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that I could be with him as long and as late as possible--but not so
late that I'd have to see him in the kind of condition I have to
assume he was in during the full week he was too ill for his boy to
visit him. Pretty bad condition, I'm guessing.

In the almost forty years since Dad's last week in any hospital bed,
my Mom and I haven't talked much about it. If there are things to say
about that week, I'm not sure even forty years is long enough to prep
for them. I know I'm still not ready. I should ask my Mom if she's
ready. She was forty then. Just under half her life ago.

What I do know is my Mom lived by that second hospital bed most every
minute of Dad's last week. Just like she'd been by the first hospital
bed in her living room for the months before. Only now she was the one
sleeping on the wrong bed. There are limits to the physical comforts
you can offer a woman who's determined to stay by her husband's second
hospital bed until it's time.

But she was there that whole time. Up to the last time my sweet Dad
ever said anything to anyone.

As he laid in that second hospital bed, I'm told that the last thing
my Dad said to anyone was something he said to my Mom. He told my Mom:
Take care of The Big Guy.

That was me. I was "The Big Guy." My Dad always called me "Big Guy,"
and I always loved when he said that. It made me feel strong. It made
me feel tall. It made me know that my Dad and I were best pals.

I still love knowing I was my Dad's best pal.

3.

I don't specifically remember the day our particular clutch of burly
rental guys came out to remove the first hospital bed from our living
room. I do remember thinking it was weird how quickly the space filled
with huge floral arrangements, covered dishes and casseroles, and a
pack of outdoorsy men with giant red hands who were new to sobbing
inconsolably in front of each other.

But, that hospital bed had been heavy. Really heavy. And even though
the bed's wheels had been thoughtfully nested in plastic casters, the
raw tonnage of the iron motherfucker left permanent dents in our ugly,
broccoli-green carpeting.

Six breadplate-sized dents that were still there a year and a half
later on the day my Mom and I moved out.

We didn't need a house that big for just the two of us. Plus, the
living room wasn't much fun to hang out in any more.
Way too big. Way too big.

4.

I don't currently have a hospital bed. I have a modest but very
comfortable regular bed in a regular bedroom where I sleep with my
regular wife. She's my favorite part of the bed.

To my knowledge, our modest but very comfortable bed is not fitted
with a shitty little crank. Which is nice for everyone.

And, every single morning at almost exactly 6:00 AM Pacific Time, my
three-year-old daughter wakes up, jumps out of her crank-free,
regular, big-girl bed, tears out of her regular bedroom, and--even
before she gets her hot milk or takes off her pull-up or tells us to
turn on Toy Story 2--she dashes into our regular bedroom, runs up to
our regular non-hospital bed, and screams, "DAD-dy! DAD-dy! DAD-dy!"
until I wake up and say, "G'mornin', Sweet Bug! Did you have nice
sleeps?"

Sometimes she tells me whether or not she had nice sleeps. Often as
not lately, she tells me to make her hot milk and turn on Toy Story 2.
Both of which I'm totally fine with.

Thing is, she screams "DAD-dy!" like the most impossibly great thing
in the world has just happened. Every single morning. Right by my bed.
Without a crank in sight.

And, you know what? Something impossibly great has happened.

Because an annoying, rambling, disagreeable little man like me gets to
have this alarm clock in piggy-patterned footie jammies run up to a
regular, crank-less, healthy-Dad, non-hospital bed and make him feel
like he's The Greatest Thing in the Universe.

Just like I think she's The Greatest Thing in the Universe.

Just like I thought my Dad was The Greatest Thing in the Universe.

And, although I'm confident that I will always think my daughter is
The Greatest Thing in the Universe, I'm also all too aware that this
feeling will not always be reciprocated in quite that same way or with
quite that same enthusiasm that we both enjoy right now.

She won't always run to my bed in footie jammies.

I'll only get that particularly noisy and personalized wake-up call
for a little while. And, I only get a shot at it once a day. At almost
exactly 6:00 AM Pacific Time.

Then one day? I won't get it any more. It will be gone.

5.

