The Man in the Recliner | Commentary on Watching a Loved One Pass

(Author’s note: The following story was originally a draft for a project in my creative nonfiction class. It’s since been altered to be more personal, and my hope is that it now serves as a gift- to my Grandma, family, or anyone else who finds joy in the stories Randy made timeless.)

My mom texts me his room number, but I doubt its value in helping me navigate the obstacle course of anxiety ahead of me.

“You’re 20 years old,” I tell myself. “There’s no way you’re going to get lost in a hospital.”

As I step inside the lobby, I’m immediately reminded of its silence. The lack of bustle where there is so much hustle used to disorient me, but I’ve since learned it’s typical in places where life is fragile for its hum to hesitate. I’m relieved to find my mother amidst the chaotic stillness; it appears she doesn’t have much confidence in my abilities either.

As we walk, I can’t help but stare at one of those murals of Disney characters meant to comfort children on their way to die or to watch people do it. The shiver up my spine that accompanies the thought snaps me out of it.

“Shit’s creepy,” I say quietly to my mom.

Now I’m paranoid and wondering if the faint murmuring I hear is the voices in my head or ghosts in the walls. Both options are equally stupid.

“If he died here, he’d definitely haunt it,” I think to myself.

The ICU is harsh. The countless curtains do little to convince you that your loved one is actually behind one — tangled, tethered, and trached. It’s best to open them slowly.

I stall the gut punch a while longer, scanning the room for anything else to pretend to be interested in.

I decide on a whiteboard listing his favorite things: ’60s music, game shows, sports, and Fox News. I can’t help but roll my eyes at that last one.

“Looks like you might need to perform a colonoscopy on him — he’s always full of shit,” I say to the nurse, hoping he can hear me.

“Speaking of the ass, are any of those things a pain in yours?” asks my mom, referring to one of the many medical knick-knacks hanging from his body.

His nod, raised hand, and out-sticking middle finger all precluded his gaze, which cut through the jungle of wires and past my mom to me.

“Drew’s a pain in the ass?” my mom asks.

He nodded again as if to emphasize his point.

I scoff. Pain in the ass, my ass. The statement reeks of hypocrisy. My mind travels back to the day of senior prom.

It was a beautiful late afternoon, and the atmosphere could best be described as hubbub. An hour of posing, pictures, and prodding was enough for me, though, and I snuck off to a park bench. While wiping a combination of nervous sweat and melted sunscreen off my forehead, the dreaded voice of my mother came from behind me.

“I found Drew!” she says, rushing my small entourage forward and my solitude away.

He stood near the back, his arm in its usual place around his wife of 41 years.

“Oh, that would make a good photo, could you go sit by him?” my mom asked my date.

Now he wasn’t just watching, he was waiting. And he was doing it with a sly grin on his face.

My mom eventually had my date sit across my lap for a photo. I would soon wish she hadn’t.

“That seat might be comfortable, but you better get up soon before it starts pokin’ ya!” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

She might as well have thrown him an alley-oop dunk, as the look on my face was certainly worthy of being posterized.

“Seriously!” my mom yelled. “Absolutely NOT appropriate!”

A short time later, I felt his giant hand on my shoulder. I turned to find him bearing an ornery smile and a wad of cash that was more than enough for a dinner for two at our small Midwest town’s quasi-fancy Italian restaurant.

“Treat her well,” he said, sneaking me a wink.

The nurse’s voice brings me back to the room. “That’s not the first time he’s flipped the bird; your Aunt got the same treatment a few days ago,” she says.

For a guy “you can’t take anywhere”, he managed to be everywhere.

As I drive home, I think about all the places he was — finish lines, audiences, crowds, banquets where I gave political speeches that didn’t have a single word in it he agreed with.

I avoid going back for a couple of months. Life goes on, but guilt lingers. It bites me where I least expect it- the walk back from class, the bar to order a drink, the room full of friends sharing a laugh. For a moment, I’m somewhere not in the present, not in the past, wishing the future wouldn’t come.

Sooner or later, it does.

I wake up to a phone call from my mother, and I’m back in the hospital lobby.

Today, there is no stalling the pain behind the curtain. I make my way past sniffles and swollen eyes and to my younger brother, who sits holding Presley.

Presley jumps as I sit, springing up to the reclining bed where his best friend lay dying. As he gives his final licks and sniffs, his nose makes its way under his massive hands.

