A Marine Mourns the Death of His Tough-as-Nails Marine Father

Speaker 1 (00:10):
This is our American Stories, and we bring you stories
of all kinds, from the arts to sports, and from
business to history. And now it's time for the McClellan Files,
where we go deep inside the life of Bob McClellan.
Bob is one of our favorite features on the show,
bringing us stories about his own life, love, loss, comedy, tragedy,

(00:32):
and success. Today, Bob brings us a tragedy, the death
of his father.

Speaker 2 (00:38):
My father's doctor called to schedule a biopsy of lung
tissue that they suspected might be lung cancer. Since his
lungs were in such poor condition due to his emphysema,
they wanted to use surgery and come in through the
back to obtain more tissue to be sure. This news
finally penetrated Veneer of his indifference to his health. That
I heard the anxiousness in his voice when he called

(01:00):
for me to come up to the hotel to talk
to him about it. His concern was compounded by the
request to do it the very next morning. Sitting on
the bed, cigarette between his fingers, he brooded about what
was ahead. This was not the news he had anticipated,
and he was rattled by it. He preferred a quick
death rather than the lingering death from cancer. We went

(01:23):
over the entire conversations he'd had with the surgeon to
figure out what to do. Silence followed when we finished,
and we sat there with our own thoughts. Finally, he
lifted his big head and, turning to me, he said,
you know, Bob, she was still drinking, so we could
go downstairs to the bar and have a few drinks together.

(01:44):
I was astonished that he said that. Had been sober
for over a year, and I thought he supported my decision.
But before I could answer him, he said, nah, nah, no,
I take that back. I like you much better when
you're sober. He sat in the surgeon's office and asked
if the chief risk with an operation was that he

(02:05):
might not recover enough to live independently. Once again, the
surgeon nodded affirmatively, and my father said he would not
do it. The doctor started to talk about the alternatives,
like chemo or radiation, til my dad raised an open hand, no,
and I'm not going to do any of that either.
The surgeon paused and said he understood, but then asked why.

(02:28):
My father leaned forward in his chair towards the doctor
and pointing at this mass if he had a black
and silver hair. He said, do you see all this air? Doctor,
I'm taking it all with me when I go. How
much time do I have before I won't be able
to take care of myself? Said, well, Miston mccleown, if
you don't do anything at all, and I'd say six

(02:48):
months or so, maybe a year. I'll take the six months,
my dad said, and he thanked him for his time
and we left. Eventually, his doctors had to make arrangements
for him to report to the convalescent hospital for a
transit and temporary duty is my father referred to it.
Conversations in the air with him were about small talk

(03:09):
or last minute details about his funeral. His funeral instructions
were clear, you promised me you'll have me cremated. I'm
not a Catholic like your mother, you know, and I
don't want any blessings or ceremonies. I also have a
free burial, but the only place they can bury me
is in the state of Washington, and I don't want
to be buried up there, and it's too damn cold.

(03:30):
Most importantly, don't waste any money on newspapers or programs
there isn't going to be anyone around who remembers me.
These business matters seemed the direction that he wanted the
conversation to go. I was disappointed, but I knew this
would not be the time to try to mend relationships
or old injuries, or make apologies. My father would dismiss it,

(03:52):
say it won't matter. He'd be dead and all will
die with him. Besides, what would be the point. The
time to get to learn more about him was waning.
I wondered how he could be so matter of fact
about his dying. I also knew there wouldn't be no
deathbed come to Jesus awakening, or a confession of guilt,

(04:13):
sentimental display of affectionate regrets from my father. He had
no burden to onload, and wouldn't discuss them with his
children if he did. He looked like he was just
waiting patiently for his name to be called. He had
one more stop to make, and that was the cemetery.
His life had come full circle once again on Guadalcanal.

(04:35):
He was alone, with no relief in sight. He knew
too that he would not leave this room alive this time. However,
there'd be no great explosion or the violent, perforating impact
of bullets hitting his chest or head. Now would be
just a slow and quiet leak, they seemed. Each shallow
breath that left his body would not return, and soon

(04:57):
he would be out of life. He had no pain
or need of any equipment. He just had to lie
there and wait to be called. It was now just
a matter of time. He faced what was ahead as
if he was waiting for another landing craft to take
him to another foreign island. It was calm. He was
always calm and always prepared. He had that look that

(05:19):
a young marine needed to see from his platoon sergeant
as he climbs down into a landing craft. That look
came from his character will, sharpened by a Marine Corps
training and the weight of responsibility for his men. His
mind was always clear and sharp, even when people around
him were dying. Sometimes, when amused or undistracted, he can

(05:42):
make small talk, but in between his words, one says
he was having another conversation in his mind. The contrast
of his life in this transistation of a hospice to
the one he led could not have been more extreme.
On the ward, there were no men drinking recounting stories
about or remembering old friends. There were no more brilliantly

