Introduction.
This is my final story in the series “Dad, Rob and Me.” When I began writing the series several months ago, I was struggling with what view of my father I should pass on to the generations to follow. These stories will be published in a hard cover book that hopefully will become a family heirloom and a source of knowledge about our family for those who come behind us.
So what to say about the person who had the single most powerful influence on my life – Marshall Treppendahl? I could not tell an honest story about him and omit or sugarcoat Rob’s death and Dad’s recklessness that caused it nor the great loss our family suffered because of Rob’s death.
Writing these stories, a total of 11 in all, has given me an opportunity to review and process what I know about my father and my relationship with him. In so doing, I have not only made peace with Dad, I have been able to explain and pass on to his descendants what a wonderful and remarkable man he was.
I want to thank those of you who have taken time to read the stories – and especially those who identified errors. Knowing that there was an “audience” who would hold me accountable for the accuracy and quality of my work has forced me to go the extra mile to verify the facts and to ensure that what I have written rings true.
This has been a very therapeutic experience for me. For those of you who are in the final quarter of life, I highly recommend that you go through a similar exercise.
Main characters. Dad (mid 60’s then 75) , Mama, and me (age late 30’s then 48). Approx. dates 1990 and 2000.
Around 1985, in a silent auction to support the local school, Dad won a week at a vacation home in Gatlinburg, TN. So Coco and I joined Mama and Dad, my sister Liz, CC (who was sort of like our aunt, though not related) and one of Mama’s cousins that none of us liked. My sister Jamsie had a conflict and could not come. Anyway, that trip started a tradition of family vacations that we continue until this day. The last one that included Dad was in August of 2000 and it was the first one where the grandchildren were all included. Below is our last family photo with Dad.
Dad had not been feeling well and it was during this vacation where clear symptoms of lymphoma manifested themselves. Within six weeks, on September 26, the non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma would take Dad’s life. Dad initially went to Our Lady of the Lake Hospital in Baton Rouge. From there, it was decided to go to MD Anderson in Houston. Mama stayed with Dad the whole time he was in the hospital. The sisters, Coco, and I were taking turns there with them a week at a time. When Coco came in for her shift, Dad called her over to his bedside and said, “Coco, take a good look at me. There is something I want to ask you.” “Yes Mr. Marshall?” “Do I look like a homosexual to you?” Coco was flabbergasted and said, “Of course not! Why in the world would you think that?” “Well, because all these men keep calling me or coming to see me and telling me that they love me.”
In my last story, I mentioned that the Academy and the Navy had prepared me well for life. Perhaps the single most important thing the Navy did was sear into my soul the non-negotiable commitment to become self-employed. That is not typical. After leaving the service, most of my classmates got great jobs with impressive companies and were very successful. It was a single individual who did this great “favor” for me. He was the second of my four commanding officers. My other three COs were first rate. My favorite CO was a “mustang” – an enlisted man who had come up through the ranks – Commander Bobbie Lee Sample. Tough as nails, but fair, reasonable, and very competent and positive. He was replaced as CO of my first ship by a Naval Academy graduate who was pretty much the antithesis of Captain Sample. After spending one year serving under that CO, I swore I would never have a career where I worked for someone else. I owe that horrible man a great debt of gratitude.
I left active duty in 1979. Fast forward 7 years. I was co-owner of a specialty commercial real estate company and my partner Princeton and I were just starting to make real money and enjoying it. Coco and I had bought a home in a great neighborhood and had two beautiful daughters. I had my eye on some real estate investments and our company borrowed money so that we could go to the next level. And then the commercial investment real estate world came to a screeching halt. It was a combination of a change in federal tax laws, failures of lending institutions, and the collapse of oil prices. This resulted in the collapse of me. It was during this phase of life that I learned that I had a serious chemical imbalance and was bipolar. Princeton and I folded our company and we both went to work for other real estate companies. It was humiliating; not just working for someone, but becoming relatively dysfunctional because of the mental illness.
Hugely important to me was not to go to Dad and ask for help. I so wanted to retain his respect and I feared if I did go him, he would think less of me. Fast forward eight years. I have been equal partners for several years with Hardy, one of the best and brightest real estate minds in Baton Rouge. I was making money again – so much so, that Hardy and I were able to invest in buying some small apartment complexes, fix them up, sell them and buy bigger ones. (That was during a period when apartments could be bought for very affordable prices. No more.)
For people who are bipolar, the flip side of depression is mania. People who are manic think they are the smartest person in the room. Their brains do run faster and become much more creative. However, they lose fear and common sense. Also, they usually irk spouses and others who are close to them.
During this period, Dad seemed to be routinely dinging me. When we talked, he would bring up my business setbacks and failures, but not the successes. He thought I could do better as a husband. My father adored Coco. I think he thought I had married way above myself (I did) and he usually took Coco’s side when cognizant of any spats we had. And in other ways he was critical of me.
