Category Archives: death

Death and the Nebulas

Nebulas 2024 sign

The 2024 Nebula Conference was held this month in Pasadena, which is a ridiculously short flight away (Oakland—Burbank), so I bought a ticket and signed up to volunteer. Decided to pass on the banquet due to $$. (Later, I was given a dinner ticket by mistake and they refused to take it back. Free rubber chicken!)

But the week before the event was a confluence of DayJob stress, side effects from my prescription, and the death of a friend, Gabriel de Anda. Since Gabriel was one of my three oldest friends who still lived in the greater Los Angeles area, I had planned to see him. It had been a few years. Plague, political fuckwits, and contracting chaos had all contributed to the situation.

It’s a pretty poor excuse in retrospect. The constant distraction of Mundane Reality is, well, distracting. You talk with friends, or see them on Zoom, but if they’re more than a hour or two away by any sort of transit, any plans for sitting down to eat freshly grilled fish and drink pisco sour never come to fruition.

Then that bastard cancer drops by and well, bad things happen. Sometimes they happy really fast. I had just emailed Gabriel to confirm his physical address so I could drop a graduation announcement in the mail. Oh, and I was going to be in Pasadena the following weekend. Maybe we could get together.

He responded immediately. Said he’d been in the hospital for two weeks and was now home under hospice. Some kind of unknown cancer. He expected to be gone in a few days and was starting to say his goodbyes.

WTF? WTAF? I mean, he was doing edits on a story promised to a pro SF magazine. This was a totally shitty time to die. (Yes, there’s rarely a good time.)

I almost canceled my plans. Looked into a last-minute flight and hotel, but couldn’t put it together. (Migraines are a grand thing, aren’t they?) I hoped that Gabriel would still be around in a week when my brain was back online and I was within striking distance.

He wasn’t. Three days after we corresponded about literary estates and my possible contribution of an afterward to his story, his widow posted the news of his passing.

Shit.

So I went to the Nebula Conference in a weird fog. While it was truly good to see a few friends, it was also good that the panels were being streamed and recorded because I hid out in my room. A lot. I threw myself into a new flash story for a contest with a painfully short deadline. I slept more than usual.

Then I saw that my latest podcast story had dropped (“There are Worse Travel Companions” – Sudden Fictions). The story is about a man who works in an orbital crematorium. It’s a brief conversation about how we treat the remains (cremains) of loved ones.

The synchronicity wasn’t pleasant.

Fortunately, I have two dear friends, Tash and Dan, who live in the greater LA/Orange County. I saw them both last weekend. Gave them books. Talked their ears off. Hugged and was hugged in returned.

It struck me at one point that all four of us had shared only one experience: my wedding. Here’s Gabriel back on that day in 2000:

Gabriel de Anda, Esq.

I like to think his mind was filled at that moment with its usual urbane and clever thoughts. In addition to being an attorney fighting for the underdog, Gabriel was a writer of lush, poetic SF. He was one of my first students in a continuing ed course of “Writing the Fantastic” or some-such. After the class ended, we became friends, trading letters and story drafts for three decades.

Our styles were nearly opposite. He sometimes compared my writing to a zen garden, clean and focused (ha!), while his writing felt more like a swirl of ants trying to find a scent trail. My advice to him usually boiled down to Whoa there, partner. Do you really think you need three adjectives to describe that thing? Pick the best one. But Gabriel was a baroque artiste who believed in good excess. He loved Ridley Scott and Gaudí, William Gibson and secret interstellar societies, good coffee and street art.

He read everything I published (and some things I didn’t) and asked me repeatedly when was I going to write a novel. When I retire, I answered. Don’t worry, you’ll get a chance to see the first draft.

Damn.

So tomorrow I will go back into the word mines and chip away at a new vein, because someone has to tell the story.

Adios mi amigo. Adios.

War and (Inner) Peace

The anthology Strange Religion launched today, the companion volume to Strange Wars (which debuted last week). I’m pleased to say that in addition to assisting with first reads (i.e., slush), I contributed one original story and one reprint to the project.

(Some of you may remember my appearance in the first volume in the Strange series, “Supply and Demand Among the Sidhe” in Strange Economics. So I’m 3/3. Huzzah!)

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“Burial Detail” is a reprint (with minor edits/updates) from The Word Count Podcast. It’s lovely to see “Burial Detail” in print, though it was published not long after the death of my university partner-in-crime, Dr. John A. Maynard. Our conversations about his military service helped inform the story.

