One summer when I was about 10 years old, dad packed all of us in the family car and drove to the west coast. Took maybe 3 or 4 days to get there. Upon arrival dad took us directly to the ocean. I don't recall which beach we were on, but my brothers and I jumped out of the car, raced down the sand, kicked off our shoes and dipped our feet in the ocean for the very first time.
It was a warm day. Grey skies. The beach half full of people.
With my little feet cooling in the pacific water, a sudden wave lapped the beach, caught my feet, flipped me in the air, knocking me on my butt, almost carrying me out with the tide into the ocean.
I remember people nearby scrambling towards me. But it was my dad who scooped me up in his arms and said, "You're ok. You're ok. I got you." and then thanked everyone for running over to help.
I don't remember anything else from that vacation, or that summer. Only that I fell in love with where I was at that particular moment. Ten years later I moved to the west coast.
Today
Now
Dad is on a morphine drip. I'm told this is common procedure with hospice care. The morphine takes away all the pain. Puts you in a state of calm and rest.
I made arrangements with my dad's wife to FaceTime with my dad at 2pm. I packed a small bag and headed to the ocean. Santa Monica beach. Away from the pier. I wanted to take dad back to the ocean, back to a time that most likely means more to me than him.
At 2pm I got dad and his wife on FaceTime. Dad was able to open his eyes for maybe 15 seconds. I tried best I could to give dad a panoramic view of the beach, the ocean, and then said "I love you" to one another as many times possible within those 15 seconds before dad closed his eyes again.
It's just a matter of days now.
When dad closed his eyes again, his wife and I talked. She told me dad wanted me to not feel bad for him. She said he accepts it's his time to go. She said dad needed me to live my life, be happy, and not feel any sorrow for him. He's had a good life.
Still,
As sad as this is and was, as heavy as it has weighed on my mind these past 10 months, it was a giant relief to get "permission" to go on living.
Mixed in with every emotion is also guilt. First I felt overwhelming guilty when I ate knowing dad couldn't and wasn't, and then I felt guilty for living, for being alive. Survival guilt, they call it.
On my way to FaceTime with my dad at the beach, (this guy) text me wanting to meet for coffee.
"After 4pm I'll be available." I told him.
He replied, "Why after 4pm?! How many other guys you seeing today?!"
Yes. That's where his mind went. I couldn't (possibly) be doing anything else today. Nope. Nothing.
"You know men are idiots, right?" my male friends constantly tell me. But I don't believe that. I don't believe men are idiots. And I don't believe people should be so easily excused as irresponsibly as their irresponsible behavior.
Be that as it may,
I no longer have a response for these people and their lack guile, lack of filter, and lack of general decency. Oh look, my smartphone has call block. Fantastic.
I would make a terrible agent. I would just end up call blocking all my clients.
Anyway,
Sleep
Yesterday I had drinks with Aramis at Rocco's in Studio City. Then drinks with someone very dear to me, afterwards. I have to get up in 3 hours and run. It's almost tourist season and you know what that means...
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