I wrote this corporate tribute to Dad shortly after his death. It is one of the many ends that need to be tied at the end of a life. So many customers and colleagues needed to know the news. I was bowled over by the response. The theme was unanimous and many in reply to a great man lost. Honorable. Joyful. Inspiring.
Dad was active up to the very end at the company he and Mom own with my two brothers. His desk is a picture of projects in motion. Since I now work for IRD, I go into the office once a week. Time has allowed me to brave through Dad's office door and take comfort in working at his desk amongst all his unfinished business, pencils, pens and post-its. Is that his spirit I feel? I believe so.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Spectacular Send-off For A Spectacular Man
“I’m Judy and Bob Schutz’s daughter.” That gets me every time I say it. Mom asked me to call a list of old friends for her tonight to tell them of Dad’s death. I figured out real quickly that I couldn’t identify myself that way. Out of no where, I crumbled on the first call when I thought I was full of composure.
On Saturday night, my five siblings and I, plus my mom and some of the grandchildren, gathered around my dad as he took his final breaths. We all crowded around his bed, put our hands on him and sent him off with the perfected timing of a Hallmark Movie of the Week. Dad was surrounded by the people he loved most in this world and sent off with kisses and prayers, laughter, music and tears.
Death and birth are the only events I know of that come close to showing the intensity of emotion we humans bear. Streams of sadness run down my face now, just as tears of joy did the moment my babies were born. Both events incomprehensibly change us.
That my dad won’t be here anymore hasn’t really settled in my mind yet, though waves of reality sneak up and torture me. Then strangely, after a few sloppy sobs, they vanish and I’m on my way again. This Grief puzzles and challenges me.
Dad’s cancer spread with a vengeance. Although his surgery five weeks ago to remove a large legion of melanoma on his brain was successful, he only experienced about a week of “better.” These last weeks have mostly been a slippery slope slide. Through it all, Mom has predictably been the beacon of all strength. Researching the internet for hours on end in search of the best care and alternatives for Dad, in addition to lovingly attending to his every need with the power and stamina that could outpace a woman half her age, Dad had a living angel at his side 24/7. She even made protein shakes taste good.
Dad declined most apparently as the melanoma spread to his tongue and painfully ate away at his ability to not only speak but eat as well. He winced through the pain as he struggled to speak or even drink in those last couple weeks. I thank him for the gift of sitting up with us each day we visited…defying the pain longer than he should have. Everyday he patiently listened as the kids and I told him about our busy days. With each passing day his participation in the conversations waned and he struggled to stay awake. By Wednesday of last week he couldn’t walk. On Thursday, Hospice arrived and a hospital bed was installed in the bedroom. On Thursday night, he asked to see all the grandkids together. After a short conversation, struggling to string a few words together, he said “Goodbye kids.” I had a feeling time was running short.
By Friday Hospice was administering a steady stream of morphine to soothe Dad’s battling body. One or many of us was always at Dad’s side with hours of everyone strewn around the room. Several of the Hospice nurses commented on the involvement of our family, which seemed so natural to us all. One said she had never seen such participation and care in death as she had with our family. I asked her how long she had been doing this kind of work, assuming it to be not very long. She said 27 years. My heart sank to think that in all those years, we were the first family she witnessed to ever come together at this most significant time. Death need not be feared. Nor should birth. Both miraculous events need be celebrated, respected and embraced.
The hours passed quickly as we chatted, laughed and cried, all the while with hands placed lovingly on Dad. His eyes never opened after Thursday night, but I have a good feeling he knew we were all there and heard both our profound and inane talk. I’m sure he laughed along with us as the subject of bodily function ringtones came up. Benjamin lightened the mood today with his remote control fart machine, an unrealized grief-relief wonder.
By Saturday, Dad was fading fast. We all paced around busying our time and minds and continued our new routine of just being together. Waiting and comforting death hasn’t been an experience of ours, but being together always has been. So we did what we knew best. We marinated in each other’s presence as we have enjoyed doing for years. It seemed the only way to do this strangely celebratory send off.
Saturday marked my Mom’s 77th birthday as well. I imagine my siblings were as puzzled as I at the thought of this day and all it was coming to mean. But as with all things I’ve known about my family, everything somehow always beautifully unfolds. Regardless the bumps and bruises along the way, we always come together and make it through together.
