Before
leaving his job, my father had become a bit dour and subdued, more
inwardly focused and less willing to engage actively with others. His
pre-retirement personality didn't emerge overnight but instead
evolved over years. The stress of work, financial worries and health
issues certainly contributed to his less than rosy weltanschauung. My
father belonged to the “Greatest Generation”, the soldiers who
had fought in WWII, and these veterans did not vent about their
emotions and anxieties, instead choosing to stay silent and shoulder
their troubles as best they could. And my father was definitely even
less talkative than most of his male peers. I can recall a number of
occasions when I had messed up terribly and got caught red-handed
violating my parents' rules. Days would pass while I awaited their
response, tension building with each passing day, until finally my
father would address my offense. First he would recount what he had
been informed of my activities in one or two short sentences and then
ask if that synopsis was accurate. When I'd admit that it was true,
he would look sad, never making eye contact with me, and quietly ask,
“Well, that isn't going to happen again, is it?”, to which I'd
sheepishly reply, “No, it won't.” End of discussion. It was far
worse than if he had harangued me for hours... and far more effective
too.
His
innate reticence had been clearly compounded by his recent
experiences at work. His last boss was a high-strung and ambitious
megalomaniac who crafted his management style on the conduct of
Mussolini. He would sarcastically pester my father about retirement,
making it obvious that he wanted him out of the office. Even when my
father was
sixty-five years old, he still needed to work an additional year
before the mortgage on the family home was paid off; leaving
employment before satisfying that loan was an impossibility. Also,
after over three decades with his company, my father had been granted
a private office in which to work, but this boss took that away and
converted the space into a conference room – a humiliating blow for
my dad. Surely his boss's most egregious crime occurred the first
time my father was in the hospital undergoing stomach ulcer
treatment. During his stay at the hospital, my father received a
visit from his boss and another coworker, and, even though my father
had been absent from work for only a short period of time, his boss
felt compelled to inform him that an extended leave would mean that
the bureau would have to take possession of his company car. Though I
believe that current medical thinking may contradict this, back in
the eighties, it was the consensus that stress, if not the direct
cause of ulcers, greatly exacerbated their symptoms. To threaten a
patient undergoing treatment for ulcers with extreme consequences
seemed particularly unconscionable.
When
we were kids, my father would have gotten up, eaten his breakfast,
bathed and exited the bathroom before we had stumbled out of our
bedrooms at about 6:30 am. He warmed up his car quite a while as I
would groggily ladle down a bowl of cereal at our kitchen table, then
he was off to work. He invariably returned home promptly at 6:00 pm
and joined his family for dinner. In my parents' bedroom he had
installed a small, blonde wood desk at which he would plug away at
outstanding work files on his evenings and weekends. Looking on as an
inexperienced child, his schedule seemed unacceptably oppressive,
and, even toward the end of his career when his children had
graduated from college and were working, that schedule hadn't
changed.
Another
challenge my father faced at the end of his career was an appreciable
worsening of his eyesight, eventually necessitating cataract surgery
on one of his eyes. After the operation, his pupil, no longer round,
was now shaped like a keyhole, he was required to wear a contact lens
in the impaired eye and, honestly, his eyesight didn't improve
noticeably. His night vision was particularly bad. When picking up my
sister and me at the train station in the evenings, he would drive
quite slowly, hugging the right side of the road to allow other cars
to pass him. We worried that he might inadvertently hit a bicyclist
or pedestrian obscured in the dark shadows at the road's edge. But
driving was a critical component of his job. Hanging up his keys, at
that time, was not a possibility.
So
clearly my father's last years of employment weren't easy for him.
