Death with Father, December 2004
Death with Father
As a Prelude of sorts I first include sections from an email I wrote a few days after my father died on December 1st, 2004. At the time my life had fallen apart about a year earlier and I was bankrupt, divorced, unemployed, and half-mad. I was struggling in my relationship with Kristina and desperately trying to get my feet back on the ground. It was one of the worse times in my life, and a cauldron for eventual success. I was also deep in the Warrior Sage work and had not yet been disenchanted with the philosophies and practices of David Deida. July 2006.
Death with Father
I am a rich man. I am blessed with an abundance of pain and growth and waking up and amazing things happening, a wealth of life experiences. It's been rough. I sail my ship thru one storm after another, and it's been rough. My stomach heaves as each swell rolls underfoot and each rogue wave washes the decks clean for each new beginning every moment.
Dad died early Wednesday morning in the ER. It was bitter cold and the third anniversary of my partnership with my fiance Kristina. My brother Joe and I were up all fucking night. Death was messy and brutal. As Gary, the founder of my men's group told me afterwards we come into the world messy and we leave messy. At least it was quick. So quick I wasn't even aware he was dead at first, just sleeping.
About three days ago I got my father alone and said, "Dad, listen up. I want you to know I love you."
"I love you, too," he said.
"I flew here because this might be the last time we see each other alive."
"I know it."
"I'm serious. Not just because you're eaten up with cancer but because I could go down in a plane crash or car wreck, tho I rather not give energy to that."
"Yeah, I know it."
"Dad, while I would love to have you around for many years to come, it's OK with me if you give yourself permission to die."
"I've already thought about that."
"I know you're a fighter, so am I, but there comes a time when you might just want to surrender. You gotta give yourself permission to go when you feel it's time."
"Already have."
He just stood and looked at me. We hugged. And we parted.
He had lung cancer. Inoperable 3rd stage. Dad's a warrior and a king. A former sailor in the United States Navy, he served during the Cold War aboard the USS Midway, an aircraft carrier, for five years including the Korean War. Was well-traveled. Saw the Arctic Ice Cap and Carribean islands. Toured all over Europe. Sailed the Mediterranean. Road camels in North Africa. Got stoned on hashish in Turkey. Chased wild women in Italy. Chased my Momma in college. He laughed as he shared the tales of his youth even after my mother chastised him. "Bill," she would snort, "don't go telling people that." He'd laugh and horrify us about a fellow sailor with an unusually long penis that the Italian whores called "Donkey Dick!" This young man laid fast asleep on the bottom bunk deep in the bowels of the aircraft carrier. His majesty hung loosely over the metal edge of the bunk. Sometime in the night the guy up top swung down to go to the toilet and accidentally stepped on it with his bare foot.
Later in life Bill Bass was a successful and prosperous dairy farmer, quick to adopt innovative farming techniques. He was also a quirky social engineer, one of those Independents who tacked from Democrat to Republican, from Reagan to Kerry. He often hired misfits and convicts and worked to help get them on their feet. I grew up working with thieves, murderers, and really wild men.
He was also the first farmer in the community to hire women in a traditional male environment. He met with lots of resistance and ridicule, but these women all needed work and here was an opportunity to work, and they took it.
He was also married to my Mom for 53 years and very involved in his community. Dad was a selfless deacon in his church and a fearsome advocate in local farm politics. His Virginia farm at its peak was over a thousand acres. He was very first stage in many ways, but open to looking at new ways and kept changing over time. He was very practical and hot-tempered and impatient, beat my ass, and I rebelled against him all thru my teens and early-mid twenties. The Man liked everything from hunting game to cultivating roses. I was as different from him as night from day, yet he was my Father and his blood ran with mine.
And I loved him.
