When It’s Time for Leavin’ Pt. 1

There’s an empty Hardee’s biscuit wrapper on the floorboard of the Isuzu Trooper. It’s 77 degrees outside, and the windows are down as we drive away from the baseball fields at Volanta Park.

The car smells like baseball equipment.

Sweaty helmets worn by elementary school boys shoved into an olive green sack with pieces of catcher's equipment hanging out. You can hear the clanging of bats and balls rolling around in the back, occasionally softened by some random gloves, including an old catcher’s mitt from the 70s that didn’t make it in the green sack.

I have my head out the window with my tongue sticking out to see how dry I can get it. The wind is cool on my face, but the sun gives off enough warmth that it feels like a true spring day in Alabama.

My dad’s chubby little hand reaches down and turns up the radio while he rhythmically pounds the palm of his other hand on the steering wheel. “Ramblin’ Man” by the Allman Brothers blasts through the car.

Well, my father was a gambler down in Georgia / And he wound up on the wrong end of a gun / And I was born in the backseat of a Greyhound bus / Rollin' down Highway 41

My dad is looking forward, Ray-Ban Aviators covering his eyes. They reflect the wide-open green fields with cows grazing that run alongside County Road 13. He turns his head toward me, and I see myself in the reflection, too.

Then he points to me and sings:

Lord, I was born a ramblin' man / Tryin' to make a livin' and doin' the best I can

I want to sing the next line of the song, but I can’t. The words won’t come out of my mouth. The song slows down until the melody is severely dragging, like a record when it stops spinning after losing power.

The sunny day shifts beneath dark, roaring storm clouds. The temperature jumps to an uncomfortable 89 degrees. The window is still down, but I cannot hear anything.

No wind. No music.

I look over to the driver’s seat, but my dad isn’t there. The car is still speeding down the almost pitch-black county road.

Fear wraps itself around me like a damp blanket. It is heavy and soaked. My hands are sweaty and I can feel tears building.

I am so scared.

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

The sound of my sister Shai’s blinker breaks whatever trance I had fallen into.

Not asleep. But not awake, either.

I’m in reality now, but the fear from whatever space I was in is still wrapped around me. I touch the corners of my eyes and feel the tears.

The Armada she is driving merges onto I-10. The dark of the night engulfs the black SUV as it speeds toward the Crescent City with my brother and me as passengers.

We are going to be with my dad.

He is dying.

I say the line to “Ramblin’ Man” in my head. The one I could not finish earlier.

When it’s time for leavin’, I hope you understand.

September 13th, 2022

Two weeks earlier, I had arrived at the hospital from New York.

When I walked into dad’s room in the Neuro ICU, I found him with a bandage wrapped around his head, which was to help hold the EEG electrodes on his scalp in place. His eyes were closed, but I could see rapid movement happening beneath his eyelids.

He wasn’t awake. I completely lost my shit.

I stepped outside of the room and into the hallway. I remember walking down a hallway that was completely deserted. The overhead lights were off, so it was only lit by what was coming from the hallway I had exited, as well as the light on the other side of the door at the end of it.

I ran my hands against the pale-ish blue cement walls, dampening them with my tears that hadn’t stopped flowing since I saw my dad. My groaning echoed off the walls. It would have been louder if it weren’t for the random medical equipment and hospital beds scattered throughout that were acting as absorbers of my pain.

I followed the hall until it stopped at two steps that went down toward the double-doors where the light was shining through. The doors were locked.

I sat down on the faded, beige, concrete steps and pulled my knees toward my chest. I crossed my arms and placed them around my knees, and then rested my head on them. I continued to cry.

The sounds of footsteps approaching, along with irregular breathing, echoed behind me. My big brother, Bub, sat down on the steps and wrapped his arms around me and, through his tears, said something along the lines of: He knows we’re here, little bro. He knows we love him. He knows we’ll all take care of each other.

“Fuck. Is my dad about to die?” I thought. I had let scenarios play out in my head on the plane, and seeing him when I walked into the ICU was jarring, but I didn’t think it was actually possible.

I hugged my brother and then we stood up. He said something stupid that I don’t remember, but it made me chuckle as we walked back toward dad’s room.

When we got back, my three sisters came over and pulled me into a big hug. When they released me, my mom did the same. 

I think my mom gives the best hugs. 

I then got filled in on what had happened while I was stuck in that terrible suspended space between New York and Nola.

From what I understood, numerous tests had already been run. Imaging to look at blood flow in the brain, CT scans to see where the bleed was, and another scan to see if it was continuing. They thought the bleed was causing seizures, so the EEG machine was being used to monitor for them.

He was sleeping, or they had induced a coma. Honestly, it’s fuzzy, and I don’t feel like asking anyone in my family.

That part can stay fuzzy.

I had probably been at the hospital for about an hour when he woke up.

He looked confused. Behind the confusion, I felt I could see something brewing that I am all too familiar with…panic.

It was like I could hear his thoughts.

“Why are all my kids here? Where am I? What are these things hooked to my head?”

He went to talk, but was surprised when his speech was slurred. That appeared to make the panic increase. His eyes darted all over the room, looking from his children to my mom and to the doctors and staff that were scattered throughout the room.

