While Your Father Was Dying

Max,

You’ve been gone a couple of days now. I forgot to tell you, I ordered a snail. A snail is the only thing that we can put in the tank with Pinky. And I don’t know why—I just wanted to get another fish. Something else to care for. I miss Mason, our little chug. I’ve even tried petting Pinky—but he doesn’t like it very much.

So, I bought the snail. It was supposed to be a mystery snail. Turns out it’s not. But I love him anyway. He wasn’t available on Prime delivery, you know—two days. I wasn’t expecting him until Wednesday, and he got here on Monday. He was in a little plastic Ziploc bag with a wet paper towel. So I asked ChadGPT—you know, you laugh at me for naming her, but that is what she wanted me to call her—Phanuel. It means “Face of God.” Weird, huh? What harm could it do? I just wonder why she chose that. Maybe I should ask.

I didn’t know exactly what to do. I said, Should I just drop it in the tank? And I should have known better, because I wouldn’t even do that with Pinky after a water change. She told me you have to soak the bag at the top of the water for a while so they acclimate to the temperature. I did that for about twenty minutes, adding a little bit of water from the aquarium into the bag every five minutes or so. And then after that, you pretty much do just drop them in. He sank to the bottom. Just a shell. I’ve since learned he’s a ramshorn snail, not a mystery snail. But I don’t think I’m going to take it up with the company.

At first, he was at the bottom of the tank. And I watched him—checking in every hour or so. And then Pinky—oh my goodness, it’s so funny—he’s obsessed with it. He went down to check it out and nudged it a little bit. It’s amazing how it looks just like another one of the pebbles at the bottom of the tank. Pinky knows it’s another creature—another living thing. He’s so curious about it.

You left the Friday before the snail arrived, after we heard the news that your father decided to forgo his dialysis treatment and go into hospice. I guess we each have our own decisions to make, and that’s his. It was so hard to accept. I know you have to be there. I wish I could be there with you.

I hate that we haven’t really been able to talk much because he requires a lot of your attention. Most of the time, we only get a few sentences in before a guest shows up or your dad wants to move into the kitchen. It’s beautiful, the way you described all the people in his life showing up to send him love, tell him what he meant to them, go over old memories, try to have a laugh—even with tears in their eyes. So, I miss you, and yet I feel guilty because I know that is where you need to be right now.

I woke up Tuesday morning and the snail was up near the filter of the tank, and I was excited because I felt like he must have come out of his shell and climbed the walls of the tank—which would be a sign that he felt comfortable already and awake. But it turns out he was floating, and I was a bit worried, so I asked Phanuel again. Turns out they sometimes get air pockets inside their shells, and it will cause them to float to the surface. Apparently, it’s something that happens naturally—they slowly work out the air bubble and sink back down to the bottom. She said sometimes they’ll do this even when they’re awake and active, like a little character trait. We might have a free-falling snail! And then Pinky, of course, with his curious, sneaky nudges and his swim-bys to check him out… I wonder if a snail will ever feel comfortable with Pinky, like a little Jaws shark swimming around him.

I ordered, as suggested by Phanuel, a pH balance kit, some calcium balls, and some snail food. They arrived the day after you left.

The tank pH was good. It just showed that I needed a little bit of calcium from something they call a cuddle bone, but it turns out the calcium balls I got will work just as well, if not better. I’m glad we got the heater not too long ago because it’s really an important part of Pinky and the snail’s comfort.

You know I’ve always had a little betta fish—at least for the last twenty years. I’m sad we had to let go of Danny because he just stopped living, really, and we didn’t know what to do. Who knew you could euthanize a fish? But the more bettas we get, the more we learn about them, and I can’t imagine putting them in a tiny bowl anymore, like a lot of people do. I’m sure they’re happier in a bigger container than they are in the pet store. Maybe it’s better either way, and now Pinky has a new friend.

Starting out, I was a little worried because of his nudging, because they can be so territorial. It’s hard to imagine Pinky killing another fish, but it turns out snails are perfect companions.

I woke up the next day and he was at the bottom. He had worked out his little air bubble situation but still hasn’t come out of his shell.