The cancer came fast. It took a month to kill him. I was disturbed to see a once robust, vigorous, confident man reduced to a shriveled husk with fear palpable in his eyes. Death was several hours of shaking and stumbling, shitting all over himself, coughing up astounding amounts of bloody mucus, constant vomiting. Tubes and needles and oxygen mask. Cold. People coming and going. Hot. No privacy. Trying to preserve dignity. My brother Joe and I maintaining a masculine presence no matter what. Sleep deprived bulldozers we were. Warriors. And then we got him stable. Or so we thought. A shout. Eyes rolled back. Mouth wide open. On his back. Facing outwards to the world, to the whole fucking universe. Totally open in his death. And Joe and I were too sleepy to even realize it at first. Good, we thought, he's finally sleeping. Exhausted, we stumbled out grateful for the excuse to go home and sleep. Sleep. Like Dad was sleeping.
And then we found out later he was really dead. Momma woke me up at dawn with phone in hand. Goddamnit.
How does a third stage man cry? In the first stage you stuff it. In the second you collapse and weep. I don't know how a third stage man cries.
Suddenly I was sick of all the labels and shit and just became me. William Dudley Bass. I was my own man. Finally. After 45 years. I was free at last. And I opened up. And wept and wept but always stood solid. I opened into the grief and the tears and the realization I didn't even fucking know I had any responsibilities crying out to me. I'd been a free spirit, content to experience life just to experience life, the whole world revolved around me, and as a writer it made sense at the time as I viewed experiencing life as "work" so I could thus write about it. But I hadn't written much in years.
Somehow somewhere I made wrong choices bad choices shut down and turned off the tap and became financially and creatively catatonic. I floated. Adrift. I realized I had spent so much time with my face turned up into the sky I was not even aware where the fuck my feet were on the ground.
I want one train, one career, one family, one woman. Now things seem to be coming into alignment. I had closure with my Father while he was alive and now I'm burying him. His shadow is no more. Gary and BJ have been absolutely generous and deep in their stand for me in this time - I am grateful for you two brothers. Not just this dying of my daddy, but all the troubles and challenges Kristina and I faced in our partnership. So thank you. I also appreciate you, Debbie, and you Kathy, for being there for Kristina as she struggles in her storms.
I am grateful for Arnie for the opportunity to work and generate income at Seattle Piano Gallery when I was down and out during that dark spell. I am building my Train and can't wait to push off.
I'm working with a new career counselor to revamp this career change I've been navigating without much success. Also, I've committed to write for publication again and eventually teach and present from my writings - I am a great creator and that is closest to my heart. I do feel somewhat scattered, a lot is going on, and yet things are falling into place. There is a sense of serenity and calm as I focus on the nuts and bolts of the train itself.
As I move from completion with Father to a new job that starts Monday to launching my train I am clearer than ever about the responsibilities of Fatherhood and the providing for my daughters. During this past week I have stepped up to the plate and now stand on the plate, whereas before, I am ashamed to say, I didn't even realize there was a plate to stand upon.
And it is clearer to me more than ever how deeply I love you, Kristina, and how committed I am to our partnership and growing a life together. Now matter what you do or chose to do, even if you leave me, I love you. I will always love you. I am excited about going back to work, writing again, being with our kids again, and building our partnership as I serve you as deeply and openly as I can.
My purpose deepened over the last two days. I am here on this planet as an instrument of God. As a divine instrument I serve the world wide-open. I best serve human beings by serving their relationships. All our relationships. Wide-open and in breakdown. Doesn't matter. And I am open, too, to going even deeper as Purpose reveals itself truer and truer.
On some deeper level I have fallen in love with myself.
All of you in the Passion Warriors' Men's Group (when I was in Fall 2003-Spring 2007) and all of you in the Seattle Couples Group (of 2004-2006) - I would not have been able to make it if it had not been for all your own sharing of struggles, openings, and pain, and Love! And for your stand, and the courage to reach out and touch one another and me, and we hardly know each other, yet in this work we know each other deeper than we sometimes know ourselves.
