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Yeah. Woo. This is Our American Stories and we bring you stories of all kinds from the arts to sports and from business to history. And now it's time for the McClellan Files. where we go deep inside the life.
of Bob McClellan. Bob is one of our favorite features on the show, bringing us stories about his own life. Love, loss. comedy, tragedy, and success. To day Bob brings us a tragedy.
the death of his father. My father's doctor called to schedule a biopsy of lung tissue that they suspected might be lung cancer. Since his lungs were in such poor condition, due to his emphysema, they wanted to use surgery and come in through the back to obtain more tissue, to be sure. This news finally penetrated the veneer of his indifference to his health, and I heard the anxiousness in his voice when he called for me to come up to the hotel to talk to him about it. His concern was compounded by the request to do it the very next morning.
Sitting on the bed, cigarette between his fingers, he brooded about what was ahead. This was not the news he had anticipated, and he was rattled by it. He preferred a quick death rather than a lingering death from cancer. We went over the entire conversations he'd had with the surgeon to figure out what to do. Silence followed when we finished and we sat there with our own thoughts.
Finally he lifted his big head, and turning to me he said You know, Bob, it was she was still drinking, so we could go downstairs to the bar and have a few drinks together. I was astonished that he said that. I had been sober for over a year and I thought he supported my decision. But before I could answer him he said, Naw, na, na I take that back. I like you much better when you're sober.
We sat in the surgeon's office and he asked if the chief risk with an operation was that he might not recover enough to live independently. Once again the surgeon nodded affirmatively, and my father said he would not do it. The doctor started to talk about the alternatives like chemo or radiation until my dad raised an open hand. No. And I'm not going to do any of that either.
The surgeon paused and said he understood, but then asked why. My father leaned forward in his chair towards the doctor, and pointing at this massive head of black and silver hair, he said D'you see all this hair, Doctor? I'm taking it all with me when I go. How much time do I have before I won't be able to take care of myself? The surgeon said, Well, Mr.
McLowan, if you don't do anything at all, and I'd say six months or so, maybe a year. I'll take the six months, my dad said, and he thanked him for his time, and we left. Eventually, his doctors had to make arrangements for him to report to the convalescent hospital for transit and temporary duty, as my father referred to it. Conversations in the air with him were about small talk or last minute details about his funeral. His funeral instructions were clear.
You promised me you'll have me cremated. I'm not a Catholic like your mother, you know, and I don't want any blessings or ceremonies. I also have a free burial, but the only place they can bury me is in the state of Washington, and I don't want to be buried up there. And it's too damn cold. Most importantly, don't waste any money on newspapers or programmes.
There isn't going to be anyone around who remembers me. These business matters seemed the direction that he wanted the conversation to go. I was disappointed, but I knew this would not be the time to try to mend relationships or old injuries or make apologies. My father would dismiss it, say it won't matter. He'd be dead and all will die with him.
Besides, what would be the point? But the time to get to learn more about him was waning. I wondered how he could be so matter of fact about his dying. I also knew there wouldn't be no deathbed come to Jesus awakening or a confession of guilt, sentimental display of affection or regrets from my father. He had no burden to unload and wouldn't discuss it with his children if he did.
He looked like he was just waiting patiently for his name to be called. He had one more stop to make. And that was the cemetery. His life had come full circle. Once again, like on Guadalcanal, he was alone with no relief in sight.
He knew, too, that he would not leave this room alive. This time, however, there'd be no great explosion or the violent perforating impact of bullets hitting his chest or head.
Now it would be just a slow and quiet leak. It seemed each shallow breath that left his body would not return. and soon he would be out of life. He had no pain or need of any equipment. You just had to lie there and wait to be called.
It was now just a matter of time. He faced what was ahead as if he was waiting for another landing craft to take him to another foreign island. It was calm. He was always calm, and always prepared. He had that look that a young marine needed to see from his platoon sergeant as he climbs down into a landing craft.
That look came from his character.
Well sharpened by Marine Corps training. and the weight of responsibility for his men. His mind was always clear and sharp. even when people around him were dying.
Sometimes when amused or undistracted, He can make small talk. but in between his words one says he was having another conversation in his mind. The contrast of his life in this transistation of a hospice to the one he led could not have been more extreme. On the ward there were no men drinking, recounting stories of battle, or remembering old friends. There were no more brilliantly colored uniforms or music from the division band.
There were no ceremonies or parades left to perform. The pageantry which had so marked his life in the Marine Corps was gone. No longer would his ears be assaulted by the sounds of battle, or experience the terrifying uncertainty of war.
Soon everything would be still, and quiet.
Now he lies amidst the colorless sterility, flavorless hygiene, and the detached efficiency of preparing people for the grave. Here, he is now just a man waiting once again to die. The proud symbol he once wore on his uniform of the first Marine Division, with the word Guadalcanal in the number, was unimportant now.