Instead of coasting into his golden years, he was struggling against
adversity and bearing up as best he could against the assaults of an
amoral and ambitious supervisor. When during my undergraduate years I
painted my only oil portrait of him, I pictured him with eyes
concealed by reflections and I inserted behind him an invented
background of crisscrossing horizontal and vertical studs (meant to
convey a feeling of complex and exacting structure).
|
Gerard Wickham - Portrait of My Father - 1981 |
I'm
certain that I've unintentionally presented thus far in this entry a
distorted, uni-dimensional portrait of my father and a far too
harrowing account of his last years of employment. He truly was not
“besieged” during those days. I would say that the hardships I've
described above certainly colored his outlook, making him more
introspective and aloof, but his daily routine remained unchanged and
he plodded through his days impassively. He continued to enjoy the
support of his wife and children, often participating in family
events and visits on his weekends. Regardless of whatever changes I
observed in my father, he remained a faithful, kind, quiet-spoken and
helpful parent.
So I
guess this is where my story begins...
It was
January of 1987, and I had made the train ride from Brooklyn to
Suffolk County, Long Island to flee the noise and bustle of the city,
visit with family and, most importantly, welcome a new addition to
the family: my sister's newborn son. It was cold, at least for
temperate Long Island, and a few inches of crusty snow carpeted the
ground. The family home was situated on a quarter acre parcel in a
very suburban development, and returning there always awakened a host
of memories for me. The place was now both comfortably familiar and
foreign at the same time. I had been living in a Brooklyn apartment
with my girlfriend and working in Manhattan for a while now, and I
always felt just a little out of place when returning home.
Studying
the contents of the refrigerator, I asked my mother what the heavy
cream was for. She replied, “Oh, your dad's doctor has him drinking
that whenever his ulcers act up. It's supposed to coat his stomach.”
“Does it work?” I asked. She just shrugged her shoulders. It was
disheartening to learn that my father was still experiencing
discomfit from his ulcers. I had hoped that his symptoms would abate
once he escaped the anxieties of employment.
My
father had been retired for about a year then, and already I could
see positive changes in his personality. He was alert and talkative
and definitely more relaxed. He frequently laughed, and I was seeing
within him the father of my childhood who would greet me with an
upbeat “Hiya!” when he came up the walkway after returning from
the office. I was shocked to learn that he had begun to patronize the
town's senior center. My father was NOT a participator! I remember my
mother telling me a few years earlier that my father had belonged to
a local volleyball league when they first moved out on the Island
about three decades ago, and I almost fell over. My father was not
athletic, and he certainly did not belong to things. This new
sociability was a very promising development. Considering these
changes, I had reason to conclude that retirement was working out for
him and could only anticipate further gains to come.
Well
after dinner that night, I decided that I wanted to go out and
experiment with my new camera, a Nikon FG-20 recently purchased in
order to make high quality slides of my artwork. So I headed out the
door into the darkness with a camera bag slung over my shoulder and a
tripod in hand intending to take long exposure, naturally lit photos
at various locations in my hometown. I remember that the
ice-encrusted snow made a fantastic reflective surface that picked up
distant, dim houselights and the ghostly glimmer of the moon and I
would lie on my belly behind my tripod hoping to catch the effect.
After a
few hours at my endeavors, I arrived home sometime after 1:00 AM to
find the house brightly lit and still filled with activity. This was
unexpected, and I passed warily through our kitchen's backdoor. My
mother rushed to me and explained that my father's ulcers were
bleeding badly but he refused to go to the hospital. I found my
father in his pajamas and bathrobe standing in our home's sole
bathroom. He was pale and looking weak. I stated that I was going to
drive him to the hospital immediately, but he wouldn't budge. “I'm
fine. I don't need the hospital,” he insisted. I tried
ineffectually to persuade him, but he clearly felt that he could
weather this storm without intervention. My mother pulled me aside
and instructed me to “make him go”. This contradicted my firm
belief at that time in the fundamental right of the individual to
determine his or her own fate - a belief I still hold today. “He'll
let me know when it's time,” I assured her. We lowered the lights
and went reluctantly to bed. I kept my clothes on, stretched out on
the living room sofa and covered myself with a quilt, ready to
transport my father to the hospital in a flash. I hadn't slept a wink
when an hour or two later my father crept into the room and quietly
notified me that he was ready to go.