“Jizo Rides the Bus” was a much more difficult story to write since it was the first new fiction I attempted after the death of my father, Frank Schlosser. I learned about Jizo, a bodhisattva popular in Japan, during a practice offered at the San Francisco Zen Center. Jizo is the patron of travelers and children who die before reaching adulthood. An unusual bodhisattva, Jizo vowed to avoid Nirvana until he could accompany all beings to safety, even those trapped in the hell realms.

Statues of Jizo are common in Japan, especially in graveyards, and are often decorated with red hats and scarves, since the color is often associated with protection from evil.

After I completed the practice period, I decided that Jizo would make an excellent POV character for a story about grief and samsara set in Silicon Valley. I hope you enjoy it.

For the next few days (May 7-11) Strange Religion is available as a free Kindle download. Please have a look. It’s a big volume with a lot of ideas.

November musings

For a lot of writers, November is National Novel Writing Month. The timing is challenging, to say the least. Hello, Thanksgiving? This year, we also had the twin delights of Pandemic Brain and The Election That Never Ends.

I had other plans for the month, which were sadly derailed. Back in the before days, I had contracts for two short stories to be published at this time. Unfortunately, the other human beings involved had their own schedules and travails, so Mundane Reality™ decided I would have only a podcast this month rather than new print stories. Those would have to wait until December.

My month, then, was focused on writing. Not a novel (that’s another conversation) but writing. Specifically, writing every day. And I did it! I even managed to crawl over the 10K finish line, which is my best stretch ever.

Because of various life events this past orbit (child going to college, pandemic, father’s death, work stupidity), I had a fairly large number of open files in my WIP folder. I decided that I would tackle as many of those as I could (with a target of 4 Complete Things).

I finished Four Things, too. Three of the stories had been languishing in the WIP folder, and the fourth was a completely new idea that occurred during the month.

Special bonus: On December 1, after I declared my self-defined victory, I gave myself permission to take the night off. So what did I do? I wrote a brand-new flash story that was pretty darn good. It’s sitting in the submission queue of a magazine, along with three November’s stories. The fourth — the longest — needs some moderate editing. I was throwing down words hard and fast at the end and I suspect that several key scenes will be removed or replaced.

Bottom line: I managed to complete Five Things in 31 days. Not sure if they’ll find Forever Homes but at least they’re not sitting around here, eating my snacks and messing up my Netflix queue.

New fiction is coming soon. Really.

Hospice 10: And Then There Were None

Schlosser Clan, circa 1946

I spoke to my father on the phone briefly last Sunday. We were driving back from the store, on a hot, dusty afternoon. I’d heard that he was slipping, and I had just returned from Chicago, wondering when I might see him again. (I was waiting on the results of a COVID test — airports, y’all.)

He had trouble following the conversation. His speech was halting, weak. I told him that we’d set up our child at college and she was having a good time, despite the quarantine. Her roommate was a great match, at least so far. He was pleased to hear that.

When I asked about him, he said he was tired of sitting on his ass. Just tired.

Two days later, I got word that my father was no longer able to swallow, so he couldn’t take his pain medication. I contacted hospice and they assured me that they would switch him over to sublingual morphine. Then after sitting with that image for a few minutes, I packed an overnight bag and my work laptop.

The drive down wasn’t fast: enough people were back at the office that traffic in Silicon Valley felt more like pre-pandemic times. Once I escaped San Jose, I grabbed dinner, and drove hard. My soundtrack was old Prog rock, a Tom Papas comedy special, and a welcome phone call from my best friend, Dan.

I’d left a message on Dan’s voicemail, and the transcription read, “My father is going shopping.” What I actually said was I thought my father was getting ready to “shuffle off this mortal coil.” We had a good laugh over the foibles of technology.

Santa Maria was quiet at 9:15 pm, and I settled into a spare room. Woke up at 1:30 am, and watched my monkey brain as it jumped through the canopy of my thoughts. Fell back asleep around 3 (?).

The alarm woke me at 6:15, and I stumbled into the kitchen to make strong tea. Before I could finish, the phone rang. Frank had died during the night. The oldest member of the clan. The last child of John and Ethel Schlosser.

Off I went to Hillview to meet with the nurse. In the few weeks since I’d last seen him, my father had shrunken in on himself. He was a corpse: thin, pale, silent.

The temporary room where they’d moved him was nearly bare: only a few photographs on the wall. No birthday cards, no drawings. It might have been a hotel room, or a doctor’s office.

The funeral home sent two attendants about an hour later. They were very solicitous and respectful. They made sure I knew what they were doing at every step, and gave me a choice to stay or wait outside. I stayed, although I had to back into the backroom to give them room to maneuver the gurney.