Now the chaos of struggle and death would be here within these walls of a building. rather than in a jungle. And we're listening to Bob McClellan's story.
Well, actually his father's. which is so inextricably bound up. with his sons. And by the way, go to the McLowan files and there are a whole bunch of stories about both Bob and his father. and about the Marine Corps.
and so much more. When we come back, more of the live. of Bob McLowan and his father. Here. on our American stories.
Lee Habib here, and I'd like to encourage you to subscribe to Our American Stories on Apple Podcasts, the iHeartRadio app, Spotify, or wherever you get our podcasts. Any story you missed or want to hear again can be found there daily. Again, Please subscribe to the Our American Stories podcast on Apple Podcasts, the iHeartRadio app, or anywhere you get your podcasts. It helps us keep these great American stories coming. Liberty has never been just a word to we Americans.
It has guided every one of our endeavors for the past 250 years. And now it takes form in a new way. The 2026 Semi-Quincentennial Coin and Metal Program from the United States Mint. It celebrates the founding ideals that have long shaped our coinage. Available one year only, this historic collection features new coin designs, limited edition releases, and reissues.
Shop new official coins at usmint.gov forward slash semi-q. That's usmint.gov/slash S-E-M-I-Q. Most Mother's Day gifts end up in a drawer, but a song lives in the heart forever. This year, tryjoybox.com is giving away 1 million free custom songs to celebrate 1 million incredible moms. Just share a few memories, and Joybox produces an original track and greeting card just for her instantly.
It's the most personal gift you'll ever give, and right now it's completely free. Make mom the star of her own song at tryjoybox.com. One million songs, zero dollars, only at tryjoybox.com. Support for the show comes from Public, the investing platform for those who take it seriously. On Public, you can build a multi-asset portfolio of stocks, bonds, options, crypto, and now generated assets, which allow you to turn any idea into an investable index with AI.
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But's return. to Bob McClellan. Yeah. The sounds of dementia more than occasionally fill the hall with fearful cries for help.
Some patients screamed for help over and over while others sat strapped in wheelchairs calling endlessly for the nurses, who, undistracted, quietly continued working. The alarm on the doors would ring constantly as another patient wandered aimlessly outside, senselessly searching for home or a familiar place to return to. The help they sought seldom came as there was little that could be done for them. They have lost contact with the world around them. And their fearful pleas were based on some instinctual knowledge.
that they were lost. and no one was going to come to find him. They were lost. They were lost in their minds as if their world was transformed from the one they knew to the one of fantasy. Fragmented memories and dark nightmares of imagined phantoms appearing quickly and disappearing like flashing lights.
They sensed that something was out of order and their vision of chaos magnified their fears. They weren't crying out because of neglect, but rather from the painful unconscious knowledge of not knowing where they were or what was happening to them. die and can be so ugly. Whether or not they could comprehend where they were, they knew they were helpless and afraid to die. My father was not afraid to die.
He was calm and clear and unlike the people in the ward. He knew what was going on. and that he had very little time left. But every day seemed to be his last, and then he would get a brief recovery. It's a tough waiting period as they're outcome of these reprieves would not be a recovery.
but a yet another date awaits in the inevitable. Uh The end became visible when I came to visit him, and as always brought a pint of vodka for him. This time, however, when I opened the drawer of the bedside table, I saw that the last one I brought him was unopened. It was then that I knew the end was near. The pressure had finally gotten so great it became necessary to take a few days out of town to relax.
It was not pressure from the anxiety of watching my father die. but from the exhausting, long process that it took to bring him to this moment. I tried to remember that it was important to give him all I could, and take care of his last few days. I was comforted by the fact that when the end finally did arrive, I could walk away knowing that I did all I could for him. and return to my life.
But with the funeral service is coming soon. I expected that I had further to go before peace would come and life would find its equilibrium again. It was going to be a stressful and busy time. Before leaving town, I went and I sat by my father's bed. He lay still in the bed.
Staring at the ceiling he spoke sparingly. His six foot two inch body had shed all of the water weight that he had carried for the last few years. His face, though pale, had recovered some of the lean skeletal structure that gave him both a handsome and fearsome look. I wanted to avoid sentiment in the conversation unless my father had something to say. But I really could not let these last moments pass without expressing some feelings.
I told him I had to go out of town for a few days and I wanted to talk with him before I left. Leaning closer to the bed to avoid raising my voice, I said, Dad, Dad, I just want you to know what a great father you are. and how much I love it. I'm going to miss you very much, Dad. I'm going to miss you.
Very much. He continued to stare at the ceiling, his lucid eyes were open and his skeletal face expressionless as he lay still. He made no response. Leaning closer, I said, Dad. Dad, did you hear what I said?
He nodded, and with a whisper said yes. Yeah. Is there anything you want to say to me? I asked. Looking at me, he said, Like what?
What do you mean, like what? Aren't you going to miss me? Don't you have anything you want to say to me?
