, “couldn’t get up.”

Thankfully, he was okay. As I said, Dad was tough. But I don’t want to think about that. I’d prefer to remember him getting his buzz on courtesy of his eldest child who tried, in her way, to ease his pain.

“And Dad, should you ever see this from wherever the hell you are, I hate to break it to you, but dude, you were stoned!”

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Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.

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