On Saturday morning I scurried together a few photos of Dad with his airplane and assembled them in a photo collage with the words to the Good Morning song he sang every morning. I quickly got copies printed for all my siblings and Mom then stuffed them all in the plastic Walgreens bag and set it aside, not knowing when to bring it out. Shortly after we ate dinner, something moved me to get that bag as we all sat around Dad, marinating. He was laboring as he breathed yet visibly peaceful. I gave Mom a framed print and my siblings their copies. At that point we decided to sing Dad his Good Morning song, followed by Happy Birthday to Mom.
As soon as we finished those two short songs, we heard Dad take his last two breaths at 8:16 pm.
The nurse confirmed he was gone. I think I could safely speak for all 16 us and say that what we witnessed was nothing if not miraculous. Hollywood could have never gotten this on the first take like Dad did.
We all gathered around and held each other as Mom lead us in the Our Father. We each kissed Dad goodbye and began our new Grief. In the hours that followed we wept and shuffled about as we managed the business of death.
The power of the love and devotion in that room was unmistakable. A spectacular send off for a spectacular man. Dad’s stature of impeccability and kindness will be remembered by all who knew him. He raised the bar for all.
Waves of tears wash over me some more.
Am I still Bob Schutz’s daughter?
Always.
Robert Charles Schutz (1928-2009)
On Saturday night, my five siblings and I, plus my mom and some of the grandchildren, gathered around my dad as he took his final breaths. We all crowded around his bed, put our hands on him and sent him off with the perfected timing of a Hallmark Movie of the Week. Dad was surrounded by the people he loved most in this world and sent off with kisses and prayers, laughter, music and tears.
Death and birth are the only events I know of that come close to showing the intensity of emotion we humans bear. Streams of sadness run down my face now, just as tears of joy did the moment my babies were born. Both events incomprehensibly change us.
That my dad won’t be here anymore hasn’t really settled in my mind yet, though waves of reality sneak up and torture me. Then strangely, after a few sloppy sobs, they vanish and I’m on my way again. This Grief puzzles and challenges me.
Dad’s cancer spread with a vengeance. Although his surgery five weeks ago to remove a large legion of melanoma on his brain was successful, he only experienced about a week of “better.” These last weeks have mostly been a slippery slope slide. Through it all, Mom has predictably been the beacon of all strength. Researching the internet for hours on end in search of the best care and alternatives for Dad, in addition to lovingly attending to his every need with the power and stamina that could outpace a woman half her age, Dad had a living angel at his side 24/7. She even made protein shakes taste good.
Dad declined most apparently as the melanoma spread to his tongue and painfully ate away at his ability to not only speak but eat as well. He winced through the pain as he struggled to speak or even drink in those last couple weeks. I thank him for the gift of sitting up with us each day we visited…defying the pain longer than he should have. Everyday he patiently listened as the kids and I told him about our busy days. With each passing day his participation in the conversations waned and he struggled to stay awake. By Wednesday of last week he couldn’t walk. On Thursday, Hospice arrived and a hospital bed was installed in the bedroom. On Thursday night, he asked to see all the grandkids together. After a short conversation, struggling to string a few words together, he said “Goodbye kids.” I had a feeling time was running short.
By Friday Hospice was administering a steady stream of morphine to soothe Dad’s battling body. One or many of us was always at Dad’s side with hours of everyone strewn around the room. Several of the Hospice nurses commented on the involvement of our family, which seemed so natural to us all. One said she had never seen such participation and care in death as she had with our family. I asked her how long she had been doing this kind of work, assuming it to be not very long. She said 27 years. My heart sank to think that in all those years, we were the first family she witnessed to ever come together at this most significant time. Death need not be feared. Nor should birth. Both miraculous events need be celebrated, respected and embraced.
The hours passed quickly as we chatted, laughed and cried, all the while with hands placed lovingly on Dad. His eyes never opened after Thursday night, but I have a good feeling he knew we were all there and heard both our profound and inane talk. I’m sure he laughed along with us as the subject of bodily function ringtones came up. Benjamin lightened the mood today with his remote control fart machine, an unrealized grief-relief wonder.
