As soon as he got wind Vernon was in the hospital with sepsis, Dave Crossland, Vernon’s old pal and typography colleague (er, partner in crime) bought tickets to fly out from New York to see him. He knew it was serious. As soon as he realized Vernon’s time might be even shorter, he arranged to fly out even sooner. He told me he hoped to catch the “new Vernon” while he could, especially since the past two times he’s come out to visit him, Vernon was asleep (recovering from coma or the first round of sepsis.) Truth be told, I was anxious that he wouldn’t catch Vernon’s window, but he did!
(Chris this of Dave visiting yesterday.)
Dave and his lovely new wife flew out Sunday morning and managed to get a little time with Vernon in the afternoon. Dave brought this Google Fonts poster for his wall—very special as Dave and Vernon were the trailblazers of Google Web Fonts.
When Dave showed the poster to Vernon and pointed out the fonts he’d designed, Vernon said, very businesslike: “Yes, so how will I get paid for that?” No nonsense anymore, this version of Vernon. I got the sense he was trying to take care of his family even from his position. He gets straight to the punch these days. It’s as if he knows there is no time for anything else.
It was a short visit yesterday, but Dave came back again today. They talked shop, which a very sleepy Vernon seemed to enjoy. He definitely knew who Dave was and that they’d worked together. I was so touched that Dave wanted to be with Vernon at many stages in his recovery and also here, at the end. I was so happy they were finally able to connect.
Here they are, watching a video of the both of them talking about free-ing fonts in Istanbul four years ago.
On another note, here is a funny story from earlier:
I was feeding Vernon chocolate ice cream (all he eats.) He was being so sweet. I said something like: “You are so full of love.”
“I am full of love,” he agreed.
After a pause:
“I am full of ice cream too.”
I looked through a couple old emails from Vernon this morning (and quit when I felt the tears rushing on.) Here is one dated 9/2005, so about the time we first met on Myspace. (Sigh, Myspace…a bit of a Melrose Place for the single 30-somethings around the turn of the century. Good times.)
hmm this is getting weird now. I mean it! You really are SO much the person that i have ‘had in mind’ . Does that freak you out? It freaks me a bit – but i admit it’s a calm and warm freakiness, like the pleasant shock a lost traveller might feel when they surprisingly find themselves at their destination yet not knowing how they got there. yeh, something like that… i really hope we were meant to find each other to share something very special and long lasting between us. xxxooxxoxx
I’d forgotten how quickly and intensely our feelings had developed. We hadn’t even met each other in person yet. Many times throughout our courtship, Vernon expressed a sense of ‘knowing’ about us. I’ll bring some of these emails to share with him today. I think he’ll like it.
I brought him a couple of his love letters to read yesterday. I’ve read them to him so many times since I found them in the spring. We listened to Nick Drake and the Clientele, at his request. These were CDs I played over and over when he was in Mission Hospital all those early months. He seems to like the music on when I leave the room. Probably makes him feel less alone.
He is sleeping a lot more between visits, but we are getting moments of wonderful clarity. Maki had some time alone with him the other day, and though I haven’t heard much about it yet, it seemed like it was meaningful. He said he was very alert with him. He was very alert with me yesterday too. It’s such an miracle, how is this even possible now, we think? It does help us embrace the mystery as we can appreciate how special this experience is. I tell Maki: none of us know how to do this. If you feel like doing something, you are probably right.
I fed him ice cream. I guess he’s been eating a lot of that. 🙂 He has been asking Joe to give him the cup and spoon so he can feed himself. Joe, of course, loves spoiling him and won’t leave his side when family isn’t there. We love that we are finally allowed to give him food and water. I had to sign the Advanced Directive at long last, which suddenly opened up the kitchen to him again. He’s no longer receiving food or water through his g-tube, but he is allowed to have smooth foods and water for oral gratification. He got a nice British tea delivered to his room: sausage, mushy peas, and mashed potatoes. He also got a side of tapioca and ice cream. I think this may have been the first time he’s had a tray of his own at Mesa Verde. How ironic.
Truth be told, he didn’t like it very much. He’s lost interest in food already. Except ice cream. We’ve given him a lot of that the past couple of days, starting with frozen yogurt in the hospital. It’s been so nice to feed him.
I’d already started crying earlier when I asked for chocolate ice cream and the kitchen worker readily handed me a cup. I remembered all the times I used to plead for food for him. At one point, they’d let me feed him thickened apple juice, but even that became contraband once his order was cut off by the speech therapist. Here he is with a vanilla milkshake from In and Out…they are the best.