*
As a Prelude of sorts I first include sections from an email I wrote a few days after my father died on December 1st, 2004. At the time my life had fallen apart about a year earlier and I was bankrupt, divorced, unemployed, and half-mad. I was struggling in my relationship with Kristina and desperately trying to get my feet back on the ground. It was one of the worse times in my life, and a cauldron for eventual success. I was also deep in the Warrior Sage work and had not yet been disenchanted with the philosophies and practices of David Deida. July 2006.
Death with Father
I am a rich man. I am blessed with an abundance of pain and growth and waking up and amazing things happening, a wealth of life experiences. It's been rough. I sail my ship thru one storm after another, and it's been rough. My stomach heaves as each swell rolls underfoot and each rogue wave washes the decks clean for each new beginning every moment.
Dad died early Wednesday morning in the ER. It was bitter cold and the third anniversary of my partnership with my fiance Kristina. My brother Joe and I were up all fucking night. Death was messy and brutal. As Gary, the founder of my men's group told me afterwards we come into the world messy and we leave messy. At least it was quick. So quick I wasn't even aware he was dead at first, just sleeping.
About three days ago I got my father alone and said, "Dad, listen up. I want you to know I love you."
"I love you, too," he said.
"I flew here because this might be the last time we see each other alive."
"I know it."
"I'm serious. Not just because you're eaten up with cancer but because I could go down in a plane crash or car wreck, tho I rather not give energy to that."
"Yeah, I know it."
"Dad, while I would love to have you around for many years to come, it's OK with me if you give yourself permission to die."
"I've already thought about that."
"I know you're a fighter, so am I, but there comes a time when you might just want to surrender. You gotta give yourself permission to go when you feel it's time."
"Already have."
He just stood and looked at me. We hugged. And we parted.
He had lung cancer. Inoperable 3rd stage. Dad's a warrior and a king. A former sailor in the United States Navy, he served during the Cold War aboard the USS Midway, an aircraft carrier, for five years including the Korean War. Was well-traveled. Saw the Arctic Ice Cap and Carribean islands. Toured all over Europe. Sailed the Mediterranean. Road camels in North Africa. Got stoned on hashish in Turkey. Chased wild women in Italy. Chased my Momma in college. He laughed as he shared the tales of his youth even after my mother chastised him. "Bill," she would snort, "don't go telling people that." He'd laugh and horrify us about a fellow sailor with an unusually long penis that the Italian whores called "Donkey Dick!" This young man laid fast asleep on the bottom bunk deep in the bowels of the aircraft carrier. His majesty hung loosely over the metal edge of the bunk. Sometime in the night the guy up top swung down to go to the toilet and accidentally stepped on it with his bare foot.
Later in life Bill Bass was a successful and prosperous dairy farmer, quick to adopt innovative farming techniques. He was also a quirky social engineer, one of those Independents who tacked from Democrat to Republican, from Reagan to Kerry. He often hired misfits and convicts and worked to help get them on their feet. I grew up working with thieves, murderers, and really wild men.
He was also the first farmer in the community to hire women in a traditional male environment. He met with lots of resistance and ridicule, but these women all needed work and here was an opportunity to work, and they took it.
He was also married to my Mom for 53 years and very involved in his community. Dad was a selfless deacon in his church and a fearsome advocate in local farm politics. His Virginia farm at its peak was over a thousand acres. He was very first stage in many ways, but open to looking at new ways and kept changing over time. He was very practical and hot-tempered and impatient, beat my ass, and I rebelled against him all thru my teens and early-mid twenties. The Man liked everything from hunting game to cultivating roses. I was as different from him as night from day, yet he was my Father and his blood ran with mine.
And I loved him.