Their vehicle was a white cargo van. As they left, an Amazon truck passed in the opposite direction, its gray paint job an imperfect mirror of the funeral vehicle. Yin and yang. Pick up and delivery.

Later in the morning, we called the funeral home and authorized the cremation for later this week. The skies are so filled with ash, would anyone notice?

Rest, father. We’ll take it from here.

Hospice 9: On the outside, looking in

Normally, members of the immediate family can sit with a resident during hospice. Due to the pandemic, though, they limited that to one person.

When two staff members at my father’s facility recently tested positive for COVID-19 virus, they cut in-person visits. So I sat outside Frank’s room, along with my wife and daughter. My daughter was scheduled to leave for college in two weeks (where she would undergo her own quarantine before the fall semester), and she wanted to have a final visit with her grandfather.

It was difficult. He managed to position himself close to the window so he could see and hear us. The staff made him wear a mask (even if it slipped).

It’s been almost two months since my father has received a blood transfusion, with a commensurate drop in his blood oxygenation. That translates into even more pronounced cognitive decline and paranoia.

On this visit, he was convinced that “the military” owed him a chunk of money, a reward for keeping his unit expenses under budget. He didn’t have any documentation, but he had a distinct memory of a photo of a number of American soldiers by a river, carrying what might have been German swag.

I assured him that I was very clear on his financial picture, and there were no loose ends with the VA. His financial advisor had all the accounts, and they were invested in boring, conservative funds. Don’t worry about it. (Later, I realized he was conflating one of the many WWII documentaries he’d watched on the History Channel with his never-ending dream to leave behind a sizable inheritance for his family.)

Still, he insisted. Fortunately, my wife interrupted, and reminded Frank that his granddaughter was leaving for college soon. Perhaps we could talk about that?

And we did. He remarked on her “crazy pink” hair, the opportunities of Chicago, and his belief that she would be successful.

It was, on the whole, a good visit, but one that ended in tears all around.

P.S. Two days later, when I was back home, my father called me. This was a good sign, I thought. He’s using his mobile phone again.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

Sure.

“Do you have your mother’s phone number?”

He was asking me for the landline number, which is the first speed dial on his mobile.

The number hasn’t changed in half a century. He called it every day from the office to say he was leaving. He called it from the hospital when he was under psychiatric observation. And he asked the staff at the assisted living facility to call that number when he couldn’t find his phone.

I took a deep breath and gave it to him.

Hospice 8: The Santa Maria BBQ Gambit

My father turned 92 this past weekend, and I spoke to him via FaceTime. The next day, I showed up in person with a card made by my daughter. I’d reminded her that even with his glasses, her grandfather couldn’t see very well, so she should use large lettering and lots of colors.

When I got there, I found other birthday cards and notes, but most were still in their envelopes, or tucked under articles of clothing. So I used some putty to tack Lilly-Karin’s mini-poster on the wall, next to the photo of her tattoo, where he could easily see it.

During my visit that day, and the next, his gaze would drift toward the wall, and he’d remark that “now we knew for certain” he was 92.

Birthday card poster

The next day, I arrived with my wife, and Frank was napping. As soon as I moved a chair close to the bed, he woke and asked about the news. “What’s happening?”

I gave the usual response: the weather, COVID-19, only a month until L-K leaves for college. He sat up a bit. “But what about the BBQ?”

I thought he was referring to the brick BBQ setup back at their house, the one built adjacent to the deck. I replied that it was basically covered since no one was using it this summer. And that once he passed, we’d probably give his equipment to my niece and her husband, since they were definitely fans of BBQ and outdoor parties. Whoever buys the house gets the rest.

No, he said, what’s happening with Santa Maria BBQ? Had there been any news about Santa Maria BBQ in the paper? I looked at my wife, who shrugged. I replied honestly that I hadn’t seen any news, or read anything online or heard mention on the Food Network.

He leaned back and contemplated the wall. “There’s a real opportunity there. You should buy it.”

Buy Santa Maria BBQ? You mean, like, the copyright and the recipe?

Yes, he said. “You could make a lot of money.”

And there it was. For years my father has worried that he wouldn’t earn enough money to see himself through retirement, or take care of his family after his death. He has put money into some dubious investments, and tried to patent a number of ideas all with an eye toward making the Big Score. He didn’t want to be wealthy, per se. He just wanted to have the financial freedom to be able to do what he wanted.

We talked a bit more about the BBQ gambit, and I assured him that I didn’t have the investment capital for such an undertaking, nor was I particularly interested in trying to corner the market on red oak-fired tri-tip beef.