But he was SO clear with me yesterday, so present. I know he has been remarkably aware the past couple of days, but yesterday it was if his memory had returned from the depths. It was remarkable—it felt like a miracle, a resurrection of sorts. I looked at his eyes and they seemed to be lined in the same direction.
I reminded him a little of our love story, reading some old letters. He loved that. I told him I’d travelled a long way to be with him (in England) and he responded: “I travelled a long way to be with you too.”
(He’s right of course, but he remembered!)
I told him it had been over two years since the accident. “I can imagine that’s true,” he said softly.
I was shocked. All this time, he never seemed to understand he’s been bed-bound that long, or even that he’s very injured. He would get angry whenever I’d try to convince him. Total denial and then, with the memory loss, it would keep happening all over again. So this was different.
I told him that I missed talking to him like this. He told me to stop talking about it. “It’s reality,” he said peacefully but firmly.
Of course I went on a little. “Stop talking about it now,” he said again.
I asked if there were any grudges he had to forgive. Of course he couldn’t think of any. I couldn’t think of any for him either. I’m pretty sure he has made his peace. The truth is, he was always a forgiving guy.
He’s taught me to be forgiving too—he’s still teaching me. Last week, before the decline was confirmed, I’d asked him if given the chance, would he want the people in the truck that hit the vespa to visit him.
“Sure,” he said.
“What would you say to them?”
He looked up with his innocent, wide eyes, “I’d say: Hello. How is it going? How’s life?”
He’s slowing down rapidly now, sleeping most of the time. Hospice told me he would start fading more quickly at this point. It’s been one week since his last dialysis. It usually takes about 8 days from then, they say. After a busy week of visitors, I’m starting to draw tighter boundaries. There is little energy left, and it should be spent on his loved ones. Death may not be today or tomorrow, but it will be very soon now. I imagine his passing will be like Vernon’s own words:
a calm and warm freakiness, like the pleasant shock a lost traveller might feel when they surprisingly find themselves at their destination yet not knowing how they got there. yeh, something like that…
This image came up on my Facebook Memories today. August 13, last year. We’d gone to pick up Maki at the airport after his summer trip to New Zealand. Can you see how thrilled Justine is to see her brother again?
Here is a picture of them yesterday. Justine had come back from her trip with my mum. It was only five days away, but she hadn’t seen Maki since mid-June.
Actually, I’d say Maki looks happy to see her too. (Also note that he is wearing the Vernon Adams font tee with one of Daddy’s old shirts. Maki is already in his dad’s shirt and shoe size (and has a closet full of Vernon’s shirts and shoes.)
I got lots of lovely hugs from Justine and a shining stream of babbling chatter about all the things she did this week. One main story that she’d already told us about over the phone was that she’d found a dead baby bird and held it in her hands. She’d wanted to bring it back to life. I told her that I too had found a little dead bird one day…a few hours before I got news that my grandmother had died. I don’t know if Justine can make the connection to these symbols yet, but I’ll remind her of this story over the years. I told her that sometimes we get to notice special things like a little bird or a butterfly and they are little gifts from God, little gifts that show we are allowed to be connected to something really magical and big that is going on somewhere else…in this case, that someone will be going to heaven.
My mom had already told Justine that her dad was very sick in the hospital again. I don’t think that phased her too much, because he is so often in the hospital with some problem or another, but at least she was warmed up for the big news. Knowing my mother and their close relationship, I’m sure she found loving ways to engage Justine in conversations around the idea. But as soon as I had minute alone with her (we’d all gone out to get a bite, while waiting for Chris to bring Maki up) I told her the truth.
“Hey, Justine…you know that Daddy has been really sick lately, right? Well, I don’t think he’s gonna get better again this time. At least not here. He’s going up to Heaven soon.”
She’s a tough cookie and it takes a lot for her to crumble, but I could see the start of it in her face. She sat on my lap and started crying.
“I don’t want him to go to Heaven.”
“I know, Sweetheart. We will miss him so much. But listen…this is what is happening: you know how in Heaven, there is no sickness or pain? We’ve talked about this before. Well, Daddy has been in pain and has been sick for a LONG time. Soon he will be free of all that and he will become his perfect self. He’s already starting that process. You’ll see today. He is already more alert and like his old self than he has been for awhile.”
“So he’s getting better, right?”
