The Grateful Dead

Lost a friend of mine today.  His name was Patrick Harrison, a gentle soul who wandered into my shop 16 years ago.  
 

He spun fabulous, incredulous tales.  He claimed to have written the lyrics to U2's The Joshua Tree and Robbie Robertson's first solo album , among others.  He also said he was a distant relative of George Harrison.  My bullshit detector's were ringing loudly, but the man never backed off his claims.  The more he held on to them, the more I wanted to believe them.  He had instant recall of the lyrics to those albums.  He had home photos of George's widow Olivia, and spoke frequently of meetings with her and George's son Dhani.  He also claimed to be an acquaintance of The Clash's manager, Johnny Green, and told me detailed stories of encounters with him.  
 

I so wanted to believe him.  I googled his name once and found a Weekly World News Story about how U2  had placed a restraining order on him. I never pried too hard about his living situation.  Figured he was homeless.  Turned out he was.  He still managed to show up every once in a while with cash to buy the Beatles and Rolling Stones 7" picture sleeves he loved.  He would tell me tales of his wanderings up and down the West Coast, to San Francisco, Los Angeles, and to Joshua Tree.  He liked his herb and his natureopathic remedies.  He spoke of his youth in Florida and to catching onto the Rock & Roll Circus there.  Said his mom was a CIA spook, and that he had become distant from his family.

One time, I took him out to a local college hipster bar and bought him dinner and drinks and listened to his fantastic stories.  He seemed eternally grateful to have a normal experience.  
 

A couple of weeks ago, he showed up in my shop, looking gaunt and not terribly well.  Told me he had a tumor on his liver, that one doctor had given him two months to live, another doctor said six.  He was selling me back his 7" picture sleeve collection.  I tried to be generous with my offer.  I think he knew, as he pulled out more items from his backpack to give to me; a DTS mix of The Magical Mystery Tour he said George Martin had given him.  A woodcut block with "Keep On Dancing" etched on it.  
 

I helped him carry his stuff up to the top of our stairs.  He sounded a fatalistic tone, saying that he hated to see it end this way.  That he wanted to go back to Florida, because he couldn't survive another Seattle Winter.  I told him to stay positive, and to call me if there was anything I could help him with.  It felt like an outtake from Midnight Cowboy.

About three or four days later, he called me.  Said he was in a bad way.  That he had left my shop and headed downtown to get a hotel room, but had fallen down and lain on the sidewalk for seven hours, unable to get up, and no one stopping to help him.  He'd wound up at the Franciscan Hospital in Burien.  Wanted to know if I could get him a prepaid phone card at Walmart so he could try to contact his "people" in Florida.  I told him "sure, no problem," and got it to him by the next morning, although they wouldn't let me see him.  He called to thank me, gracious as always, saying he would pay me back.  I told him not to worry about it, just to call me when he was feeling better.  
 

A few days later, a resources coordinator at the hospital called my shop looking for me.  She said that Patrick had asked her to ask me if I was willing to be his emergency contact, and his medical executor if he lost the capacity to make decisions about his medical care. I told her that it troubled me that there was no one else around to do this for him, but that I was willing to provide those functions if needed.

 The next day. he called to ask if I could make his monthly payment on his storage unit, before he got charged with late fees.  I told him I was on it, and to call me back the next day, so I could give him an update. 
 

When he didn't call back to check in, I was a little worried.  Still, I flew down to L.A. to see The Rolling Stones last Thursday.  I bought him a knit cap with an embroidered Tongue and Lips logo at the merch stand.  Then I didn't hear from him when I got back.  A couple of days ago, I got a call from a nurse at St. Joseph's Hospital, a different Franciscan Hospital in Tacoma.  He had checked out of the hospital in Burien, but soon wound up in the one in Tacoma.  The nurse told me his condition had worsened, and he had days, at best, a week to live.  She said he was no longer capable of making his own medical decisions.  She wanted to know if he would want a do not resuscitate order if his heart stopped beating.  She told me that in his weakened state, CPR would only result in breaking his ribs and excruciating pain, and ultimately, he would still die.  I told her that of course, he wouldn't want that, and the decision was made to switch him to the comfort care ward of the hospital, and to stop all blood transfusions and other treatments.  They would administer him oxygen and pain medication as needed.  
 

At the nurse's urging to try to talk with him sooner than later, I drove down to Tacoma yesterday.  I'd hoped to find out if there was anyone he wanted me to call, what his final wishes were, if he wanted to be cremated, what he wanted done with his ashes, if he wanted to be visited by a priest or some other spiritualist, what he wanted done with his belongings?  He was sleeping peacably when I got there.  I told the nurse I didn't want to disturb him, and would just sit with him and see if he woke up.  
 

After about ten minutes, he did.  I told him, "It's Dave".  He said, "I know".  I asked him about contacting anyone, and he stared at me blankly through bloodshot eyes.  I told him I'd paid for his storage unit through next month,,and he said, "Thanks".  I told him I had brought him a gift, and showed him the Stones cap. He said, "That's nice."  Those were the last words I ever heard him speak.  
 

I had planned to drive down again this afternoon to check in on him.  Just as I was about to go, a person walked in with several boxes of media to sell me.  By the time I finished the buy, rush hour was upon us, so I decided to wait until after we closed and traffic would be lighter. 

A little after 5, the nurses called to tell me he had passed.  I drove down anyway to say goodbye, talk with the nurses, and to retrieve his belongings.  I still haven't gone through them.  Tomorrow, I will, and if I'm lucky, I'll find his storage unit key, and maybe there, a last Will. or family contact info.  When I went to view him, he had a smile on his face and the Stones cap on his head.  They told me he had passed with it on his head.  I decided to keep it as a memento.  They got my address to go with the phone number they already had, and told me the funeral home would get a hold of me.

It made me think of the folktale about the Grateful Dead that the GD took their name from.  A traveler comes across a corpse and helps arrange for it to be properly dealt with.  Sometime later the traveler encounters some peril that a person or animal helps them overcome.  This is the ghost or spirit of the departed person the traveler made final arrangements for.  The Grateful Dead.  
 

I made it safely back home through the driving wind and howling rain, just in time to get some dinner at a local pub before the kitchen closed and to down some pints before last call.  
 

Tomorrow, I will awake and continue to go furthur.

And it's another goodbye to another good friend.

Godspeed to you Patrick.  Gold rings on ya.