Grateful American: A Journey from Self to Service(93)
On the west side of our backyard, I built a memorial to Jack with a flagpole and a plaque to honor his service to our country. It reads: “In memory of Jack Lawrence Treese, CW2 US Army, Vietnam. Devoted husband, loving father and papa, beloved brother-in-law and uncle.”
Our property rests on a small hill, and not long after the memorial was finished, I stood before the plaque and flagpole. Evening approached, the rare California rains had fallen earlier that day, and the winds from the Pacific had blown the sky free of clouds. As the sun set and the sky turned to purple and gold, I looked out beyond Jack’s memorial to the horizon, and in between saw miles of tan hills and green canyons, fresh and renewed against the evening sky. Jack had known his purpose. He lived a life of service. In my own heart, mixed with the sorrow of his being gone, I felt immense waves of gratitude for having known him.
Funny how the strongest emotions can be buried deep within the soul. They rise to the surface in times of pressure or intensity, in those infrequent moments of opportunity when we can draw closer to each other in service and dedication. When we understand anew the shortness of life.
Jack’s passing reminded me of when my grandpa Dan died. He’d always been such a big, strong railroader, always working, always fixing something around the house. After retiring, he liked to golf, but one day while out walking the course, he succumbed to a stroke. A day later, when my father led me into my grandfather’s hospital room, I saw Grandpa Dan bedridden, a thin sheet covering his chest, his once-strong body dressed only in a gown. He saw us and immediately burst into tears. I knew those tears meant something he couldn’t express with words. I’d never seen my grandfather cry. He couldn’t speak very well due to the stroke, and it was tough to see him looking so frail, trying to choke out some words to us. When my father and I left the hospital, we didn’t speak much either. But as we rode back home together in silence, I knew we were both mulling the big questions of life.
In December 2015, I finished shooting the first season of my new television series, Criminal Minds: Beyond Borders. It was a wonderful experience working with a tremendous cast and crew. I was feeling great going into the new year when a few months later my father succumbed to a stroke. He and my mom had been living in Idaho near my sister, Lori, but doctors thought perhaps Dad would be better off in California with its lower elevation and warmer climate. So my parents had come to live with us. I jumped headlong into this new stage of life that allowed me to interact with them more closely than we had in years.
With Dad’s various medical issues, I spent a lot of time taking him to different doctors. One day, while at an appointment, I received a call from our housekeeper. A pipe had burst at home, and water was pouring from our ceiling. My mom and daughter stayed with Dad at the doctor’s office while I raced home to check things out. Repairmen had been working on our heating ducts, and by mistake one of the guys had hit a sprinkler pipe in the crawl space.
At the time, several other family members in addition to my parents lived with us. My nephew, Gavin Treese, had done two deployments to Afghanistan in the US Army and was now serving as a recruiter in Simi Valley. When his father, Jack, was diagnosed with cancer, Gavin was able to get reassigned to be near Jack in his final days. At the time the pipe broke, he, his wife, Kari, and their two kids, Aidan and Delilah, were staying with us. My daughter and her husband were also with us, and my sister-in-law Amy was still in the guesthouse where she had lived with Jack. Water can quickly wreak surprising amounts of damage. We needed to rip out all the damaged sections of our home, and the renovation became so extensive, we had to move everybody into a hotel, and then a rental house, until the work on the house could be finished.
Not long after the pipe burst, while we were still in the hotel, my phone rang. The clock read 3:30 a.m. My mom’s voice came on the line. Dad felt miserable, she said. He was really in a lot of pain. I raced up to their hotel room where Dad lay moaning, foam edging the corners of his mouth. Within five minutes, the paramedics arrived and rushed him to the hospital. A scan showed massive bleeding on Dad’s brain. He was eighty-five years old. The surgeon told me they needed to operate immediately. If they didn’t, Dad would surely die that same night. I scribbled my signature on all the permission forms, and within two hours of my first running up to his room, Dad was undergoing emergency brain surgery.
For the next three and a half weeks, Dad remained in intensive care, hovering between life and death. I canceled everything else on my schedule, including a troop-support trip to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, and stayed with him every day. He’d been intubated, and when they finally took the tube out, his throat ached. He tried to talk, but he was very emotional, as tearful as my grandpa Dan had been in the hospital.
After Dad had been in intensive care for some time, Moira asked our priest to come to the hospital. He prayed for my dad, then Moira and I walked out to a courtyard by the cafeteria to talk in private with him. He asked how we were holding up. My emotions, like Dad’s and Grandpa’s, overcame me and I started to cry. I’d been holding everything in so tightly—the pressure of trying to be a caregiver, the uncertainty of wondering if my father would pull through.
“I don’t want my dad to go,” I said through my tears. “I’m not ready yet.”
We talked for some time, and it felt good to let everything out. I’m grateful our priest came that day.
In time, Dad recovered somewhat. Although he lost much of his balance and now is unable to do a few things, his memory remains sound. He can talk, and we’re blessed and grateful to still have him with us.