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Find the perfect shoes for you and yours at a DSW store near you or dsw.com 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. Today, 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 that 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, I wish you were still drinking so we could go downstairs to the bar and have a few drinks together. I was astonished that he said that. I'd been sober for over a year and I thought he supported my decision. But before I could answer him, he said, no, no, no, I take that back.
I like you much better when you're sober. We sat in the surgeon's office and 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, do 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. Mclellan, if you don't do anything at all, then 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 here with him were about small talk or last minute details about his funeral. His funeral instructions were clear. He promised me he'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 programs. 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 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. He 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. He was calm. He was always calm and always prepared. He had that look that a young Marine needed to see from a Splatoon 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 transit station 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 a terrifying uncertainty of war.
Soon, everything would be still and quiet. Now, he lies amidst the colorless sterility, flavors, 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 1st Marine Division with the word Guadal Canal and the number was not important 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 McClellan 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 life of Bob McClellan and his father here on our American story. This is Lee Habib, host of our American Stories, the show where America is the star in the American people and we do it all from the heart of the South, Oxford, Mississippi, but we truly can't do this show without you.
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To shop now, go to NFLshop.com. And we continue here with our American stories and the Mclellan Files and Bob's story of his own father's death. Let's return to Bob Mclellan. The sounds of dimension more than occasionally fill the hall with fear-filled cries for help. Some patients screamed for help over and over while others sat strapped in wheelchairs calling endlessly for the nurses who when distracted quietly continued working. The alarm on the doors would ring constantly as another patient wandered aimlessly outside senselessly searching for home or familiar place to return to.
The help they sought seldom came as there was little that could be done for them. They had 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 gonna come to find them. 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. Dying 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 the outcome of these reprise would not be recovery but yet another day to wait for the inevitable. 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 services coming soon, I expected that I had further to go before peace would come and life would find its equilibrium again.
It was gonna be a stressful and busy time. Before leaving town, I went and I sat by my father's bed. He laid 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 so 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 you. I'm gonna miss you very much, Dad.
I'm gonna 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. 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 gonna miss me? Don't you have anything you want to say to me? Now, how the hell am I gonna miss you, Bob, if I'm dead? Jesus, 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 or that 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're here 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, we 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. It was just missing the music and the color 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.
At this time, I said 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. It 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 were 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 that to my father, love meant 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 his peer but his respect was how he demonstrated his affections for the people he loved. Most importantly, I learned sitting there afterwards is 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.
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, is loser's game because y'all have kids too one day. How the hell am I going to 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 her puffing away and we would listen to Frank Sinatra tapes or her favorite talk show hosted with Little Yellow Transistor Radio piping in from WABC in New York and just holding her hand. I knew she loved me though. I didn't I didn't make a trauma but 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.
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