While
waiting in the emergency room to see a doctor, my father suggested to
me that I should go home and get some sleep. Although he was lucid
and clearheaded, I thought it best that he have someone with him
(even if just for company) and indicated that I would stick around.
After another few minutes, he turned to me and said, “Look, it's
going to be a while before I see a doctor, and, after that, they're
going to admit me. There's really no point in your waiting. In the
meantime, I'll just try to get some rest here.” At that moment, I
was conflicted but eventually succumbed to the logic of what he was
saying and the exhaustion I was feeling. I agreed to go home. Not
that it really mattered much one way or the other, but I've always
regretted that decision.
My
father's prediction was accurate. He was admitted to the hospital,
and, unlike on his previous stay there when they had treated him
non-surgically, the doctors this time determined that part of his
stomach should be removed. Within a day or two, the operation was
performed... successfully, and the next day my father was
recuperating in a room waiting until he was well enough to be
discharged. I visited him then.
He was
in a regular room, shared with one other patient. I recall vividly
the pastel-colored walls, the artificial wood-grained veneers on the
furniture, the plastic accouterments, the high-tech beds. I was happy
to find my father looking well and was relieved to think that, his
problems being behind him, he could return home and live unencumbered
by persistent illness. Though a little weak, he was alert and
cheerful. After a few minutes of the usual hospital visit palaver, he
stroked his chin and winced. “Hey, could you shave me? This stubble
is itching me terribly.” I readily consented, and he directed me to
a cabinet beside his bed in which I found all the necessary gear to
perform this small chore.
While he
held a basin on his chest, I lathered him up, being careful not to
get shaving cream on the hospital linens. Once I applied the razor to
his cheek, I was immediately aware that this shaving job was going to
be a challenge. My father's beard was thick and coarse, the feel of
his skin akin to that of sandpaper. Though in my late twenties, my
facial hair was still thin and downy, easily dispatched during a
quick shave. But I was undeterred. I scraped away at his face,
determined not to inadvertently nick him. I painstakingly applied
myself to this task, regularly changing my position to achieve the
optimal angle to apply the razor. I lifted his nose to get at his
mustache. I asked him to raise his chin, so I could focus on his
neck. I switched from one side of his bed to the other. I loomed over
him. I scrunched down below him. Throughout this long ordeal, my
father cooperated patiently, never losing his cool, recognizing that
I was honestly trying my best. Finally I announced that my mission
had been completed. I grabbed a small towel, wiped the residual
lather from his face and examined the results of my efforts. I was
aghast. He looked exactly the same as before I had started. I
couldn't believe it. I must have held the razor at the wrong angle,
or maybe I didn't press hard enough on it. Whatever the reason, I had
clearly failed to accomplish anything. A tiny giggle bubbled up from
inside me, but I struggled to suppress it. The more I tried to
contain it, the more the giggle insisted it had to be free. I
squeezed my lips together tightly, my face flushing bright red with
my efforts. At first, a few hiccupy gasps escaped from me, but they
soon escalated into something very loud between a keen and a groan,
what I imagine the call of a lovesick moose might sound like. Tears
streamed down my cheeks. I glanced over at my father's roommate to
see him investigating our activities with a terrified expression on
his face, which, of course, only heightened the hilarity. Eventually,
I could contain myself no longer and erupted into a fit of laughter
which literally lasted several minutes. When I had calmed down and
wiped the tears from my eyes, I explained to my perplexed father what
had happened and offered gamely to give it another try. “No,” he
replied, “I think it's just fine. Really.”
