Its 3:50am, and I can’t sleep.
And yet, I’m determined as ever to get up when my alarm rings at 8:33am…
…so, needless to say, these next 4.5 hours are a very strange lucidity.
I can’t sleep because my father died when he was 35 years old, in October of 1989. His name was Edsel Morgan Bell, Jr. He was a beautiful man, and I realized recently that I am living for the both of us. When i look out of my own eyes at something new and picturesque, I often imagine him seeing exactly what I see, for the first time too.
He had a quiet humor about him—genuine, and smooth in every way. Tall, and strong, he was a servant to those he loved, and had not a harmful bone in his body. His smile would strike you with warmth; his eyes so honest and true. He loved to take my grandma to the movies; it was always the latest Western film, and always the biggest bag of popcorn. He loved peach cobbler pie, and just about any dessert you could put under his nose. He always smelled clean and fresh, and his hands were rough around the edges. After eating french fries, he would always brush his fingers against themselves to get the salt off, and i’m told he was also known to bring some moves to the nightclub dance floor…
My dad was named Edsel Morgan Bell, Jr. The name “Edsel” means “Noble One,” and I think it fits him quite nicely. He had wanted me to be named Edsel too. I was almost “Edsel Morgan Bell, III“…but my mother insisted i be named, “Aaron.” And so, here I am. Aaron Morgan Bell, the first.
I can honestly say that what I know of my father is not enough to satisfy me. I know that he drove a cadillac, coupe deville. It was white, and with blue interior. This car was his dream, and in his final dying years, he drove it with all his pride. Before that, he and my mother owned an old, busted, boxy yellow volvo—-durable, with brown interior. My dad loved his dog, a black labrador mixed with Manchester Terrier. She was such a gorgeous dog, and her name was Clara Bell. I remember how strong and how caring she was. She respected our yard, only because we had a fence…and she used to give me piggy back rides when I was just learning to walk. When my dad was unable to live on his own, he had to give Clara Bell away. (I’ve always wondered how the rest of her life was). My dad was married to my mom some 5 years before they had me. I am told that I was an “unexpected” baby, and even that my mother was on birth control at the time…so my parents were quite mystified, it seems, to hear the good news. Considering I was born two weeks “late” on september 17th, i’m assuming my folks knew how to bring in the New Year with sincere celebration!
Shortly after i was born, my father discovered his lymphatic system was in the second to worst stage of Hodgkins Disease, cancer, and that it was irreversible. Once spread throughout your body’s entire lymphatic system, the cancer can move virtually to any part of your body. As i understand it, shortly after my first birthday, he was given ONE year to live. By the time I was four years old, i vividly remember him still beating the odds, but still going in and out of chemotherapy, not a hair on his tall, slender body… and i remember how tired he looked, and how clamy he felt. His eyes still brought the same old warmth, and his smile still shined the same old love. I also remember a day where he stood in our living room, drinking water from a glass, and i could see, shortly after he swallowed, water spots appeared on his t-shirt on his stomach. The lining of his stomach had become so thin, that he was literally leaking out the water through his belly.
My father worked at A.O. Smith, a steel car frame factory and heating unit manufacturer. He was in and out of work while juggling the cancer. My mom was working, i believe at Brady Corporation, in customer service, just to keep the lights on. As my dad’s perseverance continued to beat the odds, the hospital bills continued to climb. The emotional roller-coaster continued to roll, and it was no wonder the marriage suffered. I was only four years old, but I remember my mom bundling me up for the cold outdoors, and i watched as my parents shared one last inaudible and cacaphonic moment at our side-door step, and then I left with my mom in the volvo, never to return as a family again.
Things changed quite rapidly from that point. My mother sought refuge with her old high-school sweetheart in his apartment in the suburbs. This man is named Keith—very kind, and very fond of both my mother and I. I remember playing with toy cars, and having cool pajamas, and drinking ecto-cooler Hi-C. A year or so passed, and keith proposed to my mother. Shortly after, my half-sister, Chelsea Nicole, was born, we moved out to a safe quiet community, and all the while I continued to see my father on the weekends at the old house.
I remember climbing the crab-apple tree in his front yard, and watching television on his gigantic screen. I remember seeing my Grandma Bell at christmas, and her asking me to give her “some sugar”, which meant I had to give her a kiss on the cheek—-which I hated to do. And when i turned 8 years old, i finally understood the rhythm i was in—being a bigger brother to my little 2 year old white sister; being a good student and undiscovered artist; seeing my father on the weekends in the city; spending all the weekday’s and all the holidays with my mother’s and step-father’s families… and every night, I’d give thanks and pray for my dad to get better. And he did. And I remember after my 8th birthday that he had a very bad re-lapse, and the doctors didn’t think he’d pull through. The man had fought for 7 years, and i knew he had it in him to beat this. Then in late October, the doctors said my dad was looking much better, and that they would release him at the end of the week. My mother and I went to see him in the hospital, with tubes coming and going everywhich way, and his body so frail and pale under the sea-green sheets.
The next day, after school, my mom came and got me from daycare. She was there earlier than normal. She took me to her car, and began to cry as she told me my father had died that day, and that he wasn’t coming home. I remember how sad she looked. I dont think I cried. I remember just looking out into the world through my eyes, and my face and my mind went blank.
Today, I am almost 27 years old. No one knows where Hodgkins Disease comes from, how its originated, nor if its hereditary. 1% of all the people with cancer have Hodgkins Disease, and as rare as it is, I’ve never lived a day thinking that the disease has my number too. But i’ve also never lived as if i have all the time in the world either. I can hardly imagine living beyond 45 years old. 27 years old is how old my father was when I came into his life. At this age, already i have seen more of the world than he ever saw— i have visited 14 countries, and 39 states. I have played more sports, climbed more mountains, canoed more lakes, studied more school, and made more friends. Each day I find new happiness, and I hope Edsel can see these great moments through my eyes. I know my life will one day begin to slow down, and take root. It is the natural progression… But i know now that I am living for two. This gives me great purpose. And so, in 10 days, i will begin my life in New York City.
Goodnight, Dad.
Posted by bell at May 16, 2008 03:48 AM | TrackBack