PBW: Every Goodbye is Inevitable.

As usual, I almost died today.

Like most things, my flair for the melodramatic comes from my parents. As far back as I can remember, my father would always conclude resigned statements with, “I'll be dead by then, anyway.” Not to be outdone, my mom would always preface mundane statements with “In case I die...”. While it's wise to be prepared, she would do so to a fault. “In case I die, the salt shaker is in this cabinet.” “In case I die, the measuring spoons are on the third shelf down on the left side.” Part of it was her attempt to crack through a perceived shell of not paying attention, to see if we were really listening. But she had a true sense of her mortality, as much as my tired father would anticipate his after a hard day at work. “My shoulder hurts and I can't even bend my fingers anymore with this arthritis. Oh well, I guess I'll be dead soon, anyway.”

When I tell people tales of my brushes with death, those who've not witnessed the incidents firsthand are often skeptical. Surely, I'm exaggerating. No one is THAT unlucky. When I think about my parents, I wonder if my words aren't a reflection of what I heard growing up. Perhaps I don't have many brushes with death. Today was an ordinary day at work, and I went for a perfectly ordinary walk into town with TheWriteJerry at lunch. It was perfectly normal when the light turned green and we proceeded Westbound across an intersection. There's nothing surprising or life-threatening about the Southbound car I noticed going awfully fast. I noted its speed, slowed down instead of running as I sometimes do when I cross a street, and finally stopped and jumped back a bit as she finally slammed on the brakes. The resounding squeal was as deafening as it was ineffective, and she sailed clear into the middle of the intersection. Fortunately, an Eastbound car proceeding into the intersection stopped as soon as the noise erupted, the cars avoiding a head-on collision by literal inches. There was no collision, and no flying glass, plastic, or other shrapnel to additionally threaten us. The woman who ran the light only sat in the middle of the intersection for a second, before stepping on it again and continuing on her way at the same dangerous speeds. In retrospect, I guess I was dishing out my trademark brand of hyperbole by saying, “I almost died”, yes?

Nothing and no one lasts forever. All matter exists through endurance and a series of near-misses, until it wears out or finally gets hit. For example, in 2004, on the way to a July 4th parade, a van struck the back of my dad's 1986 Monte Carlo and spun us around as we were crossing an intersection. I realized that they weren't stopping seconds before impact, loudly brought it to my dad's attention, and he sped up enough to avoid impact with the passenger side, but not enough to fully avoid a collision. Our insurance regarded the car as totaled, and my dad got a new car. The old one, which my mom found a sudden sentimental attachment for, sat in our yard. The battery died, the tires lost air, and it began to look really dirty. My dad wanted to bring it to a junkyard, or donate it to charity, or SOMETHING, but she wanted to “find a good home for it” and thought maybe someone could fix it up. Today's Photo Blog Wednesday is the story of this car:








It was the subject of many an argument for over a year. Recently, my mom finally got a diagnosis from a doctor regarding a painful affliction she'd endured for years, and learned she had an ulcer on her bladder. Ambulatory surgery was scheduled to remove it but in the interim, she's been making final preparations. The house began to look cleaner as various bills and other paperwork were sorted out, unnecessary papers finally discarded. Files were organized and more than ever my father and I learned the whereabouts of important things in the event of her untimely demise. And so last Monday, she consented to say goodbye to an old friend and allowed my dad to call a junkyard to come take it away.



My dad quickly made the call, and set about recharging the battery and cleaning the car out in preparation for the arrival of a tow truck. At times my mom peered out the window and, since I had taken a vacation day, urged me to take pictures. Occasionally she'd wonder aloud if she was doing the right thing, and console herself with the “fact” that she'd be dead in just over a week anyway. Soon my parents were signing away our old car, which they'd had since I was in high school, and which had some of my school stickers on it adding to her attachment.



Even my dad looked uncharacteristically wistful as the car was towed away. My mom watched in silence, until the broken support from the rear bumper made a horrible scraping sound, leaving a long white gash in our driveway which my dad just painted with sealant this past Summer. Perhaps luck is hereditary.




After a few adjustments to the angle, the driver was soon on his way. In the distance, the protruding metal would still occasionally contact the street. And then, she was gone forever.



As for my mom, her operation yesterday seems to have gone fine and she’s home, alive and well if a bit tired and sore. She’ll need to rest and stay off her feet for a few days, so she was unable to travel with my dad today to New Jersey for his monthly heart treatments. I was concerned about his voyaging alone, but his journey was without incident either way. It was not unlike a taste of what they must have gone through when I was in my mid-twenties spending Saturday nights at karaoke bars. The son becomes the parent? Even more frightening though is the fact that, since she really should stay off her feet for a few days, the task of cooking for my parents and my uncle tomorrow has fallen on the shoulders of an unconventional volunteer. I told her I’d take care of everything, and she’d just need to be there to instruct me. For some reason right now though, I’m remembering the time when I was 8 or 9 and decided to make pancakes on Mother’s Day. It was years later that she confessed I’d left some eggshell bits leading to an unexpected crunch at times. If the news tomorrow reports that an Italian family on Long Island suffered a fatal meal, think of me.

I guess we all have to say goodbye sometime. In case I die tomorrow, have a Happy Thanksgiving! If it’s just my usual brush with death though, I’ll have an update tomorrow night.