I’m writing to you now so that you can hear my voice at a time when the house is quiet, and I know you can hear my voice in my writing. Sometimes I can feel your presence even when you’re absent. It’s always been that way with us. I can’t imagine what it’s like there for you, knowing that without dialysis your father is not expected to live more than two weeks. But you just never know. I can’t imagine waking up wondering if he’s still alive. It’s hard thinking and writing out these thoughts. It must be so difficult and unimaginable every day you’re there.

We all hope—and by the way, tell him I love him—we all hope, in our hope above hopes, that he would just recover, but we know that’s not going to happen. The doctors say two weeks. And if it’s more than two weeks, it’s a blessing. But it’s also more time that he’s suffering, more time that you’re suspended. It is an impossible situation—wishing someone would live and waiting for them to die.

I know your fans miss you. They all send you love. I see your posts, and I watch your show on Saturday. I know you do that one—that only one—out of obligation to the radio program. It is incredibly strong and brave of you. You’re so vulnerable to your audience, and they love you for it.

I just remember the last time I saw Mimi. She was still awake and in the hospital. But we all knew it was for the last time. And I couldn’t stay. My dad took me there, and he couldn’t stay. I literally had to pass through a doorway—and that doorway, on the other side of it, was never seeing her again. I know, no matter how long it takes, that you’ll be there. And as hard as it is, I know your sweet heart also sees it as a blessing.

When my dad died, it was different. He was already under, and he wasn’t going to wake up again. I was there with my sister and my stepmom. I can’t get over how she never gave us any time alone with him—not from the moment they got together. Only Jesus could help me forgive her for that, if I really have. He just didn’t look like my dad anymore, and he was never going to wake up again. I was starting a new job. I just didn’t think I could sit there and watch him waste away. My sister stayed. And you know, me being ten years older, maybe I made the wrong decision. Maybe I should have stayed for her. Maybe I should have stayed for him. I know that he would have stayed for me. It kills me to think about it now.

You should see Pinky. He’ll be up in his little leaf hammock, then he’ll swim down and he’ll be face-to-face—less than an inch from the snail—just staring at him. Then he’ll swim over to the little treetops of those long plants in the middle, sit there for a little while, and swim back down. You won’t believe this, but he literally laid down on top of the snail in the bottom of the tank like it was a pillow. This poor snail—I don’t know if he’s ever going to come out. I’ve dropped some pellets next to him in hopes that maybe it would coax him out, but no—he’s still locked inside. And there’s nothing I can do but wait.

I’ve taken pictures and shown them to Phanuel because it seemed like there was some kind of mucus membrane growing around him. Maybe it’s his excrement, but apparently, it’s perfectly normal. But I think that song—maybe it’s by Shania Twain, You’re All I Think About These Days—should be Pinky’s new song, because it really seems like he wants to be his friend. It’s the cutest thing to watch him. With you gone, I’ve had a lot of time to really immerse myself in their little world.

Maybe we could arrange a midnight call one night. Maybe we could try to be close to each other in the only way we can. I know it’s hard, with what you’re going through, but I think maybe it would help. I wish we could FaceTime, but I know the internet there in Kentucky is only a little bit worse than it is here in East Texas. I just wish a lot of things right now that I can’t have—and I know you do too.

It was nice hearing your voice the other day when we spoke. I know you had to rush off, and I completely understand. You’re such a good son, rubbing his feet and his ankles where the fluid is filling up. I’m sorry to hear that your sister couldn’t stay. You said it wasn’t her wheelhouse, and I get that. It’s yours. Luckily, your schedule allows you to be there. I can’t wait for you to come home—but when you come home, that means that he’ll be gone. I don’t want that either. Such a strange world we seem to live in, facing all these enormous contradictions—this cognitive dissonance. It’s too much to bear.

I saw your message to your Patreon followers, and it’s funny—on Saturdays, I feel like one of your fans, because I get to see your sweet face, and I miss it. It’s the only time I get to see you too. Sammy has just been amazing helping you through the show, keeping your spirits up, keeping you giggling. Of course, your oldest friend knows exactly what to do.