One of the most important desires in my life was for my father to respect me and tell me that he was proud of me. I thought I had reached that point at graduation in June 1974. Dad was now making me feel like I was the 15-year-old scatterbrain back on the farm. So, I wrote him a letter where I delineated my most significant accomplishments. I graduated and had done well at the Naval Academy and by most metrics, excelled as a naval officer. I had married and retained the best and most beautiful person I had ever met. My wife and I had given him four grandchildren including a grandson who we had named after both my brother and him: “Robert Marshall”. And despite my business failures, I had my own company and was now doing well financially. Most importantly, I had never had to come ask for his help financially or otherwise. “What is the problem? Why are you criticizing me? What does it take for you to be proud of me?” (I was in a manic when I wrote the letter and almost certainly was not loving, gentle nor respectful.)
No response. Very little change in the dinging. Urrrgh! I decided to make it a point to keep my distance. I think it was Mama that called me (rather than me her.) “David, I know you are not getting along with your father right now. Do you know what the problem is?” I said something to the effect that no matter what I do, Dad keeps raising the bar and I can never measure up. “What the hell does he want from me?” “Your respect.” “My respect? What are you talking about, Mama?” She said that Dad did not believe that I respected him anymore. He never went to college but you graduated from Annapolis plus got an MBA. He went to work for his father and never left Woodville; you started your own business in Baton Rouge and are doing well. Also, you never came to him during your toughest times and asked him for help or advice. Your father just thinks you don’t respect him.”
I was speechless – about like my first call home from Annapolis two decades before. And I got pretty emotional about it. How could the man who I held in such high esteem, that I so respected and therefore so desperately had sought his approval of me, how could he be distraught because he does not realize any of this? I caught my breath and told Mama I would I write Dad another and very different letter.
In that letter, I told Dad the many reasons why I so admired, respected and loved him; and how hard I had worked at Annapolis and ever since to change myself so I could be more like him. I also told him that my success was based in part on my willingness to take risks – something I had learned from him. And I knew that if I failed to the point that I could not support my family, he had my back. Knowing he was there, allowed me to take those risks and be successful on my own. Dad and I never talked about that letter. But from then on, we had a wonderful and enjoyable relationship – but always father/son. It wasn’t in the cards for Dad and me to become good friends.
I think the process that Dad went through to die was nearly ideal. He was 75 years old and still very active and engaged when his body signaled him that something serious was wrong. He learned shortly thereafter that he had a terminal disease that would probably kill him within a few months. That gave Dad sufficient time to get his affairs in order and say his goodbyes. He was alert up until his final week and not in a great pain for the most part. He even received the thanks of grateful school children. Dad had been a faithful supporter of the private school in Woodville. One day a box arrived at the hospital with dozens of letters hand-written by the students thanking Dad and wishing him well. He was so touched.
Relevant story about Laura.
Laura took a speech class when she was in the 10th grade. The teacher told the students to pick any issue they wanted and make a case for their perspective on the issue. Laura chose the topic “Why you should not drink and drive.” It was easy to get up and give an impassioned speech defending her point of view. The next week’s assignment was to take the same issue but defend it from the alternative perspective. Laura went to the teacher and told her it was impossible to make a case for why someone “Should Drink and Drive.” The teacher stuck by her guns and told her to be creative. So, the case that Laura made related to funerals. Laura said that if you drink and drive, you have a much better chance of dying young than someone who never drinks and drives. And if you die while you are still vibrant and have lots of friends and family, then you will be greatly missed and lots of people will come to your funeral. Whereas, if you never drink and drive and live into your 90’s, most people who knew you will be dead. Dad was vibrant into his final year of life and was beloved and respected by many. St. Paul’s Church in Woodville was filled to overflowing by the several hundred people who attended his funeral. (When Laura died three years later at age 19 as the result of a drunk driver, well over a thousand people attended her funeral.)
Dad went into a comma at MD Anderson. After a bit, we realized Dad would prefer to die at Valhalla rather than at a hospital in Houston. Everyone except me left to go arrange for Dad to come home. I was with him and as I had done several times while with Dad alone at the hospital, I told him stories and how much I loved, admired and honored him. The night that we were suppose to leave for Valhalla, I included in my monologue to Dad that he had to make it all the way back to Valhalla. If his spirit departed while we were enroute home, it would be a long night and a bureaucratic nightmare for me. I went to sleep. About 10 minutes before we were to leave the room for the ambulance, Dad’s spirit woke me up. I was lying next to him in the hospital bedroom now wide awake. He was gently breathing and then his breathing slowed and stopped. I looked at his smiling, relaxed and still handsome face for a few seconds. Dad’s spirit then slowly moved up and by me. I was enveloped by a sense of warmth, love, and goodness. And then Dad was gone.
Writing this series on “Dad, Rob and Me” has been most cathartic. During the past ten years or so, the frustration, if not anger and recrimination that I have felt for Dad for losing the brother I would so now treasure, has dissipated. I know for sure that Dad deeply loved and cared about all his children. He wanted us to be the best people we could possibly be when we grew up and went out on our own. (That is what the parents’ main goal is, right?) Dad wanted his boys to grow up to be men – men like him, men as defined by Rudyard Kipling. And so he taught us how to work and he entrusted us with challenging tasks that were on the edge of our capacities. Still, what is difficult for me to understand and explain are the roll bars or lack thereof. If anyone has insight into this, please share it.
Dad was a man who was loved, respected, enjoyed and admired. If you have story that you want to share about Marshall Treppendahl, please send it to me. If it is relevant and good, I will include it with this story.