It Was Twenty Years Ago Today......
My father died twenty years ago this week. He was in the hospital with a quarter-sized cancer on his lung. We were hoping for a successful chemotherapy treatment, but he had a heart attack before it could begin. So what got him was a combination of Kent cigarettes and his own hyper-tense personality. He was 62.
I'll never forget how I got the news. My new wife Gigi and I were moving from an apartment to a house we were building. She was pregnant with our second child Ally. Landon our first, was not yet two.
We didn't have that much furniture, so I was doing the move with the help of a guy from a day labor pool. His name was Dave.
He was stocky, with a 2-day growth, and a mottled complexion that made his face looked bruised. His hair was mid-ear with a shock that drooped over his forehead. He looked around 55, but was probably 40. Dave said he lived in the men's shelter. He complained that the food was fatty or full of sugar.
"They give you anything that's donated. We get a lot of supermarket cakes. They figure it fills us up."
As I was loading our couch onto the back of the truck, Gigi ran up. She was in tears.
"Your father just died! I am so sorry!" And she held me.
I just stood there.
After about a minute or so, I looked at Dave through my tears. This guy was a drunk. Probably a bad one. He was fighting his disease every day. Living on the streets or in a shelter if he stayed sober. I am sure the 50 bucks or whatever I was going to pay him meant a lot, but he looked at me and said, "I understand if you need to not work right now."
I looked at him again.
"No, let's finish." Gigi got into gear preparing to go to comfort my mother, and to be with my brother and sister.
Dave and I drove to the new house in silence for about ten minutes, then he asked, "What did your daddy die of?"
"Cancer from cigarettes. And probably stress," I answered.
Dave nodded. He kept his Kools in his pocket for the rest of the move.
I learned later my father's heavy drinking made the poison from the cigarettes even more virulent. Alcohol and tobacco combine to kill you even faster. From a health standpoint, the difference between my father and Dave was just a matter of degree.
My father was not an easy person to relate to. You couldn't tell him anything. I guess he figured if the Nazis couldn't kill him, neither could Lorillard or R.J. Reynolds. He was wrong.
I miss him though. For years later, every so often I would have a question about a plumbing problem, or a banking mystery, and I would reach for the phone, only to realize he was not there. All old habits are hard to break.
I am sometimes mad at him. He never met Ally, or John. Never saw my first house, or heard me with Sheri, or left my mother with any insurance. We all missed out on a lot. I am very thankful to have had such a wonderful radio career. It has made our lives better.
About a year after he died I was picking up some dinner at a restaurant in Charlotte called Alexander Michaels. While waiting in the bar, I had a beer. A woman I used to work with saw me and came over to ask about my daughters.
"They are so much fun," I replied smiling, as I lit the cigarette between my lips and inhaled the poison.
She stared at me for a moment and said, "Don't you want to see them graduate high school?"
That was the last cigarette I ever smoked. Twenty years ago, next year.