(06:03):
colored uniforms of music from the division band. There were
no ceremonies of parades left to perform. The pageantry which
had so marked his life in the Marine Corps was gone.
No longer would his ears be assaulted by the sounds
of battle or experience a terrifying uncertainty of war. Soon
everything would be still and quiet. Now he lies amidst

(06:27):
the colorless sterility, flavors, hygiene, and the detached efficiency of
preparing people for the grave. Here he is now just
a man waiting once again to die. The proud symbol
he once wore on his uniform of the first Marine
Division with the word Guadalcanal, and the number was unimportant.
Now Now the chaos of struggle and death would be

(06:49):
here within these walls of a building, rather than in
a jungle.

Speaker 1 (06:56):
And we're listening to Bob McClellan's story, well, actually his father,
which is so inextricably bound up with his sons. And
by the way, go to the mclellen files, and there
are a whole bunch of stories about both Bob and
his father, and about the Marine Corps, and so much
more when we come back, more of the life of

(07:18):
Bob McLellan and his father here on our American Stories.
This is Lee Habib, host of our American Stories, the
show where America is the star and the American people,
and we do it all from the heart of the
South Oxford, Mississippi. But we truly can't do this show

(07:40):
without you. Our shows will always be free to listen to,
but they're not free to make. If you love what
you hear, consider making a tax deductible donation to our
American Stories. Go to our American Stories dot com. Give
a little, give a lot. That's our American Stories dot com.

(08:09):
And we continue here with our American Stories and the
mcclellen files and Bob's story of his own father's death.
Let's return to Bob McClellan.

Speaker 2 (08:22):
The sounds of dimension more than occasionally filled the hall
with fearfuled cries for help. Some patients screamed for help
over and over, while others sat strapped in wheelchairs, calling
endlessly for the nurses, who undistracted quietly continued working. The
alarm on the doors would ring constantly as another patient
wandered aimlessly outside, senselessly searching for home or familiar place

(08:45):
to return to. They hoped they sought, seldom came, as
there was little that could be done for them. They
had lost contact with the world around them, and their
fearful pleas were based on some instinctual knowledge that they
were lost and no one was going to come to
find they were lost. They were lost in their minds,
as if their world was transformed from the one they

(09:05):
knew to the one of fantasy, fragmented memories or dark nightmares,
of imagined phantoms appearing quickly and disappearing like flashing lights.
They sensed that something was out of order, and their
vision of chaos magnified their fears. They weren't crying out
because they neglect, but rather from the painful, unconscious knowledge
of not knowing where they were or what was happening

(09:26):
to them. Dyeing can be so ugly. Whether or not
they could comprehend where they were, they knew they were
helpless and afraid to die. My father was not afraid
to die. He was calm and clear, and unlike the
people in the ward. He knew what was going on
and that he had very little time left, but every

(09:48):
day seemed to be his last. And then he would
get a brief recovery. There's a tough waiting appearing, as
the outcome of these reprietes would not be recovery, but
yet another day for the inevitable. The end became visible
when I came to visit him, and, as always, brought
a pint of vodka form. This time, however, when I

(10:10):
opened the drawer of the bedside table, I saw that
the last one I brought him was unopened. It was
then that I knew the end was near. The pressure
had finally gotten so great it became necessary to take
a few days out of town to relax. It was
not pressure from the anxiety of watching my father die,
but from the exhausting, long process that took to bring

(10:32):
him to this moment. I tried to remember that it
was important to give him all I could and take
care of his last few days. I was comforted by
the fact that when the end finally did arrive, I
could walk away, knowing that I did all I could
for him, and return to my life. But with the
funeral services coming soon, I expected that I had further

(10:54):
to go before peace would come and life would find
its equilibrium again. It was going to be as stressful
and busy time before leaving town. I went and I
sat by my father's bed. He lay still in the bed,
staring at the ceiling. He spoke sparingly. His six foot
two inch body had shed all of the water weight

(11:14):
that he had carried for the last few years. His
face so pale, I had recovered some of the lean, skeletal
structure that gave him both the handsome and fearsome look.
I wanted to avoid sentiment in the conversation unless my
father had something to say, but I really could not
let these last moments pass without expressing some feelings. I

(11:36):
told him I had to go out of town for
a few days and I wanted to talk with him
before I left. Leaning closer to the bed to avoid
raising my voice, I said, Dad, Dad, I just want
you to know what a great father you are and
how much I love it. I'm going to miss you
very much. Dad, I'm going to miss you very much.