The heart monitor didn’t start beeping faster like in the movies, and no doctor looked at him and yelled out that they needed a certain dosage of some medication.

“Give me 750 cc of who-gives-a-fuck, stat, Jonny!”

Nah.

It was the type of panic that is only detectable by the people who know you. I’m sure my mom and siblings saw it too, but I can’t speak to their observations.

Seeing that made me think of something my aunt told me about her dad, my Papaw, when he was dying. She said there was a moment where she looked in his eyes and saw fear. She shivered when she told me.

I wondered if this look that I was seeing was what she meant.

Our family moved in around him so we were the only thing in focus. His sporadic eye movement slowed. He focused on us.

I could see his eyes doing what looked like a roll call.

“Lauren. Justin. Shai. Mallory. Tripp. Ann. They are all here,” his eyes seemed to say, as relaxation flushed through his face and his eyes softened.

The days blur together from the 13th until the 27th.

But on the 13th, dad went in-and-out of seizures, sleeping, and attempts to communicate.

The doctors told us that talking to him was good, even if he wasn’t awake.

“What about music?” I asked, remembering all the research I had consumed about its power and benefits that span from the womb to unconscious states.

It stimulates. It breathes. It communicates.

Nothing better on earth than music.

The doctor said music was a good idea, but that the songs needed to be familiar and soothing. I didn’t miss a fuckin’ beat on what belonged.

I loaded up a playlist of absolute hits.

There was Harry Chapin, Jim Croce, the Blues Brothers, Jimmy Buffett, Cat Stevens, Otis Redding, and John Denver.

The closer for the playlist: “Ramblin’ Man” by the Allman Brothers.

September 27th, 2022 | Around 5:00 p.m. CST

Bub and I were sitting on the back porch at Pop’s house in Fairhope, Alabama. It was around 5:45 in the evening, and it was a muggy 80 degrees. The mosquitos were nagging us, but he wanted to eat his sandwich outside.

We had been back and forth between Fairhope and New Orleans for the past two weeks. The last time we saw Pops in Nola was two days ago. We were hanging in his room.

Things seemed good.

Doctors were hopeful.

Dad asked for a Diet Dr. Pepper.

We were laughing about the time the three of us went to Atlanta for the SEC Basketball tournament in 2001. On the drive up, Dad played “Cat’s in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin about 100 times and every time it finished, he’d tell us how real that song was. We laughed and gave him shit about that. He laughed, but always said one day we’d realize it.

When we got to the hotel in Atlanta, there was a Steven Seagal marathon on. Dad was so fired up!

“This guy is a fucking badass,” he told us as the scene in Hard to Kill showed Seagal putting a 2x4 in the ground and punching it.

“You’re telling me this guy is training to get revenge by beating up a 2x4,” my brother cracked at him, both of us giggling like little kids.

“You two should just shut up,” he said jokingly. “He’d whip both of your asses.”

We were practically howling at that memory, which is why we didn’t hear our sister Shai enter the house. When she opened the door, we both nearly jumped out of our skin.

Her eyes were red.

Painted on her face was a deep sadness, accompanied by the weight of having to utter the next words to me and my brother: “Lauren (LaLa) and Mallory (Mal) called. We need to leave for New Orleans right now.”

I learned later that Shai heard us laughing.

She said walking toward that laughter was even harder.

I’ve never asked Mallory or Lauren what it was like to make that call. I do know LaLa was the one who alerted the nurses that something was wrong after Dad had just come back from a brain scan earlier that evening.

I’m so sorry, LaLa and Mal. 

Justin and I both knew what “right now” meant, but it didn’t compute.

We got up and fumbled around, like we needed to bring something. But there wasn’t anything to bring.

I grabbed a book. It was one I had given to dad for Father’s Day three months earlier. Big Fish by Daniel Wallace.

I don’t remember if I carried it into the hospital or if it stayed in the car. I just remember grabbing it.

We got in the car, and Shai was behind the wheel for what felt like the longest drive of our lives.

In shitty weather and limited visibility.

I’m sorry, Shai.

We arrived at Ochsner Medical Center about three hours later. I think it was 9:30 p.m.

After parking, the three of us made the long walk from the garage to dad’s room. I swear it must have been at least half a mile, and we did it so many times over that two-week span that we must have done at least a 13.1.

Maybe I should get a sticker for my car.

During that walk, though, one of the many things you pass is a wall dedicated to doctors who held various positions at the hospital. Among them, Ken Jeong.

The doctor turned actor/comedian. Probably most well-known for his role in The Hangover. This has no relevance to the story other than a fact to insert in an otherwise heavy story.

When we made it to Dad’s room, we were filled in.

I texted my wife.

Text, Tripp to Amanda, 10:27 p.m. CST

He has no brain function. On life support. We just have to make the decision when, and then it could be minutes. Hours or a day.

Each person got to spend time alone with dad. I don’t know what anyone else said in that room. I’ve never asked, and no one has ever asked me.

But I’ll tell you.

I walked into his room. The overhead lights were off, so the room was largely illuminated by a small lamp near the window and the light creeping in from the hall and outside.

I sat down next to his bed, held his hand, and I began to tell him a story. The words were mine, but the inspiration came from one of our favorite movies, Big Fish.

READ PART 2 ON SEPTEMBER 28, 2026

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