Saying good-bye to Walter Patrick

Last week I had to something completely unexpected: I had to step foot on United States soil before June 1, 2015. And it was to do something I had expected but still thought would never come: My step-father, Walter Patrick, passed away. When I left for Colombia, he was on hospice care and a decent amount of morphine, but he was still cognizant most days, and when he wasn't, I normally chalked it up to the massive amounts of painkillers he was taking. I can't promise you I'm going to get the details right, but his problem, as I understood it, was basically advanced emphysema made worse by a back injury he sustained after he had a violent coughing attack one night, and then further complicated by a devastating case of pneumonia. After fighting with the pneumonia for some time, he was eventually rushed to the hospital, where they induced a coma in order to allow his body to rest, and when he was taken out of it, his physical therapy proved to be so taxing that it sent him back into another coma. When he awoke from that one, his care was switched from restorative to the ease-your-suffering variety. All this happened while I was away, still living in New York, and it was one of the things that influenced me to come back early.

I officiated their wedding.
On the left is his oldest son, Wally,
and behind my mother is
my sister Samantha.

Walt and my mother met and got married after I had already moved out of the house, and I only saw him on visits back. A week here, another there. And slowly, over time, we got to know each other. Toward the end of his life, he told me he viewed me as a son. I think I would have viewed him as a father if I had known exactly what that meant. My father and mother divorced when I was about five, and when I was about eleven, he moved to Colorado. I didn't see him much after that. I don't really know what a father is. I get clues and hints, through my relationship with my Uncle Steve and without a doubt through my relationship with Walt.

In the month before I came to Colombia, I was living with him and my mother in Indiana. She needed help taking care of him, and I wanted to see my family before I left for a long time. It was in that month that I grew even closer to Walt. I helped care for him when my mother was tired, getting him Pepsi and Kool-Aid and those brownies he positively addicted to, he bandaged my ankle for me when I twisted it so badly running that I walked with a limp, we had heart-to-hearts, watched Bunnyman, and I even remember giving him a stern pep talk when he was starting to get down on himself and life, asking me and my mom what the point of planning was when there was so little time left or why bother to leave the house to his beloved casino when all it did was making him sleep for the rest of the day. I found myself, in idle moments, trying to plan the viability of a trip back to the United States around Christmas time, if I could afford it, when would good dates be, maybe I'd go a little bit before Christmas to not disrupt other plans but we'll check the prices and see...

According to him, it was
the very definition of ambrosia.

And then that message came. And there was no more hope of seeing him at Christmas. There was no hope of seeing him again. The message came, and for me, it was as good as hearing he had already passed. I would never see him again. When I left, he told my mom, "This might be the last time I see Adam." When she told me, I said, "Maybe. We just don't know, I guess." But deep down, I had believed he wouldn't go so quickly. My mom told me he was outside in his Hoveround, washing the side of the house a few days before, and when I had left, he seemed to be able to walk farther and farther using his walker. On good days, he had been able to stand himself up.

Ever see a guy in a Hoveround spray a house
with a high powered hose? It's a sight to behold.

He passed only a few hours after my sister's message. And this time I wasn't in New York but in Colombia. I felt so selfish and so helpless. Selfish for being here when maybe I should be there and helpless that so far away, there was so little I could do. I've been trying to teleport for years (don't ask) and that would have been the perfect moment for a break through. But alas, this is real life: I don't have mutant powers, teleportation is not (yet) possible, and when people die, they don't wake back up. I left to Indiana a few days later.

I spent a week in Indianapolis. After a twenty-two hour door-to-door trip, I arrived home, stayed up with my mom talking way past bedtime, and the next day we had to be at his visitation. When I saw his body, I went into a state of shock and disbelief, which dammed up my emotion and isolated me from feeling the emptiness of the house without him in his bed in the family room, without his wisecracks and wit, without the constant stream of Cops and People's Court on the television. And that shelter of emotional dysfunction is where I stayed until the funeral, when the fact was no longer deniable, when I had to face that Walt was gone.

I'll miss you.

Click here to read his obituary.

Have I lost it?

Life can change in such sudden ways that it can be difficult to bear, happening so quickly and so drastically that it challenges our sense of control and reminds us just how little we have. 

In the last month, and particularly the last three weeks, my life has shifted around so much I can barely keep up:

First, I got the news that I was selected as an alternate for the Fulbright, which I decided to take for the sake of my sanity as meaning I didn't get it, which, a week later, was followed by being told that I had been chosen after all. Then my boyfriend and I broke up, and related to that incident, I lost my apartment. Not too much later, I decided to leave New York a month earlier than I had planned, and on the same day, my mom called to tell me that they had induced my step father into a coma. Next, I got my apartment back and my step father woke up. But he ended back in the intensive care unit a few days later. Today I learned that he will be going home under hospice care.

To be very plain: I feel like I'm going crazy right now. I feel absolutely crazy. Not in any big way. In little ways. In the words I hear myself use and what I talk about these days. In the little decisions I make: to eat that Snickers bar when I normally would say no, to have that extra drink after my friends say they're going homes, to not be able to sleep when it's time to turn out the light and then not be able to get up the next day to do some errand I thought was important. Afterward, I try to beat myself up over these things. I try to harangue and lecture myself: “Why can’t you get it together?? You’re doing well enough. You’re almost going along as if nothing’s wrong. Just keep going, keep living, and you’ll be fine. You’re so close to fine, why can’t you just be it?” And I stop almost before I’ve really begun, realizing it’s not worth the energy, realizing I don’t even really have the energy.

I know this sounds a bit morose, and I can tell you, it's definitely not enjoyable. But I'm getting through it. Things are going to get better. And I don’t mean this in the way people often tell themselves and each other. I know this for a fact. I can actually see the light at the end of the tunnel. Soon, I will be in a new land with so many people to meet and things to see and do. I'll be doing things I love for a livable wage for the first time ever in my life! For the first time ever, I won’t be working some sort of day job in order to do what I really care about. No proofreading financial documents, no waiting tables, no working retail.

Did you think I could resist?

Because, you see, you can’t decide to make a big change in your life without it having consequences. These decisions we make—to change a career, to move to another country, to leave behind everyone you know, to trade roots for wings—come in like wrecking balls. They smash everything to bits because things have to fall apart so they can be reshaped into something new. It entails pain. And confusion. And fear. These are the things that come when you let go of everything that came before. Being stripped of what you used to tell yourself who you are and having to see what is actually there. Who is Adam if he no longer lives in New York? Who is Adam if he actually enjoys his job? Who is Adam if he has to start all over again in a new place? And then do that over and over for the next couple years?  These questions have answers not in words but in movement, in action. It's time to be brave.