Fezziwig Press & Photography by Stu Jenks: Sculpture

The Transpersonal Papers:
Chapter Eight: "The Pine Forest Spiral, Mothershead Neck, Virginia"
© 2001, 2007, 2008 Stu Jenks

         August, 2001

         I got the call on late Saturday night.
         "Stu, It's time. You need to come now," said Mom.
         On Monday, I told work I needed to go.
         On Tuesday I was on a plane
         On Tuesday night, I drove up Route 3 in a white rental pickup truck, took a right on State Road 608, drove through Mothershead Neck, and up the drive to The River House. My sister's car was already there. The lights were on in the entire house. It was just after ten o’clock.
         I walked into the house and went straight to my Dad's room.
         “Well, Stuart, look who's here?" Mom says.
         My dad’s lying flat in bed, his eyes closed.
         I grab my father's hand.
         "Hey Dad, how are you doing?"
         Dad opens his eyes/
         "Well hey there son. Glad…well…glad you're here."
         "Me too, Dad. You hangin' in?"
         "Yep. How was your flight?"
         "It was OK."
         He is noticeably smaller in the legs and arms then he was three months ago. His left arm is quite swollen though, and above his left pectoral muscle is a large bandage that covers a cancerous growth as big as your fist.
         "Well, I'm going to get my bags out of the car," I say.
         "Oh…Ok". He squeezes my hand again and I squeeze back. I look up from Dad to look at my sister and mother. They look wiped out. I turn and go outside to get my bags.
         It's the first week in August, 2001.
         I'm home to help my Dad die.

         Hospice consists of my mother Mary, my sister Pamela, and I. That's it. A nurse comes to the house every other day to change Stuart's chest bandage, but she leaves soon after. Mom says Dad doesn't want hospice, but I think she doesn't want strangers in the house either. So it's just the three of us. Three people who don’t really get along that well, but who love Dad enough to be here to help.
         Pamela and I trade shifts on who will get up in the middle of the night and lift Dad when he needs lifting, or to change his leaky diapers when they need changing or to simply help Mom in some other way. On nights when it is my turn, I wake quickly after Mary yells for me to come downstairs. Every time she yells 'Stu!' from the bottom of the stairs, I listen to the tone in her voice to see if it is an emergency or not. Mostly it’s just to lift Dad’s frail body or to help clean him up.
         During the day, there’s a lot of lifting Dad up. A lot of scooting him up in the bed. A lot of pillow-fluffing. A lot of feeding him fresh cantaloupe by hand. A lot of helping him drink Gatorade with a straw. A lot of us just sitting with him while he sleeps. None of us sleep well except Dad.
         A week passes. All of us are exhausted, including Father. Having no trained hospice help is a real fucked up idea if you ask me. Whose idea was this anyway? No matter, really. It is what it is, and I'm here to do what needs to be done.
         There have only been a few times in my life when I knew I was in the right place, doing the right thing, with the right people, at the right time. Being here, now, with my Dad is one of those times.
         A baby monitor, its On/Off light, red and glowing sits on a bedside table near my Dad. The other monitor is in the living room. When I go outside to the pier for a break, I take a walkie-talkie with me if I'm suddenly needed. Usually I get buzzed at the pier to come help lift Dad, but there’s another call I hope I never get.
         See, Dad's pectoral muscle cancer has spread to his lungs and now has also surrounded his heart and his coronary arteries. There is a possibility, we’ve been told, that Dad may die by having one of his coronary arteries rupture.
         That he might bleed out.
         If that happens, blood will fly out of his mouth and nose under high pressure, spraying the room, the walls, the bed, and he will be dead within seconds. We have placed bath towels all around the bedroom to place over his mouth and face if he starts to bleed out. This is our worst fear. We pray he dies soon, in his sleep.
         Every time the walkie-talkie gets keyed and I hear my mother's voice, I'm wonder if she’s calling to tell me that there is blood everywhere.

         This morning, I've gone to the little forest of pine trees next to the house. My father planted this forest, 15 years ago. They were little seedlings less than a foot high back then. Now they are twenty-foot-tall pines, all equal distance apart, all in neat rows. Just like my Dad to be so precise about the planting. A thick bed of needles covers the forest floor. I slowly walk through his forest, smelling of Deet. (I've been bathing in bug repellent since I arrived. Part of being back home is that I’m fresh meat for the mosquitoes.) It is a beautiful place, this forest. A wonderful gift my father has given to the Earth. He didn't have those kind of noble thoughts when he planted the trees, but it's true just the same.
         And as I walk through the forest, I see a space in between some of the trees. I reach down and touch the pine needles. I have an idea.
         Bending over, I begin to form a ridge in the pine needles with my hands and I slowly walk backwards as I fluff the needles, making a spiral on the forest floor. It takes a little while to get it right. To get it precise. I am my father's son.
         After I'm done, I walk into the spiral and then walk out again. Spiral in, spiral out. The journey upward, the journey down. A little gift for my Dad. I'll photograph it in a few days, but not right now.
As I stand there, I pray to God to give my Dad a easy death. A death without exploding arteries and gushing blood. A death with some peace and little pain. A death that won't hurt him or traumatize us too much.
         "Please, God, if you could do this, I would be so very grateful."
I then walk into the old shed not far away, in search of an offering for the spiral. I find it right away. I walk back outside to Father’s Forest and place my prayer offering in the very center of the spiral.
         A 40-year-old solid wood croquet ball with a red stripe painted around its center.

         August, 2008:

         Dad died on September 4th, 2001, a few weeks after I made the Pine Forest Spiral. He didn’t bleed out. He died in his sleep with his wife by his side. He was in very little pain. He was 79.
         Mom sold The River House and Father’s Forest so she could invest the money and live. It was a good idea, but sad nonetheless. She lives in Tucson now, not far from me, but will soon be moving back to her beloved Virginia to live out her final years. She misses the river and its people so.
         My sister still lives in Raleigh, and is struggling with cancer herself. She’s getting major surgery in a couple of weeks. Our prayers are with her.
         And I’m in Tucson: Reasonably happy, in debt up to my eyeballs, but I don’t care. I have good friends and that’s what I really care about. Art and music too. And let’s not forget about Love, God, and The Land and Sky.
         Last night, the power went out in my apartment for six hours after a massive thunderstorm, so I sat outside on my little balcony on the third floor, and played my mandolin to the Dark and to the Rain. I fell asleep later, feeling a cool breeze brushing my face while I lay in bed. The only thing that would have made it more perfect would have been if I wasn’t alone.
         And my Father’s Forest? It was hit by two hurricanes but the storms took only a few trees near the bank of the river. The bulk of the forest grows strong and straight as ever. And the new owners of The River House like the house and its lands just the way they are. Thank you, Al, for loving our family’s ancestry land just as it is. May Dad’s trees grow for a very long time and then die from old age.

"New Mexican Prayer Wheel" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks
(Batik Fabric & Plastic Hubcap from New Mexico: 7'9" x 15" x 4")

[Stu's Fun Facts: The Prayer Wheel was photographed in the hallway at Studio BR-549 in Tucson. No fancy lighting, just the Halogens that we have there, so there is some color-shift in the photographs that I tried to correct in Photoshop, but alas, I couldn't fix it all. If you would like see the piece in person, just give me a call. It is much better live than it is on tape. If you want to purchase it, one of my business managers suggests $1,250. By the way, the hubcap was found in the high desert, south of Carrizozo, New Mexico and the batik fabric is from Tucson. And this piece is dedicated to all those who pray on Bear Butte in South Dakota.]