I briefly imagine them in their living room, man sitting back, dog climbing the him like a jungle gym. It’s here where he does his favorite things; eating, snoring, browsing, and most importantly, scheming. This chair is where he becomes an architect of antics meant to piss off his family.

I look across the room at my older cousin Alec and remember the Christmas that he tore through presents just to find socks and underwear in each bag, box, and bundle that bore his name.

It was a shocking revelation for Alec, as he had peered into the innards of a closet full of his presents just a few days prior.

But the man in the recliner knew, and he sat back and enjoyed the show before letting Alec know where his MP3 player (believe it or not, the hottest gift at the time) was hidden.

Alec wasn’t alone. A few years later, another victim would emerge.

It happened on a Christmas he had heralded as a smaller one. Despite the noticeable lack of gifts under the tree, we were skeptical. Yet when Christmas Eve came around, his smirk remained intact.

Nevertheless, Christmas went on. My younger brother did not. He was furious but didn’t dare confront anyone for his lack of gifts.

I remember what came next only in slow motion. The storming to the back room, the swinging open of its door, and the jaw-dropping to the ground- had there been any of it not covered by hidden presents.

I can’t help but laugh out loud and share my memories with my brother.

“If anything I bet he’s happy he’s going out in a recliner,” I tell him.

A short while later, he does. Death is still. For a moment, all hearts and breaths stop, and only the cars driving outside the window serve to remind us that we are still a part of the living.

Hearts sob, and breaths pump. It’s a paradoxical feeling, watching someone die. Our chests are tight, but we can’t help but speak, reminiscing relentlessly.

I spend the next week wondering what I’ll say about him at his memorial. If it wasn’t clear already, you can’t talk about him without mentioning Christmas. He was one half of a holly jolly duo that managed to master its ambiance entirely.

I think about talking about the year he gave me the Nerf Longstrike. The Longstrike was rare and massive. To my 10-year-old self, it was the holy grail of all things plastic that shoots foam darts.

The only problem? It was near impossible to find. I learned years later that he’d had the same issue.

“I looked for months but couldn’t find that damn Nerf gun for the life of me,” he told me. “I’d just got it delivered a few hours before we opened presents on Christmas Eve.”

Months of hassle for one gift in exchange for a brief moment of surprise and awe in a night of many.

The problem with this story is that it was too sweet, and I was not about to speak without making fun of him.

Struggling to juxtapose his orneriness and love myself, I settle on finding music to put behind his photo slideshow. I switch on my Spotify playlist “Grandma Jackie’s Back Patio Radio,” a collection of oldies I’d heard from them during car rides to school or hot summer days.

I opt for “Ob-la-di-, Ob-la-da” by the Beatles, a song that tells the story of a couple giving their family a happy life despite numerous challenges. The story is familiar, the tune not too sad.

“Ob-la-di ob-la-da life goes on bra

La-la how their life goes on

Ob-la-di ob-la-da life goes on bra

La-la how their life goes on”

The slideshow plays in the background while I listen to people’s stories. The event is hardly a funeral; a box half full of his ashes looks over a country club bar packed with people sharing laughs, drinks, and barbeque. They rave about his orneriness, kindness, and ultimately, his generosity.

I think back to my story and realize that he was the Grinch, but he was also Clark Griswald.

I wonder if this past Christmas was another one of his tricks-turned-lessons. Despite our protests, he made us vow we’d spend it without him. We didn’t believe we would do it, but we did. We had the best celebration in years.

Whether or not he was smirking from his hospital bed, I take comfort in knowing he’d given me his greatest gift.

He loved pissing us off, making crude jokes, and showing the world his middle finger, but none of it more than taking care of those he loved.

After nearly four hours of celebrating his life, the crowd begins to dwindle. The melody of “Ob La Di, Ob La Da” lingers as the table overflows with flowers, cards, and donations to a little league baseball scholarship.

“In a couple of years they have built

A home sweet home

With a couple of kids running in the yard

Of Desmond and Molly Jones

Yeah, happy ever after in the market place

Molly lets the children lend a hand (Foot!)

Desmond stays at home and does his pretty face

And in the evening she’s a singer with the band

Yeah, ob-la-di ob-la-da life goes on bra

La-la how their life goes on

Yeah, ob-la-di ob-la-da life goes on bra

La-la how their life goes on

And if you want some fun

Take ob-la-di ob-la-da”

I sit back and briefly imagine myself someday down the line, resting in a recliner, admiring my family. I turn to see Grandpa Randy again, his hand on my shoulder, slipping me a wink and a wad of cash.