From
there, it all went downhill in a long series of internal bleeding
episodes necessitating multiple, ineffective operations and
inevitably concluding with some lethal hospital infection... all
within a three month period. Every time I came to visit, my father
was hooked up to an additional piece of equipment. Eventually his
room in the Intensive Care Unit, where he now resided, resounded with
the wheezing, beeping, clicking, buzzing and screeching of machinery,
monitors and alarms. Unable to communicate due to a tracheotomy, my
father expressed with his eyes what he couldn't with words, and his
eyes seemed to be saying, “Get me the hell out of here!” One
afternoon, I entered the hospital along with my brothers to visit our
father, and we were ambushed by a doctor we'd never seen before. He
was handsome and slick, wore a dashing bow tie and spoke in a soft,
conspiratorial voice. The gist of his little speech was to inform us
that our father had received excellent care and the hospital, doctors
and nurses had done everything possible to treat him and make him
comfortable. He really couldn't say enough positive things about the
magnificent performance of the staff there. We just stared back
totally perplexed. At the end, he asked if we had any questions, and,
when we had none, he trotted off never to be seen again. We looked at
each other, knowing that now all hope was lost, and one of us said (I
really can't remember who), “I guess they're worried about getting
sued.”
At the
end, the doctors informed us that they could not operate again. As a
last-ditch effort, they would try a robust infusion of Vitamin K
which might help to stem the internal bleeding which had plagued him
since his initial operation. Strangely enough, it worked. But at that
point his health was completely compromised and his body beset with
infection. My father died near the end of March.
I
believe people process loss in different ways. Some people simply
collapse, disassociating from reality, surrendering completely to
their grief. Some people may find the whole death ritual to be
cathartic – you know, the demands of making arrangements, meeting
with funeral directors, getting dressed up, attending religious
services, organizing meals, and gathering with friends and family. At
a bare minimum, addressing all those responsibilities provides a
distraction. My family tends to be a bit pragmatic, objective and
dispassionate. I recall that during the weeks before and after my
father's death, my siblings and I gained some comfit from engaging in
a lot of finger-pointing. Of course, we couldn't help but wonder what
would have resulted if my father had received that Vitamin K infusion
even before the first determination to operate was made. We analyzed
every decision the doctors made, finding fault with most of them. If
only they hadn't... Why didn't they try that earlier... Shouldn't
they have... Don't get me wrong, a lot of pretty big blunders seemed
to have been made in my father's treatment, but I also believe that
we lacked the expertise to productively evaluate the judgment of the
medical professionals. We even questioned the choices my father had
made: why hadn't he switched doctors... why hadn't he been more
aggressive in addressing his ulcers... why did he hold off seeking
treatment during this last episode? It took me years to recognize
that our bodies have a shelf-life, and often, despite our tweaking
and fiddling, nothing we do is going to extend or shorten that
shelf-life by much. It's reality. I know death is a hard thing to
face. We really want to believe that by being proactive, by staying
on top of all the latest medical guidance, by making wise choices and
by heeding our bodies' warning signals we can put off our ultimate
departures – well, let's face it, perpetually. Such thinking is
absurd but very reassuring. I guess we all like to indulge in the
fantasy that we're in control of our destinies.
Once all
the post-death ceremonies were performed and my family had convened
multiple times, informally and in various assortments, to lament, to
agonize, to analyze, to criticize and to, basically, vent, it was
time for me and my girlfriend to head back to our apartment in
Brooklyn and for us both to return to our jobs. In my experience the
real mourning begins once you reestablish your everyday life... when
dark thoughts creep in during your daily subway ride or in the midst
of watching a TV show or while lying awake in bed at night.
Strangely, the “what ifs” that had so dominated my family's
thinking earlier began to diminish and were replaced by a vague
realization that had been troubling me throughout my father's
decline. I felt that at some point during his weeks-long hospital
stay my father had been stripped of his “humanness”... that he
had been transformed into an object (like, let's say, an automobile
undergoing extensive repairs, disassembled to the point of
unrecognizability, its parts strewn across the garage floor)... that
his emotions, his feelings, his discomfit, his pain were
insignificant and only the successful outcome of his treatment
mattered... that we, his family, as healthy, functioning individuals
still merited an attention, a consideration and the right to make
choices that he had somehow relinquished – and that was the case
even though he remained conscious and aware throughout most of his
ordeal. And though fully cognizant of what was transpiring, we, his
family, were completely helpless and incapable of intervening. This
disturbed and terrified me.