I also assured him that there was enough money in his retirement accounts to take care of my mother once he passed. If we downsized and watched expenses, things would be fine. That seemed to help.

At the end of his life, my father was trying to have one more success, or at least sock away some cash. It’s okay, Dad. You did what you could.

Which is the most any of us can do.

Hospice 7: The breeze compensates for a lot of things

My father has entered a state I think of as Schrödinger’s Patient, or Schrödinger’s Parent.

Intellectually, I know that he’s dying but there are times that I don’t know if he’s dying quickly or slowly. Sometimes he has energy, his eyes are animated, or he sits up in bed and leans forward to engage you. Other times, he lies back, he drifts, he looks at things that aren’t there.

It’s an uncertain state. A quantum fluctuation between this life and the next. Maybe. Yesterday we opened the window when we visited. It had gotten a bit warm, and the predictable afternoon breeze was welcome. He remarked upon it at least twice.

“This is great. The wind. The breeze. I’m really enjoying it.”

He wondered about where he was going. What was the next thing that was happening. What is the next state? What is the transition?

I thought he was going to talk about his faith, or his thoughts about death. Then he shifted a bit in the bed and said, “I might be going here.” And then he turned to the other side, “Or I might be going there.” And he stretched his toes, “Or I might reach my feet down and scoot off the edge of the bed, and use my walker.”

“I don’t know.”

He’s entered a kind of profound lizard brain state, when the smallest movements, actions, and thoughts demand utmost attention. Philosophy wasn’t really on the menu.

It’s both affirming and sad to see it happen to a man who had such intellectual curiosity through his life. He mused that “all one’s accomplishments… deciding which side of the bed you were going to curl up on.”

But the breeze was good. And that was all he needed at that moment.

Hospice 6: Conflation Station

My father was feisty today. He was able to sit in his chair for a brief time, and later, propped himself up in bed and leaned forward to ask questions.

Sometimes, though, he needed two or three tries to find the right subject-verb-object combination, or he’d assemble part of the thought, only to have it drift away like a leaf on a stream.

What I noticed (and had confirmed by a sibling) was the conflating of people, events, and things. He reported that the governor had died (“and that was good”) but couldn’t say which governor. Or when. He also mixed up which grandchildren had called, or which nieces or nephews had brought him early birthday cards.

The paranoia is creeping back. He feels the hospice nurse was “just covering her back” and he was being medicated against his will. When we dug deeper into that, he acknowledged that he liked not being in pain. So pain medicine is okay.

My sister broached the subject of his final arrangements; specifically, what did he want to do with his ashes? His response: “I don’t give a shit.” He was going to be dead after all.

So we talked it over while sitting in the backyard today. I joked that maybe my mother could use him to fertilize her plants (she’s a serious hobbyist gardener). We also talked about putting the ashes in the BBQ. Or near the BBQ, which is where you could find Frank most weekends, in good weather (which is much of the time in Santa Maria).

Years ago my parents had installed a deck and a brick BBQ with power and a gas line so my father could easily prepare tri-tip over oak coals, or chicken cooked on a rotisserie. I think my father burned out two or three motors before he finally had someone build a heavy-duty unit that had enough torque to handle two fryers. (My daughter, who is not a big meat eater, has always liked her farfar‘s chicken.)

So after we had a good laugh, we decided that yes, the plants behind the BBQ should be the final resting place for his ashes. I’d like to remember him sitting up there, listening to his Big Band or Classical CDs, having Costco vodka with lots of ice, and waiting until the perfect moment when he’d pull the birds off the rack and call for a knife to confirm what he already knew.

It was time to eat.

Hospice 5: Thanks for being different

In Catholicism, there is the sacrament of Last Rites. A believer facing imminent death can confess their sins and be forgiven. It doesn’t what you did or how often or maybe you forgot about that minor theft. If you’re truly contrite, you’re good. Clean slate. Off to Heaven with you.

Outside Catholicism, there is a larger tradition— almost a trope, really — of the dying person saying all the things they meant to say at the very last moment. This provides a certain amount of closure, and it’s a bit of cheat. The recipients of that information can take it in, but they can’t act on it. Specifically, they can’t act on it with the dying person. That window of opportunity is closed for business. You don’t have a chance to integrate that new information and alter the trajectory of your relationship.

My father wrestled with his faith, and his own secular view of the world. While he left the Church (and came back to it, briefly), he did have certain firm pillars in his emotional landscape. One: he loved his children. Absolutely. But like many parents (myself included) he didn’t always know how to connect with his children, or support them, other than financially.

