A Personal Obituary for My Dad, Lee A. Goodin, February 5, 1940-August 19, 2018

My dad, Lee A. Goodin, passed away into other realms on Sunday. He’d been fighting so many illnesses for several years, and yet I hadn’t seen the cardiac arrest coming. Somehow, I thought I’d have warning. Yet he had given me warning.

Earlier this summer, he told me he’d decided to stop aggressive care for the infections that riddled his body from wounds that would not heal. I wrote about that decision, as well as our history of separation and reacquaintance, for Catapult in “The Blind Feeding the Lame: Growing Disabled with Dad.”

I wanted to show that essay to him, to show my love and that he would live on in my imagination, in my writing, and of course, in my heart forever, but I was a chicken. I was afraid he wouldn’t like how personal, how intimate, it was, and so I never sent him the link. I will never know if I made the right decision.

The fact remains that I have written about my dad and will continue to do so.

He once told me that he thought there was a great American novel in our family somewhere. He liked that I was a writer, but did not particularly care for the kind of writing I did. He loved his bestselling Kellermans, and I have not yet brought myself to read one of those. I will now though.

If there is a great American novel in our family, then there is no one else to write it but myself, because our family, at least for a couple generations, has dwindled down to me. He has cousins, who I’ve met through the wonders of Facebook, but my father was an only child and so am I. My parents were divorced when I was very young and my dad remarried, but did not have other kids. My family, my next of kin on my dad’s side, is now gone. And I, being childless, will provide no more.

My dad, Lee Goodin, with chickens in Visitacion Valley, San Francisco, early 1940s.My dad’s mother, Leona Goodin, née Beynon, and her husband Alcidos Goodin, née Godin, likely would have had lots of kids, but Alcidos, a construction worker who helped build the Golden Gate as well as the Bay Bridge, fell off the Rincon Annex, the old main post office in Downtown San Francisco, and died four days before my father, his son, was born. Between that and the fact that the first few years of my dad’s life were lived in wartime, there was something tragic about his early stars, as testified to by the wartime photo of my dad with chickens in the wilds of San Francisco.

However, he grew up as the darling only child, and would enjoy a wonderful life, traveling the world, skiing, drinking, eating, trekking around seven continents.

A man doesn’t need religion or spirituality to be loving and generous

A couple years back, he and my stepmother Terry celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary in their North Beach home next door with their extended Fior d’Italia family that includes the owners, the wait staff, and the revolving musicians of the jazz band that plays there every Wednesday and Sunday. The bandleader asked, “What’s the secret to your successful marriage?”

My dad, sitting in his wheelchair, Beefeater in hand, said, “world travel, fabulous adventures, and great sex!”

My dad was an irreverent and irreligious man. If I write that novel of our family, at the heart of it would be the atheism gene that I inherited from him. He had no religion, and in fact was rather anti-religion. One of his favorite movies, or at least one that he liked to talk about a lot, was Spotlight, about the Catholic Church’s cover-up of priests’ who couldn’t keep their robes down. Even that sentence sounds like something he would say.

But a man doesn’t need religion or spirituality (which he also scoffed at) to be loving and generous.

Once, at Fior, I asked my partner Alabaster to give some money to one of the waiters to buy a bottle of wine for the table. I think it was Gil, who, when he saw Alabaster’s intent, put his hands up and backed away as if he were looking at a gun rather than a couple twenties, saying, “Oh no, not Lee’s table.” In other words, if my dad was there, he was buying.

I now live in Denver, so there’s not much I can do in this strange limbo time before the services–which will be held on Labor Day weekend–but think and write about my dad, and celebrate who he was as a living being, and what he means as a spirit in me.

When my dad went into the hospital for one last short trip, I happened to be reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for perhaps the fourth or fifth time in my life. Yesterday I came to the end and the afterword, where Pirsig drops the bomb about how his son Chris, who made the trip cross country in the book’s narrative, had been stabbed outside the Zen Center in San Francisco just five years after the book had been published. The part where Pirsig wrestles with the question of where his son Chris went took on new meaning for me. My dad, like me, believed in only this one life, but perhaps he could get behind Pirsig’s idea of the pattern of a person:

What had to be seen was that the Chris I missed so badly was not an object but a pattern, and that although the pattern included the flesh and blood of Chris, that was not all there was to it. The pattern was larger than Chris and myself, and related us in ways that neither of us understood completely and neither of us was in complete control of.

Now Chris’s body, which was a part of that larger pattern, was gone. But the larger pattern remained. A huge hole had been torn out of the center of it, and that was what caused all the heartache. The pattern was looking for something to attach to and couldn’t find anything. That’s probably why grieving people feel such attachment to cemetery headstones and any material property or representation of the deceased. The pattern is trying to hang on to its own existence by finding some new material thing to center itself upon.