The cancer came fast. It took a month to kill him. I was disturbed to see a once robust, vigorous, confident man reduced to a shriveled husk with fear palpable in his eyes. Death was several hours of shaking and stumbling, shitting all over himself, coughing up astounding amounts of bloody mucus, constant vomiting. Tubes and needles and oxygen mask. Cold. People coming and going. Hot. No privacy. Trying to preserve dignity. My brother Joe and I maintaining a masculine presence no matter what. Sleep deprived bulldozers we were. Warriors. And then we got him stable. Or so we thought. A shout. Eyes rolled back. Mouth wide open. On his back. Facing outwards to the world, to the whole fucking universe. Totally open in his death. And Joe and I were too sleepy to even realize it at first. Good, we thought, he's finally sleeping. Exhausted, we stumbled out grateful for the excuse to go home and sleep. Sleep. Like Dad was sleeping.
And then we found out later he was really dead. Momma woke me up at dawn with phone in hand. Goddamnit.
How does a third stage man cry? In the first stage you stuff it. In the second you collapse and weep. I don't know how a third stage man cries.
Suddenly I was sick of all the labels and shit and just became me. William Dudley Bass. I was my own man. Finally. After 45 years. I was free at last. And I opened up. And wept and wept but always stood solid. I opened into the grief and the tears and the realization I didn't even fucking know I had any responsibilities crying out to me. I'd been a free spirit, content to experience life just to experience life, the whole world revolved around me, and as a writer it made sense at the time as I viewed experiencing life as "work" so I could thus write about it. But I hadn't written much in years.
Somehow somewhere I made wrong choices bad choices shut down and turned off the tap and became financially and creatively catatonic. I floated. Adrift. I realized I had spent so much time with my face turned up into the sky I was not even aware where the fuck my feet were on the ground.
I want one train, one career, one family, one woman. Now things seem to be coming into alignment. I had closure with my Father while he was alive and now I'm burying him. His shadow is no more. Gary and BJ have been absolutely generous and deep in their stand for me in this time - I am grateful for you two brothers. Not just this dying of my daddy, but all the troubles and challenges Kristina and I faced in our partnership. So thank you. I also appreciate you, Debbie, and you Kathy, for being there for Kristina as she struggles in her storms.
I am grateful for Arnie for the opportunity to work and generate income at Seattle Piano Gallery when I was down and out during that dark spell. I am building my Train and can't wait to push off.
I'm working with a new career counselor to revamp this career change I've been navigating without much success. Also, I've committed to write for publication again and eventually teach and present from my writings - I am a great creator and that is closest to my heart. I do feel somewhat scattered, a lot is going on, and yet things are falling into place. There is a sense of serenity and calm as I focus on the nuts and bolts of the train itself.
As I move from completion with Father to a new job that starts Monday to launching my train I am clearer than ever about the responsibilities of Fatherhood and the providing for my daughters. During this past week I have stepped up to the plate and now stand on the plate, whereas before, I am ashamed to say, I didn't even realize there was a plate to stand upon.
And it is clearer to me more than ever how deeply I love you, Kristina, and how committed I am to our partnership and growing a life together. Now matter what you do or chose to do, even if you leave me, I love you. I will always love you. I am excited about going back to work, writing again, being with our kids again, and building our partnership as I serve you as deeply and openly as I can.
My purpose deepened over the last two days. I am here on this planet as an instrument of God. As a divine instrument I serve the world wide-open. I best serve human beings by serving their relationships. All our relationships. Wide-open and in breakdown. Doesn't matter. And I am open, too, to going even deeper as Purpose reveals itself truer and truer.
On some deeper level I have fallen in love with myself.
All of you in the Passion Warriors' Men's Group (when I was in Fall 2003-Spring 2007) and all of you in the Seattle Couples Group (of 2004-2006) - I would not have been able to make it if it had not been for all your own sharing of struggles, openings, and pain, and Love! And for your stand, and the courage to reach out and touch one another and me, and we hardly know each other, yet in this work we know each other deeper than we sometimes know ourselves.
*
Labels: Death with Father, December 2004
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