The Final Argument

Carl E Peterson Sr. (Grandpa, R) and Carl E Peterson Jr (Dad, L) on the farm where Dad grew up.

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I argued with Dad just hours before his passing. I was in his hospital room with Mom and my siblings, Carl, Marcia, and Keith. To the best of my memory, they stood around and watched the spectacle. I’m not sure what they thought of me battling with this respectable old man on his death bed. But maybe they understood. They knew us.

To picture the scene accurately, remove any thoughts of anger or vitriol from your understanding of us arguing. When Dad and I sparred, we were not animated by those impulses. So much of the scene remains forgotten, probably because we were arguing about something insignificant — surely unimportant for a man in his final hours.

Three days earlier I got the call from Keith that it was time to come to Denver. They had given Dad only hours to live. It was Easter Eve 2000. I got a flight out from Nashville on Easter morning and went directly to the hospital. That afternoon I had a few hours with Dad alone, and Mom got a break. Carl and Marcia had not yet arrived from Hawaii. Dad was in and out. Somebody taught me to feed him ice chips. At one point he allowed me to pray with him. Don’t ask me what I prayed. He seemed to feel comforted.

On Tuesday afternoon, I’m pretty sure it was Dad who started the argument, but I have no verification. My Hawaii sibs had arrived by then, and we had all spent most of our time in that hospital room. Something appeared on the TV, and I think I made a comment. And Dad challenged me. He was very much alert that day. He had to have been the instigator. And everyone in the room knew that he was picking on the only one there who HAD to always be right, just like him. It was Pavlovian. He rang the bell and the match began.

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The first time I remember actively disagreeing with Dad in conversation, I was, I think, 14 years old. It was a holiday, maybe Independence Day, Veterans Day or Memorial Day. We hosted single Army GI’s for a family meal. On those days there was music, sports on TV, lots of food, and conversation. We talked about the issues, and at 14 I was beginning to form my own opinions. Dad had already served two terms in Vietnam. And as we sat in the housing quarters provided by the US Army, I thought it was time to express to the world that I would never serve in the military. I said it out loud afraid of Dad’s response. “Why?” was all he asked. I said, “I don’t want to kill anyone.” And knowing that, although Dad was issued a rifle, as a personnel (Human Resources) officer, he would not likely have reason to kill anyone, I added, “and I don’t want to support the killing of anyone.” And he surprised me, saying only, “I can respect that. It seems like you have thought it through.”

These days when I choose to challenge people on social media (usually about something trivial), I often review their social media profile. But only after we have already exchanged a few volleys. Inevitably, I feel disappointed and a little ashamed. With full-throated judgement, I think and sometimes say aloud, “THIS is who I’m arguing with? I just spent an hour with THIS person?!” You can judge me right now for judging them, but there is a point to come.

But first a mental excursion. It was the early 1990s. I was visiting the family in Colorado. Rich Mullins’s “The World As Best As I Can Remember It” had come out, and I was proud to tell my dad that I had sung background on it. We listened to the CD as we drove the hour from Keith’s house in Denver to Mom and Dad’s house in Colorado Springs. The album sparked other recent memories which I was sharing with Dad, trying to offer glimpses of my daily life. About halfway through the drive Dad stopped me. “Tony, does this story have a point?” No, Dad. It’s just a story.” All of our lives, Mom and Dad modeled just telling stories. I guess he forgot.

So I was arguing with Dad about something on TV while he lay in his hospital bed. By this time, we had probably ventured into some analogies or hypotheticals to bolster our respective stances. And then. Dad said something totally nonsensical. I was taken aback. It took me awhile to recognize what was going on. And then I realized: THIS is who I am arguing with? I was not sparring with the dad who taught me to spar. If I kept on, I would be attacking a man whose brain was in its last hours. I stopped.

But that argument may be the best gift Dad’s know-it-all son could give in his last hours. (Yes, I’m using THIS scenario to brag on myself). About 3 years earlier on the occasion of their father’s passing in Grove City, Ohio, I witnessed a conversation between Dad and his two younger brothers. They were already old (but younger than I am now). By my calculations Dad and Uncle Bobby were in their sixties, and Uncle Donald was not far behind. They were sitting on the front porch of the house they grew up in. Grandpa had bought the small farm when the boys were young and their little sister, Brenda, had not yet been born. When the sellers discovered that the buyer was a Black man, they tried to back out, but Grandpa was able to prevail. The boys helped build the house. In his later years, Grandpa sold the place to our cousin Jeffrey who has maintained his promise to keep it a home for the whole family. On this day I got a glimpse of the brothers’ childhood. And they argued. Like little boys in old man skin. They rehearsed old hurts, but there wasn’t much bite. It was as if this was their favorite way of communicating — of showing brotherly love. There was probably more emotion expended than in my last spar with Dad because they were rival siblings, not father and son. But they needed that connection. It reminded them of who they were.

And that is what I am claiming from the TV-sparked conversation 25 years ago. So, yeah, I gave Dad the last argument of his life. And I’m pretty sure he started it.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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