Many mornings over the past six months or so, at almost exactly 6:00
AM Pacific Time, I was not in my regular bed. I was not even at home.
I was sitting in another building, typing bullshit that I hoped would
please my book editor. Who, by the way, is awesome.

And, if I noticed what time it was, I'd always wonder whether my
daughter had run into our bedroom yet.

I'd wonder whether she had seen my side of the bed empty again. And,
when I thought about my empty spot on the bed and how disappointed
she'd be to scream "DAD-dy! DAD-dy! DAD-dy!" then see I'm not even
there, I'd die a little.

I'd die a little, because as I thought about her, I'd think about my
Dad. And as I thought about my Dad, I'd start thinking about hospital
beds with cranks--then on to dents, and covered dishes, and rooms full
of sobbing outdoorsy guys, and so on.

But, by then it might be 6:10 am Pacific Time. And I didn't have time
to think about my family. Not now, right? No, I had to keep working. I
had to stay in that other building and keep typing bullshit that I
hoped would please my editor. Who is awesome.

So, I'd type and type. I'd crank and crank. I'd try and try. I'd want
very much to go home, make hot milk, and watch Toy Story 2. So much,
I'd want this.

6.

Anyhow, this has been my on-and-off job for the past two years. I
type. And, I try to type things that will help and comfort people, but
mostly I try to type things that will please my editor. Who is
awesome.

Sometimes I do my job at 6:00 AM Pacific Time. Sometimes I do my job
at 5:30 PM or 11:30 AM or really any time in between. Sometimes I do
my job while my family goes to birthday parties and holiday dinners
and a couple vacations and I don't even know how many (non-Shakey's)
pizza nights--all without me. Without Dad.

In fact, a depressing amount of the time--really up until this week--I
would do my job until I hadn't the slightest idea what time it was or
what bullshit I was typing or what my crank was ever meant to be
attached to in the first place.

But, even when my shitty little crank was not attached to anything, I
did keep cranking. Because, Dads do their job. It's what they do.

They crank. They crank and crank and crank and crank.

Sometimes the cranking made something special that will be really
useful to people who badly need the comfort and help. But, a
staggering amount of the time, my cranking has produced joyless and
unemotional bullshit that couldn't comfort, help, or please anyone.
Especially my editor. Who is awesome. There's no point in doing
anything if it doesn't eventually please my editor. Who is awesome.

This has constantly hung over my head. For two fucking years.

But, this has been my job. It's a job I often did late. It's a job I
often did poorly. And, it's a job where I often didn't pull my load or
live up to even my own expectations and standards. Which is far from
my editor's fault.

She's been awesome.

7.

Anyhow, I've tried to do my job. But, I've often failed.

I've sometimes failed to make things that will help and comfort
people. And, God knows I've failed to please my editor.
And, worst of all, more often than my heart can bear at 2:34 pm
Pacific Time on Friday April 22nd, I know I've failed to be home for
several of my daily shot at "DAD-dy! DAD-dy! DAD-dy!"

It's now become unavoidably clear to me that I've been doing each of
these things poorly. The job, the making, the pleasing, and, yeah, the
being at home. And I can't live with that for another day. So, I've
chosen which one has to go. At least in the way it's worked to date.
Which is to say not working.

I'll let you guess which.

Because, that? That choosing? That's what my book needs to be about.
Not about pleasing people. Not about cranking on bullshit. Not about
abandoning your priorities to write about priorities.

My book needs to be about choosing a hard thing and then living with
it. Because it's your thing.

But, that part's gone missing for just a little too long now.
Certainly not missing from my handsome and very practical
rhetoric--it's been missing from my actual life and living. In a quest
to make something that has increasingly not felt like my own, I've
unintentionally ignored by own counsel to never let your hard work
fuck up the good things. Including those regular people. Including,
ironically, the real work. Including any good thing the crank is
supposed to be attached to.

So, I'm done fucking that up. I'm done cranking. And, I'm ready to
make a change.

