Seize the Day (13 page)

Wasn't that way for Maya and me. Seemed like at the same time we started thinking about what the repast would be like after
my
death, and she started crying again and I was overcome with emotions that were hard to articulate.

Part of me was so scared that I was virtually numb. It was inconceivable that something was growing inside me that would kill me. The only thing that kept me from collapsing and rolling up into a corner was that Maya was there. I didn't want her to see me that way.

Part of me was angry; I was only forty-five and I had plans. They weren't big, grandiose plans, but they were my plans nonetheless. And I wanted to live them out. See my daughter marry. Play with my grandkids. See the Redskins win another Super Bowl. Observe President Obama years later, after all the mess he endured from racist whites and overly demanding blacks. I wanted to play more golf at Pebble Beach and TPC Sawgrass.

What's up with God that he would allow me to be taken in the prime of my life, with a daughter who loves me and who I have loved and helped to raise? I never had any problems with God before, not even when he allowed my mother to die so suddenly, without warning.

Part of me was sad. I wasn't ready to die and I certainly was pained by how broken my daughter was. It…it killed me—to use a poor expression—to see her like that. Alzheimer's wrecked my grandmother's life early, and it was devastating to see her lose who she was. I was concerned about how my daughter would live in my absence. I never really knew, but they said my grandmother lost her mind when my young cousin who was in her care died. It crippled me to think that Maya would be similarly affected.

So while others smiled and told stories about Walter, I walked my weeping daughter outside under the mean D.C. sun and comforted her at a time when I needed comforting.

“Baby, I remember a prayer Pastor Henson told me to recite when I was feeling like I do now,” I told her.

She wiped her face and pulled her head up. “You do? What is it?”

I hugged my daughter with both arms and pressed her up against my chest.

“Father God, I know you have called me home. My time is coming. Give me strength and courage to walk in Your path in these final days. Thank you for the blessing of life. And thank you for the blessing of death, for I know the greatest gift is coming home to You.”

I was leery of reciting it because I thought Maya would break down. But Pastor Henson was right. The prayer placed the burden of death off of me and placed my faith in the Lord. I never had been a particularly religious man, but my mom embedded into us to pray before bed and to say grace before meals and to understand that God governs all things. And that He makes no mistakes.

“We've got to place it in God's hands and have faith in Him,” I said to Maya. “He doesn't make mistakes. We're going to be OK, both of us. We're going to pull ourselves together, right now, and walk in His path for us. And I'm sure His path does not include us being this upset.”

“I will try, Daddy.” She blew her nose. “But it's not easy. I mean, you're my dad. I never thought about life without you. All I've ever thought about was you walking me down the aisle when I got married and playing with my children and us going to the Redskins games…forever. It was never going to end. I just can't believe that's not going to happen. It's hard for me to accept it.”

I shook my head as much to distract myself from crying as to express my frustration with it all.

“Let's go back in, Maya. Let's have some food. Let's talk to some people and even laugh. Let's go live our lives.”

Maya looked at me and, after a few seconds, she smiled. And in that moment—amid all the pain and drama—I saw strength in my daughter. She gathered herself and was willing to push forward. I was proud of her.

“Calvin, I was looking for you,” Candice said as Maya and I re-entered the room. Most people had gone. Not Candice. She was in charge and did a strong job.

“I was trying to get your attention,” Candice said. “Those two got into it.”

“Who?” I asked, but I already knew.

I was embarrassed for them. Chairs were strewn about. A table had all its contents knocked onto the floor. Candice looked on with confusion and disappointment.

After some persuading, I got Donovan and Walter Jr. to come over and listen to me.

“You guys,” I started, “if we weren't in a chapel right now, I'd bust you upside your heads. This is stupid.”

“You ain't busting me upside my head,” Walter Jr. said.

“Can you just be quiet for a minute?” I asked. I looked at Maya and Candice and they took my cue for them to leave us alone. When they exited the door, I turned back to the men, who were sitting across from each other.

“I want you both to do me a favor. Look at each other. Don't say anything. Just look at each other.”

They both frowned, but did as I asked. After a few seconds I asked, “Now, what do you see? Take your anger out of it. What do you see? Who do you see?”

Neither of them said anything.

“What do you see?”

“I see my dad,” Walter Jr. said, finally.

“Ah, huh,” I said. “Donovan?

“I see my brother,” he answered.

“Exactly. Family,” I said. “You look like you could be Donovan's son and he looks like he could be your father. My point is…you all are blood.
Family
. And I tell you this: There should be nothing more important than family.”

The men glanced at each other again.

“Family gets on your nerves,” I went on. “Family takes advantage of your niceness. Family disappoints you. But, in the end, no matter what, it's still your family. You two are connected by Walter and by blood. Nothing should come between that.”

I could tell I had gotten to them but they didn't know what to say or do. So I took it to another level.

“It's not too late for you,” I said. “You have to take advantage of today. Not tomorrow, because we know tomorrow might not come. Look at me. I'm dying right here in front of you.”

“What? What do you mean?” Donovan asked.

“I have terminal cancer. Probably have a few more months on this earth. I found out about a month ago and I've been struggling with it, as you might imagine. Walter knew. I told him. He told me to live my life. That's about all he said: Live my life. I think he might have known then he was going to take his life.