By Saturday, Dad was fading fast. We all paced around busying our time and minds and continued our new routine of just being together. Waiting and comforting death hasn’t been an experience of ours, but being together always has been. So we did what we knew best. We marinated in each other’s presence as we have enjoyed doing for years. It seemed the only way to do this strangely celebratory send off.
Saturday marked my Mom’s 77th birthday as well. I imagine my siblings were as puzzled as I at the thought of this day and all it was coming to mean. But as with all things I’ve known about my family, everything somehow always beautifully unfolds. Regardless the bumps and bruises along the way, we always come together and make it through together.
On Saturday morning I scurried together a few photos of Dad with his airplane and assembled them in a photo collage with the words to the Good Morning song he sang every morning. I quickly got copies printed for all my siblings and Mom then stuffed them all in the plastic Walgreens bag and set it aside, not knowing when to bring it out. Shortly after we ate dinner, something moved me to get that bag as we all sat around Dad, marinating. He was laboring as he breathed yet visibly peaceful. I gave Mom a framed print and my siblings their copies. At that point we decided to sing Dad his Good Morning song, followed by Happy Birthday to Mom.
As soon as we finished those two short songs, we heard Dad take his last two breaths at 8:16 pm.
The nurse confirmed he was gone. I think I could safely speak for all 16 us and say that what we witnessed was nothing if not miraculous. Hollywood could have never gotten this on the first take like Dad did.
We all gathered around and held each other as Mom lead us in the Our Father. We each kissed Dad goodbye and began our new Grief. In the hours that followed we wept and shuffled about as we managed the business of death.
The power of the love and devotion in that room was unmistakable. A spectacular send off for a spectacular man. Dad’s stature of impeccability and kindness will be remembered by all who knew him. He raised the bar for all.
Waves of tears wash over me some more.
Am I still Bob Schutz’s daughter?
Always.
Robert Charles Schutz (1928-2009)
Friday, September 18, 2009
Good news first. And only.
Dad aced the surgery. Even the surgeon said he was thrilled and I’m thinking that means a lot. Any true craftsman is usually the last to beam boldly at his own workmanship. Dad was walking and talking this morning, less than 24 hours after the main event. The good doctor said he didn’t even expect him to be able to talk.
If all goes well today, he may even be able to go home tomorrow. They weren’t kidding with signs on the pre-op floor exclaiming “Rapid in/out.”
And I couldn’t be happier. It’s home where he needs to be. Where he can be wrapped in cozy and surrounded by family funny. No blood pressure cuff. No iv drip.
Family morale is high today, yet skipping beneath the surface is a despair unmatched by anything I have ever felt. I can’t speak for my siblings or Mom, but if I had to guess, this trumps all of their past despairs as well.
Like a dog chasing it’s tail, it seems This Grief has no end. I’m determined to embrace every moment of this time and that means both the good and the bad. I see the pain seared on my kid’s faces, the tears in my sibling’s and parent’s eyes, and feel like I’m watching a sad, sad movie. Make no mistake, it’s not all the time. And as with every great movie, we have many joyful moments.
It’s as if Grief knows we need relief. Greif knows how much we can take. And like it or not, Grief sneaks up and visits us in the most unlikely spots and with zero warning.
I’m finding This Grief thing very odd.
I can easily say, I walk with confidence, for the most part (ha!). I generally know what I’m doing, where I’m going, and what’s up next. But these days, I’ve found my predictable stride skips a beat and sometimes I’m bowled over.
The day before yesterday I had to make a quick run to the airfield where Dad keeps his plane. All I needed to do was talk to John The Mechanic to tell him that the guy interested in buying my dad’s plane wanted to call him and talk shop about its insides. John has been a large part of my dad’s life as a meticulously dependable mechanic that I’m deeply grateful for. There probably isn’t a nut, bolt or screw on that plane that John doesn’t know personally.
Easy enough.
I knocked on the door, caught a glance of John (whom I’ve never met) and immediately as I crossed the threshold, my words were fighting to form. As soon as I got to the part of saying “I’m Bob’s daughter,” I crumbled. Really crumbled.