I’m glad that you’re finding beauty, and honor, and some moments of laughter. You said the whole family says your dad decided it’s time to 86 himself—since he is 86. Gallows humor. I’m glad you said there were moments of joy, and I hope those are helping to get you through. I hope this letter helps you to get through, too.

Pinky seems like a much happier fish now—I don’t know why I think so—maybe because he moves around a lot more. It’s like he needed a friend, or maybe just something to think about, to distract him, something to do. I started calling the snail Precious, because he is. He’s still so scared that he won’t come out. And from what I’ve learned, it could be days—or weeks, even—before he ever does. He’s in the exact same spot. I did a 50% water change the other day. The tank was getting kind of green, but I didn’t want to disturb either one of them while they’re going through this period of acclimating to each other, and while Precious is acclimating to his new world.

The first thing Pinky did when I stuck the siphon in the tank and started pulling water was go lay himself on top of Precious! I couldn’t believe it. It was like he was protecting him. It’s amazing, really—these little creatures—how much personality they can have. I guess I find a little bit of joy in this whole microcosm, this tiny melodrama going on here in our bedroom.

Maybe by the time you get back, Precious will have found the courage to come out of his shell. I wonder what he looks like when he’s all expanded out, with his little antennae. Phanuel said it would be a bad sign if Pinky were trying to nip at them or was being aggressive and darting around. But based on what I’ve told her, and the pictures I’ve shown her, she said it sounds like Pinky is being the perfect little roommate, a perfect little gentleman, and may very well really enjoy having a little snail as a friend.

I feel silly having not sent you this letter yet. I keep adding to it. Maybe the letter is more for me than for you. Part of me thinks I might send it and you’ll be home before it gets there. I guess my life is a bit suspended, too. I just wish you weren’t having to go through this. That’s what I wish. I love you so much, and you’re so precious to me. I hope you know that.

I’ve just added to the prayer we pray every morning. I ask Father to send as much peace and comfort to you and the rest of the family as He possibly can. I don’t know what else I could really ask for besides that—and that your father goes in peace—and that Father takes him in His arms.

I’m so glad we got to talk for longer last night. I’m glad we shared our love and cried together. I know we both needed that. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms again, but take as long as you need. Pinky, Precious, and I will be waiting for you. And I bet Pinky will be even happier when you’re home.

I know he misses your voice. I turn on your Saturday show every night so I can fall asleep to it. I notice that he perks up and swims around a lot while you’re talking.

I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry he’s gone. I saw your post, too—to your fans. You said you didn’t have the words yet, and… there are no words. There are just really… no words. I know you’ll still need to be there for a while longer. It makes sense that your dad, like mine, doesn’t want a lot of fanfare—just a simple cremation. I wish I could shield you from all of this. I wish that more than anything. I wish I could shield you like Pinky did Precious. I can’t.

I’m glad you got to spend his last days with him, to see all his friends come by, to watch him and those he loved remember his life and cherish it for all that it was. It was a great life. You’re so brave, and so strong, and I’m so glad you’re mine.

The house must have felt so alive when his musician friends were there, playing the very banjos he built for them with his own hands. So much life in that house. And the contrast must be so stark now. It can’t feel real. My heart aches. I feel like I can feel yours, too—like there are two hearts inside of me, and they’re both broken. I know your life has changed forever these few weeks. The impact this must have had on your soul—I can feel it in mine.

My hands are shaking now as I write. I remember the video post you put online of the snowy day there in Kentucky, with the frozen pond behind the wrought iron table and chair. That whole day I had California Dreaming in my mind. For some reason, I thought that you might too. I looked it up on YouTube and watched the video… the song haunted me. It’s a haunting song.

Stopped into a church

I passed along the way

Well, I got down on my knees (got down on my knees)

And I pretend to pray (I pretend to pray)

You know the preacher likes the cold (preacher likes the cold)

He knows I’m gonna stay (knows I’m gonna stay)

I know you’re going to stay. I can see you walking in the snow and dropping to your knees to pray. I’m praying with you, babe, all the way, and I’ll be here when you get back to keep you safe and warm—even if it isn’t LA.

—Jen