Posts from — June 2004

He’s published. We’ve typed up the stories we have, and made a nice little home for them online. Have a look:

View “The Kid”

Two days ago, I killed my father. I looked into his eyes, and watched him fade; there was nothing I could do. But really, I was just an accomplice. The real asshole is this other guy you should know about, his name is metastatic nonresectable liver cancer, and that’s who you want to be taking a real look at. You might also want to run a background check on a duodenal adenocarcinoma that was removed from my father about three years ago, because that jerk is at the root of all of this.

My weapon was a number: two. Two, as in two months. Time remaining. Elapsed time, sixty-one years. Neither span is a long time, taken in their own contexts.

It began with the word “less”. Less as in “no dad, it’s less than that”. I had spent the last couple days just being with him following the last surgery, an aborted attempt to see if the asshole I mentioned could be taken out. It couldn’t. Following that waste of time, the surgeon, the oncologist, the family doctor and various other individuals had all stopped by, with various forms of bad news. Dad was getting the picture, and I helped develop it. He was thinking he had a year, or at least he was telling me he thought he had a year. I told him no, it was far less than that. And I think that’s what killed him. Took the wind out of his sails, I did. But sometimes you gotta face facts.

Yesterday, a procedure was aborted by the surgeon, an attempt to alleviate minor symptoms of a major illness. Later in the day a more invasive procedure to the same end was headed off at the pass by yours truly. As realistic, honest and pessimistic as I have been, yesterday was an hourly study in rapid decline, and a shock even to me.

Tomorrow is another day for everyone, but I just don’t know how many more tomorrows my dad has.

P.S. Turns out, he had eighteen left.

Happy Father’s Day, yeah yeah. The whole way up to my Aunt’s place, and the whole way back, the radio voices boasted of great deals and specials and gift ideas for dad. I thought to myself: just shut up already.

They say the first everything without the people you love is hard. But to hit the first Father’s Day a mere two weeks after becoming fatherless? Come on, they don’t even do that in Hollywood.

This is payback for the year I never gave him a card, present or even a phone call.

We spent the day at my Aunt’s house, surrounded by everyone else affected by recent events. Laughed a lot. Good.

I have not been writing much. Sorry. I will. Promise.

This is as good a time as any to also mention that my dad was a gifted writer, and I am in possession of his known printed writings, and Brenda & I are busily typing them up so that we can publish them at last. Dad hated the internet, but realized that web publishing would get his words to a larger audience. He agreed to let me publish his writings online just weeks before he died, and I’m holding him to that.

How’s this for a pre-race regimen:

“Meet at Morningside Park to check your bags and enjoy a live performance by Kajagoogoo.”

Well, that’s just the opening act in a new 5 & 10K footrace “tour”, sponsored by VH1 and Nike. The Run Hit Wonder Tour looks like a fun way to spend an afternoon. Sort of a “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” for the first MTV generation.

Hell, I might just do it. (get it?)

Thank you to all, who have sent me so many kind thoughts and offers. You’ve all helped, in your own ways. I get a special kick when someone I’ve never even met face-to-face sends me some touching note—via email—because I know dad hated email. I kept trying to tell him it’s a viable means of communication, but dad was a traditionalist. Oh, well.

I am especially touched by one note I received from an old family friend, both for her words, which I will keep to myself, and for some words of John Updike, which she included in her note and are so fitting for my father that I feel compelled to share them here, and leave it at that.

Perfection Wasted
And another regrettable thing about death

Is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,

Which took a whole life to develop and market-

The quips, the witticisms, the slant

Adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest

The lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched

In the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,

Their tears confused with their diamond earrings,

Their warm pooled breath in and out with your

heartbeat,

Their response and your performance twinned.

The jokes over the phone. The memories packed

in the rapid-access file.

The whole act.

Who will do it again? That’s it: no one;

Imitators and descendants aren’t the same.

You know what happens? You lose them. You lose the people you love. It happens. Sometimes they get run over by a car, as happened to my friend Rich. Sometimes they catch a bad break and a fatal disease decides to pay a visit and fucking kill them, as happened to my dad. Been through it a couple times now, and I can tell you this, it sucks. And you never make the best of it, but I know I will continue to be an idiot, and so will everyone else.

Hmm. Maybe I’d better explain that.

I loved my father for as long as I can remember, and in the last few days a lot of memories have flooded to the fore. Memories that have saddened and impressed, pleased and depressed. Memories. Meanings. Decisions made, stories told, lessons attempted. My dad has been elevated to previously unseen heights in my cosmic award system, only to be berated in later internal award shows. This dichotomy is evolving now, and has been for the last few weeks. This is what happens. This is what I’m telling you; pay attention.

What I realize is that: a) Nothing’s gonna change, b) I didn’t say everything that needed to be said, c) I could never have said everything that needed to be said, and: d) Dad did a fantastic job. A terrific job, as he would say. He’s the only guy I know who used that word, terrific. He used it comfortably.

Aah, shit.

Guglielmetti
Philip John, 61, of Randolph, passed peacefully in his home on June 3, 2004.

He is survived by his wife Serina; daughter Christina, son Robert; daughter Andrea, his mother, Lena, and his sisters, Emilie Morse and Maria Giombarresse. Born in New York City, a graduate of Fordham Prep High School, Philip made a home in Randolph for 21 years with his wife Serina and his daughter Andrea, who cared for him to his final day, indeed, his final moments.

Mr. Guglielmetti was an advertising executive at MVBMS, an advertising firm in New York City, where he handled the Volvo account. Philip also enjoyed many years as co-founding partner in Fountainhead Communications, in Morristown. Prior to that he spent many years, at many companies, touching many lives.

A mass will be held at 2:00 PM in The Church of the Assumption, 91 Maple Avenue, Morristown, on Monday, June 7 2004. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the Carol G. Simon Cancer Center at Morristown Memorial Hospital, 100 Madison Ave., Morristown, NJ 07960 or Atlantic Health System’s Hospice Care Program, 33 Bleeker St., Millburn, NJ 07041.

He lit the cigarette with the automatic reflex he’d developed over the years, so I didn’t even notice it. I saw the sweep of his hand on the cigarette pack; but the extraction of the butt, the lighting of the stick, this was something I had seen thousands of times before, so I paid it no mind. Easter, 2001.

Then, a snap and a thud, and everything changed.

The lighter snapped shut, the cigarette pack plopped on the coffee table, and he goes, in response to no particular conversation: “so, here’s the deal, I have a tumor, and it’s malignant, and they’re gonna operate next week to remove it. The good news is, they’ve caught it early”.

Always the salesman, he was.

Three years of life have elapsed since the two year prediction I got three years ago. But all good things come to an end.

My dad died today.

He died peacefully, surrounded by people who love him. Other people who love him arrived later. Other people who love him called. I, for one, cracked a few jokes. It’s my way.

Good night, Dad. I love you. Rest easy.