“But my point is, you're still here. You have your health. You have each other and there's no reason—no reasonable reason—to be at odds. You're family. I know you wanted Walter's money. But I also know that you feel bad that he's gone, that he's gone and you didn't do anything to stop him. That's a guilt you will carry with you the rest of your life.

“At the same time, you can lessen it by coming together. Walter wanted you to be family. You're his blood, both of you. You want to feel better about letting him down? Don't let him down now.”

I felt like I had just given a short sermon. But it just flowed out of me. I had a responsibility to Walter. Bringing his son and brother together would be a nice tribute, I figured.

Donovan stood up and extended his hand to his nephew, who looked at it for several seconds before standing up, too. He ignored his uncle's hand. He moved around the table and went in for an embrace. They hugged each other and cried together, as much for their loss as the feelings they shared about their bond.

I left them there, hugging and crying…and coming together.

I
had another episode that knocked me to my knees. My stomach was so knotted up and throbbing that I buckled to the ground as I went for my walk at Anacostia Park. No one was around, and so I lay there scared that the pain would never let up.

I didn't pass out this time, which was worse because I had no break from the excruciating pain. I knew then I had to get to Atlanta to get the holistic treatments started. I needed something to fend off these attacks.

It took about thirty minutes of laying on the grass and dirt in the fetal position, praying while looking up at the blue sky painted with picturesque white clouds before the pain subsided. Like the last time, I was scared to stand up for fear it would cause more pain.

Also like the last time, the pain exhausted me. I went home and virtually collapsed on the couch. This time, though, I was even more scared. I was dying. It wasn't normal pain. It was death pain.

I called Maya.

“I think I'm going to Atlanta this weekend. Catching the bus tomorrow.”

“Dad, what's wrong? I thought we were going next week.”

“After Walter's funeral, I'm just ready to get it started, the treatments.”

“OK, well, don't catch the bus, Daddy. Let me buy you a plane ticket. If it's really expensive, we can split the cost.”

“Cost isn't the problem, remember? But no, I'm good; not doing planes, Maya. Maybe I will catch one back.”

She was not happy with me, but she wouldn't dare push it. Not then. So I wrapped my head around going to Atlanta and e-mailed Kathy, who had dropped me another note that said she wanted to see me.

I will be in Atlanta, which is only about three hours from Charlotte, so maybe we can somehow connect while I'm down south. Here is my contact number. Call when you can.

I was excited about the chance to see her after so long, but also sad. Another part of me thought seeing her would soothe me. Not heal me, but certainly make me feel better. Yeah, I was confused.

I called Uber to get a ride to the bus station on Friday morning, and arrived at Greyhound looking forward to reading and resting and making the best of the twelve-hour trip. I read that it was mental how you handle long plane or bus trips, and I went into it as a necessary thing as opposed to dreading it. So, I was OK that it would take half a day when I could be there in less than two hours on a plane.

The bus experience was something I hadn't had since college, so it was weird to me that the process seemed exactly the same. Other than being able to purchase my ticket and print it out on the computer, it was the same procedure: Stand in line for a bus that would leave at least thirty minutes late, sit on the bus another ten minutes before it takes off and hope and pray no one sits next to you.

Probably fifteen people were in line before me, but that meant I could get a window seat and place my bag on the aisle seat to discourage someone from picking it.

I pulled out my laptop and looked up the weather in Atlanta and for our entire route. But I was disappointed when I realized the battery was not fully charged. I had only about a half-hour of computer life before it went dark. And I didn't know what the heck they were waiting on, but our eight o'clock departure didn't pull out until almost nine. My battery was already dead before we left D.C.

Worse than that, this guy decided to sit by me on the second row from the front.

“Is anyone sitting here?” he asked. I looked around at the rest of the bus. There were plenty of available seats. There was not an empty row, but I couldn't help but wonder why he chose to crowd me.

When you
know
you're going to die, you become less politically correct.

“All these seats on this bus, why you want to sit here?” I asked. I did not try to hide my disappointment.

The man, who looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, was taken aback.

“What's your problem? I like to be near the front, so I can watch the bus driver and see the road in front of me, see where we're going. So if you have a problem, blame yourself. You picked the seat in the front.”

“Well, I didn't mean any disrespect,” I said. “I was just curious. I like to stretch out if I can.”

“I don't care who I sit by. I just need to be in the front.”

“OK. I'll be sleeping and reading most of the time anyway.”

I really wanted to look at the sights in comfort and think. And pray. But I could tell this guy was a talker. Worse, a talker about stuff I had no interest in.

By the time we crossed the bridge and rolled past the Pentagon, I had learned about the man's children, grandchildren, two ex-wives, his retirement from the Army…more than enough—especially since I didn't ask him about anything.

We rolled along and I just nodded my head and said, “OK” or “uh huh” or “right” as he cleared seemingly every thought out of his head. I was almost totally checked out. I responded just enough to him to give the impression I was engaged.

When we hit the inevitable bumper-to-bumper traffic just beyond Potomac Mills outlet mall on Interstate 95 South, he caught my attention. He said he was a cancer survivor.

My ears perked up then. I looked at him for the first time,
really
looked at him. He was older that I first thought, but carried himself younger than he was. His hair was cut really low and neat. It was all gray. He had sideburns and a thin mustache, sort of a Clark Gable look. He wore a plaid shirt that was more hip than lumberjack.