As is
still the case today, back then, whenever I needed to address or
resolve some distressing occurrence in my life I turned to art.
Several weeks after my father's death, I decided to make a linoleum
block print documenting his last days at the hospital. Though for
compositional purposes I resorted to some distortion and rearranging,
the print accurately depicts each of the many mechanical devices that
sustained my father's life at that time – so accurately that when I
study the print today it brings back vivid memories of those painful
days. My goal was to so prioritize the gadgets and mechanisms
enveloping my father that his own presence would be diminished,
nearly erased. After cutting the block, I tried printing it in
several colors. On one occasion, having just pulled an image in
black, I got lazy. I examined the block and determined that there was
very little residual ink remaining on the surface, that all the
grooves I had cut were pretty much free of ink. Just to be cautious I
wiped off the block with a paper towel. In truth, I should have
cleaned the block with turpentine, washed it with soap and water and
then waited for it to be thoroughly dry before making a print in a
different color. But, like I said, I got lazy. My next printing was
to be in bright red, hopefully to elicit a feeling of alarm, peril,
blood. I inked the block, applied it to a sheet of good quality rag
paper and, not having access to a press, simply rubbed the back of
the print with a spoon until I was certain that the paper had made
absolute contact with the entirety of the block's surface, the whole
process taking quite a while. When I peeled the paper from the block,
I was immediately dismayed. The black ink, the remaining amount of
which I thought negligible, actually asserted itself forcefully,
dulling the bright red ink and creating an inconsistent mottled
effect. I groaned, ruing the time I had wasted trying to cut corners.
I put the print aside to dry, cleaned the block and quit for the day,
expecting to properly execute the print the next day.
The
following morning, I examined the red print again. The infusion of a
small amount of black ink permitted the structure of the print to
pronounce itself more clearly than if I had used only red, which
would have pulsated on the page. I also liked the surprising grainy
effect the black residue contributed to the print and how the darker
hues emerged irregularly, providing a more nuanced, complex component
to a composition which basically consisted of a series of strong
horizontals and verticals. My incompetent accident actually satisfied
me, and I decided that the print was worth keeping. Ultimately, my
thinking went beyond that. Instead of tolerating my clumsy mistake in
one image, I deliberately recreated the effect in all future
printings.
|
Gerard Wickham - My Father's Deathbed - 1987 |
I didn't
quite know what to do with this print once it was completed. It
seemed too personal to share with others. And it seemed to be too
universal to be of interest to others. (Hasn't everyone experienced a
similar loss of a loved one in a hospital setting?) Though this print
has hung on the wall of my home for about thirty years, I believe it
to be too grim for most people to tolerate on a daily basis. So you
might think my whole endeavor to be fruitless. But I would disagree.
During my schooling, I was trained to be a “fine artist”. As such
I was encouraged by my instructors to put aside issues of affirmation
and marketability and instead follow my own unique inclinations. That is the only true pathway to bringing about meaningful communication.
To this day, I am so thankful to have had this central concept
drilled into me throughout my years of higher education. So although
My Father's Deathbed
remains a challenging, troublesome companion, I have no regrets
regarding its creation. In fact, after thirty six years, it asserts
its presence far more tolerably (almost consolingly) than it did at
the time of its execution. And as I grow older and must envision my
own inevitable demise, I can appreciate that even as a young man I
chose to attempt to represent the perspective of a fellow human
succumbing to death while enmeshed in the apparatus of a well meaning
yet incognizant medical establishment. At a minimum I'm satisfied
that I cared enough to give it a try.
As
always, I encourage readers to comment here. If you would prefer to
comment privately, you can email me at gerardwickham@gmail.com.