Now, how the hell am I going to miss you, Bob, if I'm dead? Jeez, is that the best you can do? Don't you want to tell me you love me or that I was a good son or something? Why? You don't know that already?
That's not the point. I'd like to hear something from you. Is that what this is all about, Bob? You don't know it already, so you have to come down here right now and try to pull this out of me. What do you think you're watching, a movie?
You really want to make me do this? Coming back once more to extract those feelings about me, I asked him, Don't you even want to tell me you love me? I thought I was a good son. I'm ashamed as I remember this moment. In his response, You really don't know that already?
Okay. Forget it, I said, in frustration. And with frustration and disrespect I stood up, and standing at the end of his bed I said to my father, I'm leaving now. I've got to get out of town. I'll be back in four days.
If you hear when I return, I will see you then. If not Then this is goodbye. My father lifted his arm, and with a slight wave of his hand he said Then this is goodbye. I turned and walked out of the room to my car. Two days later he died.
As I walked out to my car that night, I thought about what an SOB he was. How could he be so hard and unemotional? Yet, sitting in the car after I left him, I had this nagging feeling deep down he was right. I did know it. I can't.
Remember ever doubting it. But that night I needed some gesture of his feelings for me. I really didn't need to be told again or at any other time in my life that he loved me. He displayed it so many ways through my life, but none of those times comported to the tender scene by the bedside I had imagined. He was just missing the music and the colour and the camera close up.
that my weakness needed to magnify this scene in my importance. Ironically, I had already received this gift of love. But this time, I set it back because it didn't come in the right wrapping. This last conversation I had with him has stayed with me for many years. This is one of those stories that, what I tell over drinks, always attracted sympathy from me.
And allowed others to share their disappointments about the absence of parents expressing love while they're dying. the ultimate answer to the question of why am I so unhappy. What's missing in my life?
However, these are false feelings, looking to isolate his lack of tenderness as an excuse for my need for validation and explain my problems in life. I should have realized it to my father. Love Net Romance. Telling my listener this story I would wallow in lamentations of self-pity and try to soothe my hurt feelings for my failings in life. Wrapped tight in my victim's blanket I became a self centered invalid, consoling myself for the lack of hope, and happiness.
I'm ashamed to see myself almost pleading to hear him say something to me. To make his death about me rather than the father who raised me, supported me, and remained a fixture in my life. Years later I truly admitted to myself that he was right. I did know. and I really didn't need him to repeatedly tell me.
My father's language to communicate his feelings was not in words, but in actions. I knew that as a child. I was simply below his radar screen, but as I grew up, I earned his respect. I would never be a spear. but his respect was how he demonstrated his affections for the people he loved.
Uh Most importantly, I learned sitting there afterwards just how self centered I can be. Here is my father dying in front of me. And all I can think about is him saying tender words about me. Um And what a story. And Bob McClellan's story.
Well, it's a lot of our stories, right? We want people to love us the way we want to be loved. And then we start to resent those people who do love us. because it's not the way we'd like it. And any of us who've been sort of ungrateful kids.
do come to that conclusion at some point in time. blaming your parents who loved you not perfectly, but their best. It's a loser's game. Because you'll have kids too one day. How the hell am I gonna miss you?
When I'm dead. It's just, you can't beat it. It's just fantastic. and it's beautiful in its own way. My own mom and dad, they were from a generation that didn't say, I love you all the time.
And I remember my last few months with my mom having the late shift and bringing her cigarettes, sneaking them in. And sure, her puffing away and we would listen to Frank Sinatra tapes. or her favorite talk show host of a little yellow transistor radio. Hyping in from WABC in New York. and just holding her hand.
I knew she loved me though. I didn't make a trauma of it. My mom and dad loved me. But some of my siblings and some of my peers Boy, they'd make a trauma of no trauma at all, some of them. Bob McClellan's story, so many of our stories, a beautiful story.
By the way, your father and mother's stories, we'd love to hear them. Be real. That's all we ask. Be real. That's what we try and do here.
every day. Tell your own story the way only you can tell it. The McClellan files. This is our American stories. Liberty has never been just a word to we Americans.
It has guided every one of our endeavors for the past 250 years. And now it takes form in a new way. The 2026 Semi-Quincentennial Coin and Metal Program from the United States Mint. It celebrates the founding ideals that have long shaped our coinage. Available one year only, this historic collection features new coin designs, limited edition releases, and reissues.
Shop new official coins at usmint.gov forward slash semi-q. That's usmint.gov/slash S-E-M-I-Q. Most Mother's Day gifts end up in a drawer, but a song lives in the heart forever. This year, tryjoybox.com is giving away 1 million free custom songs to celebrate 1 million incredible moms. Just share a few memories and Joybox.
Produces an original track and greeting card just for her instantly. It's the most personal gift you'll ever give, and right now it's completely free. Make mom the star of her own song at tryjoybox.com. One million songs, zero dollars, only at tryjoybox.com. Hat take.
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