My dad, Lee Goodin, and I, in a post-dancing pose, at his 60th birthday bash in Amador City, where he was mayor!I think my writing this as well as all future generations of writings about my dad, attempt to continue the pattern that is and will always be my dad, Lee Goodin.

Peruvian gold

It was the spring of 2017 when Alabaster and I visited and my dad, not yet imminently dying, but also aware that he was not going to have a long time to live, asked if there was anything I wanted. Terry and he had been collecting wonderful objects from around the world for years, but he was, I understood, referring to the things he’d inherited from uncle Art, his mother’s younger brother, who’d been like a father to him, who had been an engineer in the gold mines of Peru.

Remembering the glimmering little figurines that I’d so often seen at Uncle Art’s that sat in a lighted display box of a gold bird and a gold man, I mentioned those. I’m blind now, and hadn’t seen them for many years, and I’d never touched them. My dad directed Alabaster to take them down from the shelf. They were in plastic domes, and we pulled them out. I almost crushed the little man when I tried to pick him up because I never realized they were hollow. They had seemed so solid when I was a child. I’d never suspected they were made of very delicate hammered gold.

It was a strange time to be bequeathed something so valuable. Alabaster and I were basically homeless. We’d left New York and were moving around, staying with friends and family, deciding where to settle next. For almost a year, I lugged these priceless weightless and bulky heirlooms from California to Colorado to New York and back around again, with my dad periodically asking if I’d found a safe place for them.

And, being a researcher at heart, I wanted to know about these things, so I started shooting off emails to museums and appraisers, and getting either no response or non-committal ones that sent me somewhere else.

Finally, we found a Pre-Columbian art appraiser in England, and sent off about twenty photos of the little bird to her.

Two days later, we received the valuation and its notes. ” These animal and mostly bird sculptures came out of a workshop in Lima which was active between the 1950s to late 1960s run by an Italian expatriate,” and was worth about $10-$20.

That was in April, and we went for our last visit in June. I’d alluded to what I’d finally found about the statues, or what had become of them, over the phone, and told him I’d tell him all about it when I saw him in person.

Peruvian "gold" bird, my inheritance misfire from my dad Lee Goodin.

He wasted no time in asking. On our first lunch in our usual table at Fior d’Italia. He said, “So what happened to the statues? You still have them?” He thought I’d sold them, which I might have, or I might have tried to get them back down to Peru, where they belonged. I didn’t know, but the point was now moot.

I took a big breath, put on a big ironic smile, and told him about the appraisal. Alabaster said his face showed shock. Then he expressed doubt that Art, a gold minor and amateur archaeologist, would have been duped about buying fake artifacts. And I said what I’d been thinking. “None of us asked about them. We just all assumed the beautiful little sculptures were real gold Pre-Columbian artifacts, and he let us keep on thinking that.”

Then my dad laughed, and said, “Ah, that old bugger. I bet he’s laughing at us all right now.” It was the only such indulgence I’d ever heard my dad make about some possible afterlife. Then he told us about how Art liked to play jokes on people, and that sounded familiar. He and my aunt Evelyn also did not have kids. They were my only relatives on my dad’s side that I knew growing up, after my Grammy Leona had died when I was ten.

At the end of the Peruvian Gold conversation, I asked if maybe I could choose another heirloom, like “what’s behind curtain number 3, cuz I got a dud,” and we laughed hard at that. It was a very good last visit.

Under the bridge

My dad, Lee Goodin, and I on a boat on the San Francisco Bay.As I said, my grandfather Alcidos was a construction worker whom my dad never knew. He had been born in Minnesota to French Canadian Godins, who were one of the original Acadians who settled in Canada in the 17th century, and then were displaced when the Brits took over. Some of the Acadian Godins moved to Quebec–if you play guitar, you may have heard of the Godin maker, and others moved down to Louisiana to become Cajuns. Others moved south into Maine and then westward, as my Godins did, and settled in other parts of the US. My Godins settled in Minnesota, which is where Alcidos Sinai Godin was born in 1910.

At some point in his travels from Minnesota to San Francisco, Alcidos added another “o” to Godin to make it Goodin, because, as the stories have it, he was tired of being called God in, rather than the French way, which pronounces it like French sculptor Rodin.

If you were wondering why my dad is Goodin, and I’m Godin, it’s because, with his blessing, I reclaimed the French spelling. That said, he never got used to me taking my middle name, his mother’s name Leona, for my primary name.