John couldn’t have been kinder. He didn’t even know half the story I was about to tell him, but he knew enough. He quickly comforted me with understanding words and offered me a chair.
I was able to snap back and get past The Grief and in doing, found great peace in the care that John shared. My mom says she cries when people are nice to her. I feel that too. Stunning to me is the enormity and power of the unseen. Physiological changes take over our bodies. Shortness of breath and streaming tears taunt us for control. In times of Joy, reactions are welcomed and celebrated. In Greif, they are foreign and uncomfortable.
I tell myself, and our kids, that Grief will grab us when we least expect it. Embrace that, I say. It’s not anything to be feared, ignored or embarrassed by. It’s nothing but love. Love wrapped in memories of Grandpa. Never ending. Far reaching. And forever.
If all goes well today, he may even be able to go home tomorrow. They weren’t kidding with signs on the pre-op floor exclaiming “Rapid in/out.”
And I couldn’t be happier. It’s home where he needs to be. Where he can be wrapped in cozy and surrounded by family funny. No blood pressure cuff. No iv drip.
Family morale is high today, yet skipping beneath the surface is a despair unmatched by anything I have ever felt. I can’t speak for my siblings or Mom, but if I had to guess, this trumps all of their past despairs as well.
Like a dog chasing it’s tail, it seems This Grief has no end. I’m determined to embrace every moment of this time and that means both the good and the bad. I see the pain seared on my kid’s faces, the tears in my sibling’s and parent’s eyes, and feel like I’m watching a sad, sad movie. Make no mistake, it’s not all the time. And as with every great movie, we have many joyful moments.
It’s as if Grief knows we need relief. Greif knows how much we can take. And like it or not, Grief sneaks up and visits us in the most unlikely spots and with zero warning.
I’m finding This Grief thing very odd.
I can easily say, I walk with confidence, for the most part (ha!). I generally know what I’m doing, where I’m going, and what’s up next. But these days, I’ve found my predictable stride skips a beat and sometimes I’m bowled over.
The day before yesterday I had to make a quick run to the airfield where Dad keeps his plane. All I needed to do was talk to John The Mechanic to tell him that the guy interested in buying my dad’s plane wanted to call him and talk shop about its insides. John has been a large part of my dad’s life as a meticulously dependable mechanic that I’m deeply grateful for. There probably isn’t a nut, bolt or screw on that plane that John doesn’t know personally.
Easy enough.
I knocked on the door, caught a glance of John (whom I’ve never met) and immediately as I crossed the threshold, my words were fighting to form. As soon as I got to the part of saying “I’m Bob’s daughter,” I crumbled. Really crumbled.
John couldn’t have been kinder. He didn’t even know half the story I was about to tell him, but he knew enough. He quickly comforted me with understanding words and offered me a chair.
I was able to snap back and get past The Grief and in doing, found great peace in the care that John shared. My mom says she cries when people are nice to her. I feel that too. Stunning to me is the enormity and power of the unseen. Physiological changes take over our bodies. Shortness of breath and streaming tears taunt us for control. In times of Joy, reactions are welcomed and celebrated. In Greif, they are foreign and uncomfortable.
I tell myself, and our kids, that Grief will grab us when we least expect it. Embrace that, I say. It’s not anything to be feared, ignored or embarrassed by. It’s nothing but love. Love wrapped in memories of Grandpa. Never ending. Far reaching. And forever.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Can’t go around being sad all the time.
Dad is “waiting on the tarmac” for Thursday’s surgery. After much thought and consideration, Dad decided to go ahead with brain surgery. I’m not sure what is scarier: the surgery or the sound of “brain surgery.”
I think all of our fears were set aside when we lined up the pros and cons. With a highly skilled and sought after neurosurgeon and a seemingly capable team, the cons were greatly outweighed.
These days, the nurse said, brain surgery has become so routine. These surgeons do it all the time. I had questioned the nurse about the surgeon, because really, who would know better? I was relieved when she said Dad was fortunate to have been assigned to this particular surgeon as there are some she’d “never let touch" her.
Ok…that was assuring, but then I think, sheeesh! What if this all came down a day sooner or a day later when Dr. Good With Knives was on the back nine??!
La La La La La. That’s my mantra for sending bad thoughts down the road.