I'm not sure precisely what that change will look like, but, at the
risk of invoking Godwin's Law, I have a pretty good idea that this
particular performance of "Edelweiss" you're enjoying right now may
immediately be followed by a dramatic chase, a hopeful escape attempt,
and only if I'm extremely lucky, maybe an eventual stride over the
Alps.

As I'll explain in a minute, it most likely means I don't have My Book
Contract any more.

Who knows? We'll have to see.

8.

All I know is tonight's Friday. And, that's Daddy-Daughter Night.

And, my book agent says my editor (who is awesome) will probably
cancel My Book Contract if I don't send her something that pleases
her=85today. Now. By tonight. Theoretically, I guess...uh...this.

See: my agent very helpfully suggested I send my editor a chapter full
of "email stuff." My editor really likes "email stuff." And, it was
theorized by my agent that sending this "email stuff" might please my
book editor just enough that she might not cancel My Book Contract.
For now.

Well. If you've made it this far, you, like my editor (who is
awesome), will have realized that this is not a chapter of "email
stuff."

It's a very long, wooly, histrionic, messy and uncomfortable story
about hospital beds, piggy jammies, and styrofoam hats. I seriously
doubt it will please my editor. Who is awesome.

So, no, I really hope she doesn't cancel My Book Contract. But, it
does occur to me that said contract is the last and only thing my
publisher has to intimidate me into doing things I don't want to do.
Things I think will harm my book, my integrity, and my life.

Once that threat is made good, the game ends. They can sue me and yell
and stuff. Which would suck, but at least no one would be demanding my
book have fucking pussy willows on the cover. Which, as I sit here,
feels more and more unbearable to me.

In any case, I don't control anything that anyone does. It took a long
time for me to really get that.

It's such a funny thing. Threats--like hurricanes and rectal
exams--are only scary until they arrive. Once they're over, they're
just the basis for funny stories. But, you do nearly always survive
them. And, if you didn't survive? It wasn't because of a lack of fear.
Like I say, the universe doesn't particularly care whether you're
scared.

Oh, well. I like my editor. She's awesome. I hope she doesn't cancel
My Book Contract. I hope we keep working together.
But if it goes away today, tomorrow or further on? Well. As a favorite
novelist of mine used to say: "So it goes."

I'll figure this out tomorrow. Or Monday. Or later. Tonight is
Daddy-Daughter Night. And, no fucking way am I missing two in a row.

9.

Now, as far as My Goddamned Book? Truthfully? Wanna hear the really
complicated part?

This is not me quitting the book. No fucking way. This is me doubling
down on the book--on my book.

I will finish my book very soon. Not because of (or in spite of) any
contract, and not because of (or in spite of) any editor, and
certainly not because of (or in spite of) any tacit demand for empty
cranking.

I will finish my book because I want to finish it. Because it is very,
very important to me to finish it.

But, again, let's be clear-- what I finish will be my book. And, it
will be done my way. And, yes--you Back to Work fans knew this one was
coming--my book will have my cover that I choose. It will not have
fucking pussy willows or desert islands or third-rate kerning. It will
be, to quote my editor (who is awesome), "messy."

My book will help and comfort the people that I want to reach. And,
yes, much like my editor, my book will be awesome.

I truly hope my book pleases her.

10.

So, there you have it. An article that's clearly not a chapter of "email st=
uff."

Me? I'm off to prep for "Daddy-Daughter Night."

And, tomorrow morning, unlike last Saturday morning and countless
other days before it, at the crack of 6:00 am Pacific Time, I will be
available in my regular crankless bed to ask my daughter whether she
had nice sleeps. And I will tell her and my regular wife that I think
they're the Greatest Things in the Universe.

And, maybe after I make hot milk and watch Woody worry about cowboy
camp, I may even think to myself about how proud my funny Dad would be
of his pal, The Big Guy. For doing what needed to be done. To be
someone special's Dad for as often and as long as he can. Just like he
did. Even when it gets hard.

Even when it gets really hard.

--=20
"And god help us all not to be so stone surprised when we wake up in
the stars with the skies in our eyes." -- Violent Femmes