I wrote a fanciful tale about all this, called “Likenesses: A Family History Through Photos, Real and Imagined,” which was originally published at FLAPPERHOUSE. I brought the zine to him and he read, with me next to him. When he’d finished he said, Katerina wasn’t a seamstress, she was a barmaid.

My dad wanted to be cremated and strewn into his beloved San Francisco Bay, under the bridges his father helped to build. I’ll be traveling back to say goodbye to him for that ceremony on September 1, followed by a celebration of his life at Fior d’Italia on Sunday September 2. His band will be there to play his old favorites, which, tended towards the dark. He loved his lighthearted musicals, but he also loved “St. James Infirmary,” and would delightedly snap his fingers to the macabre lyrics every time.

I miss and love you dad. See you on the Bay.

 

In the Beginning Were the Eye Doctors, essay 1 of #52essays2017

Before the base closed to make way for the National Park, Lucasfilm, and the Thoreau Center, my mother and I drove regularly through the Presidio to buy cheap groceries at the commissary or to the Letterman Army Medical Center for visits to the pediatricians and then many eye doctors. My dad was in the military, and as a dependent, I received benefits that extended beyond my parents’ divorce.

Letterman Army Medical Center photographed from above with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. (Wikipedia)

I loved the drive that took us through the Arguello Gate, punching our car into an enchanted forest of Monterey pine, Monterey cypress, and the Tasmanian bluegum, a eucalyptus all the way from Australia. I did not know their names then, or that these seemingly primordial trees had been planted but a hundred years earlier. Inspired by the success of Golden Gate Park and Planted by the U.S. Army, these trees were meant to beautify the windswept brush lands that were an eyesore to the San Francisco Bay newcomers. It was no accident that the sudden woodlands reminded me of the enchanted New England greenery I looked longingly at in my mother’s pictorial atlas of America. The easterners who came to take over the Presidio after the Mexicans did not appreciate the sandy bluffs blowing into their windows or the scrubby barrenness sweeping down to the bay. So they made that landscape familiar by planting thousands of trees. And in those trees they nestled their Georgian Revival buildings for my mother to point to, with all the authority of having, for a few years, been the wife of an officer, “That’s the house of a general.” Or “those are bachelor quarters,” and I was duly impressed. One of those exotic brick buildings is now a boutique inn for tourists looking to enjoy amenities and hiking trails.

but this was the early ’80’s, at least ten years before the base was decommissioned, and long before I had need to know that the landscape was man-made. To my keen young eyes, it looked ancient, as if it were what San Francisco looked like under or behind all the people and buildings–prehistoric, darkly enchanting and full of dappled light. I could not know it was all fakery beyond those gates, all artifice and make believe.

 

In fourth grade, I suddenly couldn’t see the writing on the blackboard from the back of the class. I told my mother and she made an appointment at the optometrist. I was excited. Getting glasses seemed to me to be very grown up. We drove to one of the bungalows that lay in covered strips with wooden steps leading up to planked covered walkways, almost like an Old West town. The building was dark and creaky. I sat in the big chair and looked through the tiny eyeholes in the cartoonishly huge lens machine. I could not read the small print on the chart. Still, no matter how many times the lenses shifted and the doctor asked, “tell me if this one is better,” (click) “or this?” (click) “this one, or this one,” the line did not reveal itself to me. I was a child who wanted to please, so I tried very hard to see a difference. “Maybe, a little better.” I’d say, but there seemed to be no difference in any of the shifting lenses–no better anyway, only worse. Many of the lenses made my vision blurry. I did not know how to explain then that my vision had not been blurry before. I have never lived in a blurry world. My eye problems have nothing to do with focus. It was always a question of a lack of information, of a pixilated visionscape, of television fuzz, but I hadn’t the words then, or even much of all that was to come.

The optometrist prescribed some glasses, though he sheepishly explained that he could not get my vision down to 20/20. They did nothing to help me see the writing on the blackboard.

We went to another optometrist and then maybe an ophthalmologist. Again, there was the same clicking of lenses with its odd attendant sensations of shifting air currents so close to the eyeball, with no luck. “Maybe a little better.” Or “worse,” was all there was for me to say. After a long time, the eye doctor called my mother in and told us that he could not correct my vision.

Perhaps it was that doctor, or perhaps the next, possibly to allay my mother’s fears or perhaps to mitigate his own impotence, said, “Her eyes are growing too fast for her body.” Or maybe he said that my body was growing too fast for my eyes. That satisfied us for a little while.

