A Diet Dr. Pepper for the Road

One of my Papaw’s favorite drinks was Diet Dr. Pepper. I can remember my Mamaw’s fridge being stocked full of them. Those white aluminum cans with the red writing next to healthier food like apples and other fruits.

Anywhere we went, my Papaw had one. Sitting in the baseball stands at Daphne High School watching my cousin Tay-Tay play ball… Diet Dr. Pepper. Frying fish and boiling peanuts with my dad at high school sporting events or benefits… Diet Dr. Pepper.

My memories of that drink were connected to my Papaw. After he died, I never really saw it that much, or at least not regularly. My Mamaw kept a few in the fridge after the first few years when Papaw passed, but that’s pretty much the only place I saw them.

I’ve talked about how my Pops loved going into gas stations and grabbing the most fucked-up snacks you could think of. He’d come out with 38 bags of Peanut M&Ms, 1,000 packs of Keebler’s sugar-free vanilla wafers, and some insane flavored soda that was electric blue or a color that NO soda had any business being.

But occasionally, I’d see him come out with only one thing – that white can with red writing.

I didn’t understand then, but I do now.

He went into that gas station looking for something that reminded him of his dad. He missed him. He was sad. And that soft drink was something that brought him back to moments they shared, or it could have been his way of having a conversation with Papaw.

It might sound silly if you haven’t ever experienced grief, but Diet Dr. Pepper was a way my Pops communed with his dad.

When my dad was in the hospital battling the freak brain bleed that led to his untimely death, he reached a point when the staff felt he could have clear liquids. They gave us a 7oz can of Sprite. I had to give it to Pops in a plastic spoon so that we could “monitor” how much he was getting and not overserve him.

I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to drink from a spoon, but it sucks. He was propped up in bed, and I’d pour some Sprite in the spoon and try and get it to his mouth without dropping 90% either on the food tray, Pop’s chest, or myself.

I can remember Pops looking at me like, “Are you shitting me? Pour me a goddamn glass of that and quit with this chicken-shit spoon crap!”

The staff had my family and I gassed about this progress. Drinking Sprite? Eating ice chips? Talks about moving him to therapy and it being a long road, but recovery was in the future. I can remember calling my best friend Ron to give him the update.

“Aw man. G.B. is gonna fight through this. He is gonna beat it like he always does,” Ron said with 100% confidence that this was the case.

I went back to see him the next day. I got to his room around 1-2 p.m., and he was snoozing. I pulled out my laptop to do a little work and sat next to his bed so he could see me when he woke up.

The overhead lights were off, and the TV volume was super low. I had done research on hospital-acquired delirium and found from nurses that the environment of a room can have a tremendous impact on cognitive awareness. So we used natural sunlight when possible and always had the TV on low volume.

A rerun of SportsCenter was on in the background, with the volume on super low. Scott Van Pelt’s voice and the faint beeps of monitors mixed with hospital staff shuffling outside the door filled the silence of his hospital room that looked out over a service road and an old liquor store.

We had joked with him that since the hospital found out he was such a big deal, they moved him to a room with their finest view. He told me through slurred speech and a little grin, “Service when you are a BFD.”

After about 30-45 minutes, Pops woke up. He looked around and then focused on me.

“Hey son,” he said, mustering up a grin and placing his trademark comforting tone on those words.

“Hey Pops,” I replied. “What are you working on?” he asked, gesturing his head and eyes toward my laptop. Even in the worst moment of his life, he wanted to know what I was working on. He wanted to know what his kid was doing.

Fuck. There was no one like him. No one.

“Thirsty. I’m thirsty,” he said.

I got up and walked into the hall and looked for the nurse who had been with him the night before – the Sprite breakthrough night. I couldn’t find them but eventually found the nurse’s station.

“Can I get a Sprite for my dad?” I asked. The nurse looked at me. “Patient’s name,” they asked. “Greenberry Taylor. First name Greenberry,” I clarified, something my Pops and I have had to do our entire lives.

“Looks like he just had fluids,” they replied. The fluorescent lights were stressing me out, and the nurse was responding in an apathetic tone.

I will be the first to acknowledge that only certain souls can be nurses. It is a thankless job. It is emotionally and physically taxing. Burnout is real, and they don’t get enough love, and I am sure in most cases, rest or appreciation.

That being said, I have studied empathic communication in healthcare, and I know what it means to patients/caregivers to feel that level of empathy.

“Great,” I responded in the tone of an absolute dickhead. Energy matches energy, right? Was that the best thing to do, or the right thing to do? No. But I was tired, and the nurse was tired, so that’s just how things shook out.

My memory recalled a vending machine in the waiting room. I thanked the nurse and navigated toward the waiting room, immediately locating the vending machine and purchasing a Sprite, the only drink he had been cleared to have.

I walked back to my Pop’s room. When I walked in, his eyes looked sad. I thought it was most likely because he was feeling shitty, but when I popped open the can of Sprite, his expression didn’t change.

There was a plastic spoon sitting on the tray next to his bed, and I grabbed it, pushing it carefully out of its plastic wrapper. I poured a spoonful of Sprite into it and moved it toward Pop’s mouth.

He accepted and made a great big sigh as the liquid made its way down his throat. You could tell he was soooo thirsty, plus his throat was fucked from the intubator he had in there for 3-4 days.

The condensation from the Sprite can was heavy. It was fighting to stay cold against the Louisiana humidity that I know crept its way into the hospital. I don’t care how well you have something sealed, humidity will find a way.

Then my Pops said something that still shakes me to this day.

“Diet Dr. Pepper.”

“The doctors said you can only have clear liquids,” I told him. I knew the cold Sprite felt good based on the sigh of relief. But that sad look was still there. It wasn’t what he wanted.

At that moment, I truly did not understand the significance of him asking for that Diet Dr. Pepper. I don’t think I really understood until after he died.

Pops knew the recovery wasn’t happening.

He wanted to commune with his dad. He wanted the flood of memories that he got when he stopped at the gas station and came out with that white can with red writing on it. He wanted comfort.

He wanted a Diet Dr. Pepper for the road.

My dad left earth on September 28th. Less than a month later, on November 19th, I sent my final text to his number:

Sorry to whoever has this number now. It’s my dad’s number. He had it his whole life and recently passed. I just wanted to send him one last text: I love you and miss you so much, Dad. There’s so much I wish I got to tell you and hug you once more. I wish you would have gotten some Diet Dr. Pepper.