What my father liked to do was make quiet pronouncements, usually as we were packing the car to leave. “You know I love you.” (To which I might reply, “I know.” or “Love you, too.”) There were variations on this exchange, such as “I appreciate you coming down,” or “Thanks for helping this weekend.”

On the rare occasion when the two of us were alone in the car for a drive or sitting together on a long flight, he might attempt to pierce the veil and talk about his own family, or his marriage, or my writing. Something.

Frank didn’t get SF. He’d read a few books that I’d loaned him, but he didn’t dig anything written past the pulp era. The fact that I wrote, and continued writing with only occasional professional success impressed him. He also appreciated that I was following my own path, which included things like fencing, Buddhism, and raising a daughter with theatrical dreams.

Even if he didn’t say it very often.

As I was leaving his bedside recently, he held my hand tightly and thanked me profusely. He was grateful, he said, that I had brought something “different” into his life, and that my daughter was “unique.” (I would have to agree with that.)

My father worked a lot of years, with a busy private psychotherapy practice and a challenging marriage, all with an eye toward seeing his children grow up and be successful, using the some of the traditional metrics of college, military service and/or professional careers, marriage, and grandchildren.

In addition to helping him fulfill that goal of “raising successful children,” apparently I had brought something different to the party. Something that made him proud. And happy.

I always suspected that was the case, and it’s nice to have it finally confirmed, even if it’s at the end.

Now excuse me while I check in on my daughter. She’s grinding out a model boat using scrap lumber so she can have a prop for her D&D game. I don’t exactly understand why she’s putting so much energy into this particular accessory, but I certainly encourage her effort.

I’m sure it will be a fine vessel.

Hospice 1: Two Tattoos

As long as I have known my father, he’s had a tattoo on his right bicep. It was just part of him: a rose with some red petals, green leaves, and a name underneath. It appeared when he was working in the yard, or hanging out at the beach, or splashing about in the cold rivers of central California. I didn’t give it much thought. I always assumed he got it when he was in the army, like everyone else in his generation.

This week I learned the full story. In 1946, on his 18th birthday, he decided to “do something wild” and got himself good and drunk, then somehow made his way to the local inking emporium and related the story of his current infatuation: Lenora. She was an “ultra-beautiful girl” and he had fallen hard for her. He wanted to get a tattoo, and it “had to be her name.”

I asked my father if he had stumbled into the shop and pointed at the designs on the wall, and said, “That’s it! Number 6. Give me that one! But make it with Lenora.” But he didn’t. His recollection was that he sat down with the artist on duty, described Leora and all her glory, and the guy set to work (not doubt puffing away on an unfiltered Camel).

Leora was apparently not impressed enough by this sign, and went on her way. My father continued his romantic adventures until my future mother agreed to his proposal.

Frank Schlosser, Germany
Frank Schlosser in Germany, post WWII
Rose tattoo
Faded rose

When we visited my father in hospice two days ago, it was the first time we’d seen him since Christmas. Due to COVID-19 restrictions, I was allowed in the room, but my spouse and daughter had to stand outside and basically wave through the window. They could also talk a bit, but between masks and bad hearing aids, it wasn’t ideal.

My daughter Lilly-Karin turned 18 this past January, and she had decided long before then that she would mark the occasion with a tattoo. Of course, these days, you have to be at least 18 (or have written permission from your parent/guardian). Showing up hammered will get you thrown out of a respectable shop, and no one is smoking Camels or anything else. Times change.

So my teen did a lot of research, saved her babysitting money, and then borrowed the car on her birthday. She went to a shop recommended by her friends and walked the artist through her design: a flower. A California poppy, to be exact. Since she has flowers in her name, she wanted to continue the theme, and also celebrate her birthplace.

She showed up late for dinner, apologetic, but happy that she had staked out her first mark of adulthood.

When my father heard the story, he was delighted to announce a new connection to his granddaughter, but wished he could see her ink. I took a picture later that afternoon, printed up a copy, and delivered it the next day.

Golden poppy tattoo
Eschscholzia californica, California poppy

He was very happy, and proceeded to thank me for bringing such a unique being into the world. (Not that I had much choice in the matter – Lilly-Karin has always chosen her own path.)

Anyone who has spent time with a dying family or friend knows that at the end, the stories come out — good and bad — and you do your best to reconcile that information with your own experience and feelings.

My father and I were close at times, but often distant. Now that he is gently slipping into that good night I am pleased that we had this additional moment to share at the end.

Hug your loved ones, if you can.