Finally, we were referred from the bungalows to the main hospital–the building that has since been demolished to make room for the Letterman Digital Arts Center–to see the head of ophthalmology. This was when my mother began to worry that something queer and a little scary might be going on. Though My vision loss was not very impressive, maybe 20/40 in the worst eye, the head of ophthalmology could not offer a solution either. He sent me out of the room to talk to my mother, to berate her for bringing me to him.

In response to my mother’s worried summery–eye doctors offering wacky opinions and no answers–this brilliant man spoke lamely and with spite, “Maybe she can’t see because you’ve been taking her to so many eye doctors.”

This summit of ludicrous subterfuge, this apotheosis of smug defiance in the face of ignorance has oft been repeated by my mother and myself (who was loitering just outside the door, listening) as the climax in our sad little detective story: What was killing my sight?

My mother, never good at checking her emotions, allowed her voice to rise with tears and said, “then why can’t she read the writing on the blackboard?” She would not accept another answerless dismissal. To his credit, he did not dig in, but relented, perhaps embarrassed deeply, though on the surface the coolness remained. He called me back into the room and took another look into my eyes, with his headlamp and magnifying monocle, and saw…something. I can only imagine that it was a blip on the landscape of my retinas, a suggestion of that dystrophy that would grow into eventual blindness, or it may be that he saw nothing, but suspected something, something remembered from medical school or read about in an ophthalmology journal. Perhaps it was a eureka moment that sparked the intelligence of this head of ophthalmology–an intelligence that had been momentarily dimmed by ignorance. Maybe it was then that he remembered a degenerative eye disease called retinitis pigmentosa (RP), or maybe it was later, but, in any case, the diagnosis would be forthcoming, and one which I would use for decades.

As it turned out, my eye disease did not present like RP–I lost my central vision first whereas most people with retinitis pigmentosa lose peripheral vision first, so that as it progresses, they experience an ever more restricted tunnel vision. My disease progressed from the center outward, albeit jaggedly, leaving pockets of living cells.

Thirty some odd years later, I’ve learn that my cone-rod dystrophy is caused by a gene mutation that remains unidentified. In a world of rare eye diseases, I have a really rare one. As I write, my blood is going its second round of genetic testing, and it may be that I have a mutation all my own.

Back then, a diagnosis of retinitis pigmentosa was at least a name, a thing I could tell people, and it was rare enough and unique. I was strangely proud, so that when at the end of that first year, I was sent across the road to the Letterman Army Institute of Research (LAIR) for observation and experiment, I was excited. For three days they ran me through a battery of tests–from organizing little disks of gradient colors to a primitive electroretinography (ERG), putting me into a dark room to measure the electronic firings of the photoreceptor cells in my retina. The ERG is standard procedure at retinal specialists now, but they were just figuring it out back then.

In my most recent visit to the ophthalmologist, after dilation and numbing drops a technician laid thin wires along each of my bottom eyelids and taped the ends to my cheeks and forehead to keep them in place. The thin wires were then connected to thicker ones that in turn made their way into a computer. But that first ERG, a lab rat was I, laying in the dark for many hours with my eyelids held open by grotesque contact lenses from which the wires sprung. That had been perhaps the scariest, but also the most important test I underwent at LAIR, one that likely contributed to the current state of the art technology that even suggests the possibility of a near-future cure.

I subsequently did a presentation on the experience. By that time, I’d moved from fourth grade to fifth grade, and in my private girl school, that meant a change in uniform, from green plaid bib dresses to sailor-style middies and pleated navy skirts.

My presentation on retinitis pigmentosa and my battery of testing at LAIR, with its photographs and little moments of humor, like when I described looking into a contraption to click a button when I saw (and did not see) a tiny red light move into and out of my visual field, as resembling nothing so much as staring for hours into an illuminated toilet bowl, got a laugh from my classmates. I also got some pointed questions from my teacher. Perhaps she, along with my other teachers, was concerned, but they did not let on. It was a small school and I was a scholarship child in a sea of very rich girls, so there was perhaps a lot of feeling sorry for me going on. Or perhaps not. Maybe it is just my grown up self who feels sorry for that little girl who tried so hard to make light of something scary and totally out of her control. Out of even the control of her mother and teacher’s and eye doctors too.

Image of Godin's retina in 1983

The progress of my eye disease has been the degeneration of my sight–progress and degeneration have thus been strangely confused in my mind since I was a kid. And today, it is not clear to me whether this long eye progression of sight to blindness, the slowest of calamities, akin to aging in its relentless and somewhat boring degeneration, has diminished or enhanced my life experiences. But human existence being what it is–complicated and fleeting–I imagine the answer must be both.

 

*This is the first of #52essays2017 written with all four senses and remembered sight. Read more about the project and the woman behind it HERE*