Dad’s spirit has stayed strong and positive throughout out this journey. Mom has been the most attentive care giver anyone could ever hope for. Her unending quest for knowledge both in traditional and alternative health options have fueled her passion for years, to our whole family’s benefit. In addition, as a Reiki practitioner for over 22 years, her ability to comfort and heal her large family throughout the years has been priceless.
Dad is the biggest beneficiary of Mom’s Reiki lately and it shows. Yesterday afternoon, there was a noticeable difference in my dad’s color and his speech slur seemed improved. I could see his rosy glow again.
I picked up my sisters later in day and took them to the hospital. It wasn’t long before my brothers with their families visited as well. We had a room full and, not surprising with my family, it was lively. Catch up stories filled the air with laughter.
Navigating loss seems tricky when I think about it too much. I don’t feel comfortable walking around sad or even voicing out loud my harrowing feelings. I feel energized by the laughter and can’t help to think Dad does too. A friend said to me that there’s no use taking our precious time lamenting about how little time we have to share. I couldn’t agree more.
So simple. So wise.
I think all of our fears were set aside when we lined up the pros and cons. With a highly skilled and sought after neurosurgeon and a seemingly capable team, the cons were greatly outweighed.
These days, the nurse said, brain surgery has become so routine. These surgeons do it all the time. I had questioned the nurse about the surgeon, because really, who would know better? I was relieved when she said Dad was fortunate to have been assigned to this particular surgeon as there are some she’d “never let touch" her.
Ok…that was assuring, but then I think, sheeesh! What if this all came down a day sooner or a day later when Dr. Good With Knives was on the back nine??!
La La La La La. That’s my mantra for sending bad thoughts down the road.
Dad’s spirit has stayed strong and positive throughout out this journey. Mom has been the most attentive care giver anyone could ever hope for. Her unending quest for knowledge both in traditional and alternative health options have fueled her passion for years, to our whole family’s benefit. In addition, as a Reiki practitioner for over 22 years, her ability to comfort and heal her large family throughout the years has been priceless.
Dad is the biggest beneficiary of Mom’s Reiki lately and it shows. Yesterday afternoon, there was a noticeable difference in my dad’s color and his speech slur seemed improved. I could see his rosy glow again.
I picked up my sisters later in day and took them to the hospital. It wasn’t long before my brothers with their families visited as well. We had a room full and, not surprising with my family, it was lively. Catch up stories filled the air with laughter.
Navigating loss seems tricky when I think about it too much. I don’t feel comfortable walking around sad or even voicing out loud my harrowing feelings. I feel energized by the laughter and can’t help to think Dad does too. A friend said to me that there’s no use taking our precious time lamenting about how little time we have to share. I couldn’t agree more.
So simple. So wise.
Lightning bolts and growling thunder.
Within minutes of posting my last blog post, I received a call from Dad. He wanted me to email photos of his airplane to a guy who responded to his ad. He urgently told me to get him those pictures. Dad seems very determined to sell that airplane, against my urging him not to.
The significance of this call isn't the subject, but rather the delivery. Dad sounded as if he had been drinking, which I know he hadn’t. In fact I’ve never heard him slur his speech due to drinking. I thought it odd.
Within 45 minutes I got the call that began another landscape change for our family. My family took Dad to urgent care where they quickly transported him by ambulance to the hospital. Stroke was my family’s first concern in taking him, but it turned out to be unfounded.
Cat scans at the hospital revealed what we suspected next. The melanoma has traveled to his brain. Nine legions, anchored by one large and rapidly growing legion, populated the left side of his brain, causing slurred speech and droopiness on the right side of his face.
Only two options were presented. Brain surgery which could buy him a few more months or do nothing and let the cancer rapidly take over leaving him only weeks.
Although not completely convinced or resolved to option one, Dad agreed to the move to FL Hospital South where the great neurosurgeons reside.
Dad had planned to go flying that very same morning, but those plans dissolved when the Dairy Queen burned down. Turns out he would be in the sky afterall. He was air-lifted to the Florida Hospital South.
Mark and I met him down there around midnight. We were happy to see he was able to enjoy the helicopter ride and had a great view out the window. We all agreed he was one of the fortunate few that fly in those medi-copters wide-eyed and alert.
