Journal mcgrew's Journal: Black Friday 1
Amy was upset. She's on Zoloft for depression anyway, but this was worse. It was Thanksgiving evening and I'd just gotten back from visiting my family a hundred miles south.
"Can you give me a ride to the hospital?"
"Sure." I figured her clinical depression had gotten to her and she was admitting herself to the nut ward. Again.
"My dad's dying!"
"Your biological dad?"
"Yeah."
This was bad. Amy's an "acid baby" - her parents were teenaged hippies, him seventeen and her fourteen, tripping on acid while screwing in the snow at Lanphier High School in the late 1960s, and Amy was the result. She's not had an easy life, but she's had some triumphs despite the fact, going to college and getting a nursing degree.
She lost her nursing license after her companion of several years committed suicide and she started drinking heavily and got behind on her child support.
She barely knew her dad.
"What's he got?"
Holy fuck, the man was dead. He may still be breathing, but he's a dead man. Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus is usually called by its acronym, pronounced "mersa", or more commonly "flesh eating bacteria".
I was afraid to go in the room, because that shit's not only deadly but but very contagious, but I gathered up my courage, put on the gown and rubber gloves and went in with her. I'd promised; she'd been scared and didn't want to go alone.
The poor man was a skeleton with skin stretched over it, IV drip in his arm, feeding tube in his throat and oxygen tube going to his nose. It was one of the most pathetic sights I've ever seen. Monitors looked at his vital signs, Amy had a talk with him and we left, her crying.
"...And that damned Connor has no sympathy!"
I didn't know what to say. She was hurting, and I was hurting for her. I'm about six months older than the living corpse we'd just visited, and I think she looks to me as a sort of father figure. She never had a "real" dad, barely knowing the live dead man we'd just seen. At least she'd finally made her peace with him, discarding the fury she had for his never having been in her life.
"How long do you think he has?" she asked. Why she, a trained, formerly licensed nurse shouldn't know more about it than a nerdy well-read layman I just don't understand.
How long? The man was already dead. He was still talking, but he was dead.
"I don't know, Amy, maybe a couple of days. I'm really sorry."
I took her to Felber's and bought her a couple of shots, and promised to take her to visit her father the next day. But I didn't hear from her until Saturday. She was even more upset.
"My dad died yesterday! Could you buy me some drinks and talk for a while?"
"Sure." Someone dropped her off at my house and we went to Felber's. She wanted me to take her to the funeral, I agreed. She cried, we drank, and she complained about Connor. Wanting the obituary to see when and where the funeral was I asked the bartender for the newspaper's obit section.
"Oh shit," I said.
"What?"
I didn't know how to tell her. This was going to kill her.
"You're not mentioned. Heather's in here, but not you."
Richard Estill
RIVERTON - Richard "Rick" Estill, 55, of Riverton died Friday, Nov. 28, 2008, at St. John's Hospital.He was born in Paris, Ky., Dec. 16, 1952, the son of John Richard and Rita Kay (Giddings) Estill.
Rick loved playing and listening to music. He had worked 20 years at Bunn-O-Matic Corp. and currently was working as a manager at Merry Maids.
Surviving are his daughter, Heather Estill of Riverton; his mother, Rita Estill; a brother, Kevin Estill; and a niece, Abby Estill, all of Springfield.
He was preceded in death by his father, John, in 1998.
Funeral services will be held at 1 p.m. Wednesday, Dec. 3, 2008, at Bisch and Son Funeral Home. Pastor Dennis Farmer will officiate. Visitation will be from 4 to 8 p.m. Tuesday, Dec. 2, 2008, at Bisch and Son. Burial will be in Roselawn Memorial Park Cemetery.
Amy is his firstborn. She has a half sister, Heather, who I'd met when I was with Heather's mother Robyn. Heather and Amy have the same dad, but Amy has a different mom. Robyn had introduced me to Amy, and for the longest time after that Amy introduced me to her friends as her "stepdad". I'd only seen her homeless, drug addled mother once, at Farley's, the hippie bar next to the gay bar across the street from the train station.
She cursed her father's family, and cursed the newspaper, and cursed "that no good God damned son of a bitch Connor".
It hasn't been a fun weekend, I can tell you. When I visited Linda at the other hospital she looked bad. Then I came down with something over the weekend and missed work yesterday.
Probably a bad case of hypochondria.
No dick is as hard as is life (Score:2)
Holy fscking cow. I sure hope sometimes you make this stuff up. I can't say I already "get" all people in your posts, but if any of this is true, you're living in interesting times for sure.