It was another full year before he actually died, of a congestive lung problem, but for that year, as much time as we spent with him, he was a stranger to us and we to him.
We were offered an autopsy to conclusively determine that it was Alzheimer’s. My mother asked my sister and me what we wanted to do, because there was concern about the disease being genetic. I had mixed feelings about it, so I asked my mother what she wanted to do. She said she thought maybe she would rather he didn’t go through any more indignities, so we decided to forgo the autopsy.
Besides, we were pretty sure of what it was. My father was fairly young when he died: sixty-seven. His mother had died in a mental hospital at age sixty-seven, too. That was in the early 1950s. I’m thinking that she must have had the same disease, and they didn’t know what to do with her, so they assumed she was crazy.
By the time my father was the age I am now, he’d already been diagnosed. Knock wood, I’m okay. And I’m ever vigilant about my mental health. I’m the first person waving down a flight attendant to tell her that the magazine’s crossword has been filled in and to request a new one. Puzzles keep your brain sharp; at least that’s what I’m counting on.
My mother still has her wits very much about her, and I think I’m a lot more like her than I am like my father. That said—if I start counting quarters and handing them to you to recount, you’ll know it’s too late. My father kept change in pill bottles. He would fill up a pill bottle, then pour out the coins count them, put them back in, and hand it to me to count. You can’t ask why. When someone is past the threshold of Alzheimer’s, you treat them the way you would an infant or very young child.
Now to the funeral: I am all in favor of cremation, but my father had never specified what he wanted, so we did the traditional thing. For some reason lost to time, we were having him buried in Ebensburg, Pennsylvania. Although Dad grew up in Cleveland, I believe his mother was from Pennsylvania.
My sister and her family were on the other side of Pennsylvania, so my mother and I stopped there overnight on the way to the funeral.
As we’re driving on through Pennsylvania the next day, it’s cold and starting to snow. We’re all off in our own worlds. I’m staring out the car window at the winter weather, and suddenly, I have this flash: I left the garment bag with my suit at my sister’s, on the other side of the state. The wake was that very evening. The funeral was early the next morning. It was small-town America. It was Sunday. No shops were open. I had on a pair of casual khakis.
I started laughing hysterically. When I announced my dilemma, Wallace, my niece, who was then about seven, offered to color in my khaki pants with a black Sharpie. Then I laughed even harder because I was seriously considering it.
Luckily, my sister and brother-in-law pack like they’re leaving the country for a month, even if they’re just going around the corner, so they had an extra suit that was close enough to my size that I didn’t have to show up to my father’s funeral in marker-stained pants.
Anyway, how Freudian was that? This was the first time I had ever in my life been without a suit on hand, and it was the only time that it was absolutely necessary.
It was tough at the wake, because there he was, lying in front of us. The funeral was rough, too. Even though we’d waited for this moment for a long time, it was very hard once we realized he was really gone.
But the hardest time was six months later. Out of the blue, I received a check from an insurance company. Without telling anyone, many years before my father had taken out a life insurance policy with me as the sole beneficiary, and for quite a lot of money.
I had a colleague from Parsons staying with me that night. I opened the envelope, saw what he had done for me, and fell apart. We had to order takeout because I was too much of a mess to cook or go out.
He didn’t do that for anyone else or tell anyone that he’d done it—not even my mother. Everyone was shocked. I told my mother that I would turn the money over to her, but she wouldn’t let me.
My father and I were not close. He didn’t approve of me particularly, and he was not warm and fuzzy. Maybe he was trying to make up with me? I’ll never know. But it was lovely and completely unexpected. It was an act of pure generosity.
I like to think that it made him happy to make that secret gesture, and it certainly taught me a lesson about humanity. You never know what goes on inside people’s heads, even when they are your flesh and blood.
That is one thing I try to keep in mind when I talk about people’s behavior. I believe very strongly that we should all try our best to treat one another well, but I also know that some people who are difficult are doing their best, only their best isn’t all that great. I used to be much more hard-nosed about this and about a lot of other things. But that moment when I opened up the check from my father taught me that I didn’t actually know everything about him. He had things going on inside his head that I never knew and that I will probably never understand.
When someone does something cruel or rude now, I think of that.
I don’t expect that in twenty years I will get a check out of the blue from the person who cuts in front of me on line at the bank. But maybe one day someone who does the same thing will realize their error and apologize. Maybe we’ll all apologize for whatever we’ve done to hurt one another and forgive and be forgiven.
For as much as I relish being a know-it-all when it comes to fashion, when it comes to the future, I haven’t got a clue. “Carry on!” is something I say to the Project Runwaydesigners after I visit them in the workroom, and it’s something I say to myself now: Carry on, and let’s see what happens next.
THIS BOOK WOULD NEVER have happened without the encouragement and support of a number of critical individuals. To begin, I am grateful to my agent, Jonathan Swaden of CAA, for introducing me to Peter Steinberg of the Steinberg Agency, who became my book agent. Peter has been and continues to be a boulder of support and an unflagging cheerleader. Peter helped me refine the concept of the book and, in turn, he presented a précis to several publishing houses. Patrick Price at Simon & Schuster’s Gallery Books possessed such contagious enthusiasm for the book that I was instantly smitten with the imprint.
While I take great pride in authorship, Peter and Patrick understood that I would need a partner in this endeavor and, ideally, a partner who could bring to the project qualities and characteristics that I don’t and won’t possess. Specifically, I was looking for an individual of another gender and a younger generation. They introduced me to the divine Ada Calhoun. Without Ada, this book would have never materialized, literally. She was my conscience, my truth teller, my spiritual leader, and always a calm port. At a critical juncture, I gave Ada—and Peter and Patrick—plenty of reasons for why I felt the need to abandon the book. Those reasons were many—too much work, too many moving parts in my life, too many competing pressures from things that I hadto do rather than what I may wantto do. Fortunately, these three key friends and allies were intractable and resolute. The book must go on!I am forever grateful to them and merely hope that we have another opportunity to work together.