Although Dad was very tired, he continued to chat away with Mark and I until he was brought down for his MRI at 2 am. We stayed until 4 when he came back before we decided to go home. Earlier, Dad urged Mom and I to go home and not bother with meeting him in Orlando, but I’m so thankful we defied him. An ominous night, in an unfamiliar place, needn’t be accessed alone.
I enjoyed every minute with him and am conscious of and grateful for every moment that follows.
The next day was met with exhaustion. My brain shrinks on minimized sleep. The day was filled with multiple meetings with doctors orchestrating the next move. My mom stayed every minute and is Advocate Uno for Dad. My brother Michael spent half the day there and I came on the back half. My other brothers and wives came as well, and my sisters in Minnesota and California have been dispatched to come today.
It’s remarkable how we humans hold up in such extreme circumstances. By necessity, we cobble together our daily routines with dashes of tender moments, laughter and tears. We accommodate this daunting new reality we've told ourselves we could never bear to embrace but suddenly are.
The storm rages on, but we can always find peace inside.
The significance of this call isn't the subject, but rather the delivery. Dad sounded as if he had been drinking, which I know he hadn’t. In fact I’ve never heard him slur his speech due to drinking. I thought it odd.
Within 45 minutes I got the call that began another landscape change for our family. My family took Dad to urgent care where they quickly transported him by ambulance to the hospital. Stroke was my family’s first concern in taking him, but it turned out to be unfounded.
Cat scans at the hospital revealed what we suspected next. The melanoma has traveled to his brain. Nine legions, anchored by one large and rapidly growing legion, populated the left side of his brain, causing slurred speech and droopiness on the right side of his face.
Only two options were presented. Brain surgery which could buy him a few more months or do nothing and let the cancer rapidly take over leaving him only weeks.
Although not completely convinced or resolved to option one, Dad agreed to the move to FL Hospital South where the great neurosurgeons reside.
Dad had planned to go flying that very same morning, but those plans dissolved when the Dairy Queen burned down. Turns out he would be in the sky afterall. He was air-lifted to the Florida Hospital South.
Mark and I met him down there around midnight. We were happy to see he was able to enjoy the helicopter ride and had a great view out the window. We all agreed he was one of the fortunate few that fly in those medi-copters wide-eyed and alert.
Although Dad was very tired, he continued to chat away with Mark and I until he was brought down for his MRI at 2 am. We stayed until 4 when he came back before we decided to go home. Earlier, Dad urged Mom and I to go home and not bother with meeting him in Orlando, but I’m so thankful we defied him. An ominous night, in an unfamiliar place, needn’t be accessed alone.
I enjoyed every minute with him and am conscious of and grateful for every moment that follows.
The next day was met with exhaustion. My brain shrinks on minimized sleep. The day was filled with multiple meetings with doctors orchestrating the next move. My mom stayed every minute and is Advocate Uno for Dad. My brother Michael spent half the day there and I came on the back half. My other brothers and wives came as well, and my sisters in Minnesota and California have been dispatched to come today.
It’s remarkable how we humans hold up in such extreme circumstances. By necessity, we cobble together our daily routines with dashes of tender moments, laughter and tears. We accommodate this daunting new reality we've told ourselves we could never bear to embrace but suddenly are.
The storm rages on, but we can always find peace inside.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
It rains. And sometimes it pours.
Sunday morning, up before the sun, eager to dance through another day. Always with purpose. Often with plans. Often unraveled.
This day's unraveling came suddenly and early. Mom called at 7:33 am. The Diary Queen is on fire. Could I please drive Dad down there? Mom was too tired. She wanted me to be with Dad.
Yes. I'll be right there.
My parents, along with my brother, own a Dairy Queen. Since 1984 they have been in the business of soft serve, hot dogs, burgers and fudge. They have traveled through more than one lifetime of changes, challenges and heartache in just a few more years than a couple of decades. Today, this chapter in their lives may have been ignited toward conclusion.
The Dairy Queen in Apopka, Florida, just another roadside chain, sped by thousands of drivers everyday, with nary a thought, contains volumes of memories both good and bad, joyful and sad. A building serving up sweetness and smiles, seems benign to the power of significantly influencing the lives of hundreds.