“No Honey…he won’t be like this for very long. He’s changing and getting ready for his new body in Heaven. But we get to enjoy him and tell him we love him today. And he’s been asking to see you.”
I realized even after I said those things that this is a sort of Transfiguration: a spectacular exchange between this life and the next. My girlfriend Melissa, who came to visit the other night, said she remembered this happening with her dementia-addled grandmother. She suddenly remembered things and seemed so bright and delightful just before she died. She likened it to the changing of the autumn leaves, suddenly so colorful and vivid just before withering and falling away. Isn’t that a great analogy?
We were all together in the room when Justine saw her dad. Chris and Susan happened to already be in their with guitar. Maki and both my parents, and Chris were there too. A cloud of witnesses. She talked about her trip, her dad watching her intently, trying to capture every word.
She will be processing this a little differently because of her age. But I think she always thought he would come back to us, even though she doesn’t remember much of his previous time at home with us. Her memories of him are nearly all bedridden. So there is, I think, disappointment in her magical vision and even her childlike faith. Several times after this interaction, she asked me how he could be going to heaven when he’s doing so well, when “he’s like he used to be.” Bittersweet. I had to keep reminding her…its because he’s “becoming heavenly.”
Maki took a lot of tender time with her yesterday. They are there for each other in their own way. They even went to the climbing gym together in the afternoon…Justine thrilled to be showing off her new skills that she learned in his honor (trying to be like him) and Maki gently showing her the way.
“We are all just walking each other home.” —Ram Dass
I don’t have the energy or time to write everything I want to tonight. But there is so much to say, so much I want to remember. This has been such a unique experience to walk through. Somehow Vernon has become so much more clear and bright in the past couple of days (especially yesterday) its as if he is being transfigured. But we know now this time is short. He’s already tiring down noticeably. But I’ve allowed an open door. I realize everyone who wants to say goodbye has their own reasons and their own relationship to him. He’s like the center of a flower…and each friend who visits, a petal. He says he loves the company. And I believe its starting to sink in, even to him. He’s looking hard at each person in the room. He tells everyone he loves them. I think he understands.
There is more to tell, but here are some pictures I took today:
Our dear friend Derek, who just so happens to be the chaplain of the hospice group we are using. When I arrived this morning, he was singing Vernon songs on his guitar. Vernon was mostly sleeping. He does seem to need longer sleeps between socializing.
Old friends visiting. We talked about Irish history among other things. Vernon was rapt.
The two Joes.
My mom, my dad. He loves them. They love him.
Justine returned…she’s telling him about a movie she saw with a dad in a coma that turned into a cat. Vernon said he could only follow some of it…probably better than the rest of us could. He was certainly paying attention.
Annie sang the most beautiful song she wrote just recently.
Vernon, watching the video of himself speaking about type in Spain. He loves to watch it, but it makes him sad. He watched it yesterday too…telling me his mom should see it. He was also happy to share it with the ambulance EMTs on the way back yesterday. He wiped away tears every time. He knows. He knows.
Communion. Vernon spat out his wine in disgust. I should have known, but now that we are allowed to give him things, his request to taste was irresistible. But the rest of us felt that we were on hallowed ground.
I have to go up to the hospital for Vernon’s transition back to Mesa Verde in a bit, so I’ll try to barrel through this post.
Chris Adams came home early from a trip to Yosemite so he could be there to pick up Maki at LAX. We drove up together, chatting about things, trying not to week up with every meaning-packed song we chose to listen to. Could only do that for a little while before having to turn off the music altogether.
Maki was all smiles when he arrived, and we meandered to the hospital, stopping for food and some record shopping just to make it an easier transition. We filled Maki in on what would happen next, and he seemed to take it all in with his trademark stoicism.
However, when we got to Vernon, it was the best thing ever! Vernon’s puffy face lit up like the sun, his eyes bright and wide when he saw his son. And Maki was all smiles and animation as he told his dad about the things he did in New Zealand. Chris took lots of video for later. There were no tears, but lots of laughter.
Chris also found this video last night. It’s Vernon three years ago, speaking about his work in Madrid. I could tell Maki loved seeing and hearing his dad as he was once. Remarkable to hear his voice again at this time. Here’s a treat for us all.
A special cover of Vernon's fav song 'Waterloo Sunset' by friend and singer/song-writer Ian McGlynn. All proceeds support Vernon's recovery! Donate what you can and download a beautiful song in return.
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