(11:56):
He continued to stare at the ceiling, his lucid eyes
rope and a skeletal face expressionist. As he lay still,
he made no response. Made closer, I said, Dad, Dad,
did you hear what I said? He nodded and with
a whisper, said yes. Is there anything you want to

(12:17):
say to me? I asked, looking at me, He said, like,
what what do you mean? Like? What was you going
to miss me? Don't you have anything you want to
say to me? Now? How the hell am I going
to miss you? Bob? If I'm dead? Jesus? Is that
the best you can do? Don't you want to tell
me you love me or I thought it was a
good son or something? Why you don't know that already?

(12:42):
That's not the point I'd like to hear something from you.
Is that what this is all about? Bob? You don't
know it already, So you have to come down here
right now and try to pull this out of me.
What do you think You're watching a movie? You really
want to make me do this? Coming back once more
to extract those feelings about me? I asked him. Don't
you even want to tell me you love me or

(13:03):
that I was a good son? I'm ashamed as I
remember this moment. In his response, you really don't know
that already. Okay, forget it, I said, in frustration, and
with frustration and disrespect, I stood up and standing at
the end of his bed, I said to my father,
I'm leaving now. I've got to get out of town.

(13:25):
I'll be back in four days. If you hear when
I return, I will see you then. If not, then
this is goodbye. My father lifted his arm and with
a slight wave of his hand, he said, then this
is goodbye. I turned and walked out of the room
to my car. Two days later, he died. As I

(13:45):
walked out to my car. That night, I thought about
a solb he was How could he be so hard
and unemotional? Ye sitting in the car after I left
in my hand this nagging feeling deep down he was right.
I didn't know it. I can't remember ever doubting it,
But that night I needed some gesture of his feelings

(14:06):
for me. I really didn't need to be told again,
or at any other time in my life that he
loved me. He displayed it so many ways through my life,
but none of those times comported to the tender scene
by the bedside. I had imagined he was just missing
the music and the color and the camera close up
that my weakness needed to magnify this scene in my importance. Ironically,

(14:31):
I had already received this gift of love at this time,
I set it back because it didn't come in the
right wrapping. This last conversation I had with him has
stayed with me for many years. Is one of those
stories that would I tell over drinks, that always attracted
sympathy from me and allowed others to share their disappointments
about the absence of parents expressing love while they're dying,

(14:55):
the ultimate answer to the question of why am I
so unhappy? What's missing my life? However, these were false feelings,
looking to isolate his lack of tenderness as an excuse
for my need for validation and explain my problems in life.
I should have realized that to my father, love met romance.

(15:16):
Telling my listener the story, I would wallow on lamentations
of self pity and try to soothe my hurt feelings
for my failings in life. Wrapped tight in my victim's blanket,
I became a self centered involid consoling myself for the
lack of hope and happiness. I'm ashamed to see myself
almost pleading to hear him say something to me to
make his death about me, rather than the father who

(15:39):
raised me, supported me and remained a fixture in my life.
Years later, I truly admitted to myself that he was right.
I did know, and I really didn't need him to
repeatedly tell me. My father's language to communicate his feelings
was not in words, but in actions. I knew that
as a child I was simply below radar screen, but

(16:00):
as I grew up I earned his respect. I would
never be as peer, but his respect was how we
demonstrate this affectious for the people he loved. Most importantly,
I learned sitting there afterwards, is how self centered I
can be. Here is my father dying in front of me.
At all I can think about is him saying tender
words about me.

Speaker 1 (16:24):
And what a story? And Bob McLellan's story, Well, it's
a lot of our stories, right. We want people to
love us the way we want to be loved, and
then we start to resent those people who do love
us because it's not the way we'd like it. And
any of us who've been sort of ungrateful kids do
come to that conclusion at some point in time. Blaming
your parents who loved you not perfectly but their best

(16:46):
is a loser's game, because you'll have kids too one day.
The hell am I gonna miss you when I'm dead.

Speaker 2 (16:54):
It's just you can't beat it.

Speaker 1 (16:55):
It's just fantastic, and it's beautiful in its own way.
I'm my own mom and dad. They were They were
from a generation that didn't say I love you all
the time. And I remember my last few months with
my mom having the late shift and bringing her her cigarette,
sneaking them in and sure her puffing away, and we
would listen to Frank Sinatra tapes or her favorite talk
show hosts of a little yellow transistor radio piping in

(17:16):
from WABC in New York, and just holding her hand.
I knew she loved me, though I didn't. I didn't
make a trauma of it. My mom and dad loved me.
But some of my siblings and some of my peers, boy,
they'd make a trauma of no trauma at all, some
of them. Bob McClellan's story, so many of our stories,
a beautiful story, by the way, your father and mother's stories.
We'd love to hear them. Be real, that's all we ask.

Speaker 2 (17:39):
Be real.

Speaker 1 (17:39):
That's what we try and do here every day. Tell
your own story the way only you can tell it.
The McLellan Files. This is our American stories,