But that's a longer one. Another posting. I'm only a few paragraphs along and tears are already flowing...
The fire raged from the tiny office behind the service counter and spread its heat of 3000 degrees into the steel trussed roof above, and in every direction. An early passerby saved the roof structure from total collapse with a prompt 911 call. Every firetruck from the Apopka Fire Department came, along with paramedics and police officers. This was no cat up a tree or fender bender. These guys live for this stuff.
And thankfully they do. And thankfully there was no one in the building. And thankfully no one was hurt. Just a few more minutes of that heat and the roof would have most positively collapsed, the firefighters said.
Surreal it was. It's not everyday I'm on the scene of such a dramatic event. The only thing besides my keys that I grabbed before rushing out of the house was my camera. Those who know me well, know I am never without my camera. My camera is my memory for when I'm too busy to take it all in. Thousands upon thousands of shots are waiting in rubbermaid and external hard drives for me to take it all in. One day, I tell myself, I will be able to relive my life all over again with these shots. Somehow that brings me peace.
As I recollect the day, more sadness than I've ever known washes over me. From the morning scene I see not the aftershots of a morning blaze, but the beginning of an emptiness, no doubt, creeping most profoundly into the thoughts of all of my siblings and parents as well.
Two days shy of a week ago, we learned that my dad's bout with melanoma has returned. This time the melanoma has lodged itself squarely inside his lung. Doctors have "given" him six months.
If this blaze ignited three weeks ago, I'm pretty certain it wouldn't carry the significance of today. The deep stretching tentacles of cancer swiftly spreads from patient to neighboring souls and forever changes the reality of what once was. Wrapping around loss. What greater challenge is there?
It rains. And sometimes it pours.
This day's unraveling came suddenly and early. Mom called at 7:33 am. The Diary Queen is on fire. Could I please drive Dad down there? Mom was too tired. She wanted me to be with Dad.
Yes. I'll be right there.
My parents, along with my brother, own a Dairy Queen. Since 1984 they have been in the business of soft serve, hot dogs, burgers and fudge. They have traveled through more than one lifetime of changes, challenges and heartache in just a few more years than a couple of decades. Today, this chapter in their lives may have been ignited toward conclusion.
The Dairy Queen in Apopka, Florida, just another roadside chain, sped by thousands of drivers everyday, with nary a thought, contains volumes of memories both good and bad, joyful and sad. A building serving up sweetness and smiles, seems benign to the power of significantly influencing the lives of hundreds.
But that's a longer one. Another posting. I'm only a few paragraphs along and tears are already flowing...
The fire raged from the tiny office behind the service counter and spread its heat of 3000 degrees into the steel trussed roof above, and in every direction. An early passerby saved the roof structure from total collapse with a prompt 911 call. Every firetruck from the Apopka Fire Department came, along with paramedics and police officers. This was no cat up a tree or fender bender. These guys live for this stuff.
And thankfully they do. And thankfully there was no one in the building. And thankfully no one was hurt. Just a few more minutes of that heat and the roof would have most positively collapsed, the firefighters said.
Surreal it was. It's not everyday I'm on the scene of such a dramatic event. The only thing besides my keys that I grabbed before rushing out of the house was my camera. Those who know me well, know I am never without my camera. My camera is my memory for when I'm too busy to take it all in. Thousands upon thousands of shots are waiting in rubbermaid and external hard drives for me to take it all in. One day, I tell myself, I will be able to relive my life all over again with these shots. Somehow that brings me peace.
As I recollect the day, more sadness than I've ever known washes over me. From the morning scene I see not the aftershots of a morning blaze, but the beginning of an emptiness, no doubt, creeping most profoundly into the thoughts of all of my siblings and parents as well.
Two days shy of a week ago, we learned that my dad's bout with melanoma has returned. This time the melanoma has lodged itself squarely inside his lung. Doctors have "given" him six months.
If this blaze ignited three weeks ago, I'm pretty certain it wouldn't carry the significance of today. The deep stretching tentacles of cancer swiftly spreads from patient to neighboring souls and forever changes the reality of what once was. Wrapping around loss. What greater challenge is there?
It rains. And sometimes it pours.
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