In the Blink of an Eye (5 page)

CHAPTER 14
PUSHING DAD

A
s fall settled in on North Carolina, I could tell Dad’s days of feeling like golfing—or generally just goofing off—were becoming fewer and farther between. Most every day, I would go over to his and Mom’s and see what he was up to. I’d find out if he wanted to do anything or just hang around.

More often than not, Dad was pretty content to just lie in his chair and watch TV.

We would still have to go to the hospital occasionally for breathing treatments or maybe even radiation. But that more or less was the extent of our going or doing. Occasionally, I could talk him into going to lunch or dinner but not very often. We hadn’t golfed since we were in the mountains before Bristol.

One beautiful day in Sherrills Ford, I decided to spread some fertilizer on one of the fields next to my house. This is another one of my favorite Leroy stories. I was on my tractor, driving from one end of the field to the other. As I made a pass, I looked over and saw my dad driving down the driveway. That was a bit strange, I thought, because Dad hadn’t been getting out much. But as he drove by, I waved. I figured he was just headed to the Busch shop to check on the guys.

I was really happy he was out.

He used to hang around the race shop a lot. He would go see what the boys were working on. We had a big race coming up in a couple of weeks in Charlotte, and I figured he was going down to make sure everyone knew he planned on being there and that he expected us to win.

Dad and I could both taste victory at Bristol when we were there. So I’m sure he thought that a little encouragement from the patriarch of the Waltrip family would be enough to push us over the top.

But Dad didn’t stop at the shop. He turned right around. I kept one eye on the field I was fertilizing and one eye on Dad.

What was he doing?, I wondered as I came back toward the shop.

Dad had stopped his car on the driveway. He got out of the car and simply waved at me as I tractored on by. When I made the turn this time and headed back toward Dad, I loved what I saw. Dad had gotten into the trunk of his car and pulled out a golf club and was waving it at me.

Ha, ha! Dad was wanting to golf. How cool was that?

I was being summoned to his car with what looked like a three wood, and straight to his car I went. I parked my tractor, jumped off, and said: “You wantin’ to golf, Dad?”

“Yes, son. That’s what I was hoping we could do.”

“We can do anything you like, Dad. Let me put on my golfing clothes, and we’ll be right on our way.”

Times like these with my dad were very important to me. I felt like it was almost role reversal for me. I was acting like the dad, and Dad was the needy child. Most of the time as a kid, when I was that needy child, Dad wasn’t around. But kids are tough. They learn how to deal with things. Dad wasn’t tough anymore. I wasn’t about to let him down when he needed me.

Although golfing was rare and Dad was getting weaker, he was able to make the Charlotte race, just like he’d promised the boys in the shop. Our house in Sherrills Ford is about a forty-five-minute drive from the Charlotte Motor Speedway. I talked Mom into coming with Dad to the race that day.

All tracks these days have luxury suites above the grandstand where sponsors can entertain their customers. I’d gotten Mom and Dad passes for a suite so they could be comfortable and see the race from a great spot.

Despite the fact that Dad had been encouraging my team about performing, the Charlotte race wasn’t going as well as the one in Bristol had. My car just wasn’t fast that day. I qualified in the back and was only able to make minimal gains. But as the laps wound down in the race, something crazy began to occur. The leaders all started making pit stops for fuel. One after another, the guys who were ahead of me hit Pit Road. My crew chief said he thought we could make it to the finish with the gas we had. But I would definitely be on E if we made it to the checker.

Five to go. Four to go. Three. Two. And when the white flag waved, I was still chugging along, running second, right on the bumper of the leader.

I gotta make a move, I thought. This looks a lot like Bristol. Maybe I can win this one for Dad.

As we raced off turn two, the leader went low. I decided to swing high and try to roll around the outside for the win. My move worked this time. I hit the back stretch with the lead.

What a move!

Then I glanced in my mirror and realized the great move I had made was a success because the leader that I passed had run out of gas too.

Everyone did. Except me.

With Mom and Dad looking on, I took the checkered flag and won the race. What a great day! What a gift! A gift for my sick dad! And certainly a reminder to me not to ever question God’s grace like I had at Bristol.

It was another twist of fate that affected the outcome. It was a cruel twist to all those other people, the ones without gas. But to me, it was a gift.

And with my dad at the last race he would ever attend, the trophy and the checkered flag were ours. And we did it with about the tenth-best car, but the most fuel-efficient one.

Thank you, God, for allowing my dad to enjoy that win.

We had a fan-club celebration scheduled following the race. About four or five hundred fans showed up to get an autograph, eat a hot dog, and talk about racing. We had those once a year and always around the Charlotte race.

That night, the guest of honor was Mr. Leroy Waltrip. I dedicated the win to him and presented him with the winning trophy. That was a great night. That was a great way for my dad to spend his last day at the races.

A few weeks after our big win in Charlotte, we had to take Dad back to the hospital with a nasty lung infection. Infections aren’t highly unusual for someone going through chemo and radiation. By that point, his immune system was beaten down pretty good. Every time we had to take Dad back to the hospital, I was afraid he would never get out.

When Dad had been in the hospital for a couple of days, he seemed to be improving after being on IVs and breathing treatments. I had spent the night with him, and he had slept really well. There was very little coughing like I had heard so many nights before. When Dad woke up, I couldn’t wait to ask him: “How you feeling, Dad? Sounds like you slept really well.”

“I feel great,” he said.

Good, I thought. Dad’s all tuned up and ready to go home.

Then Dad said: “I hope they let me out of this place today. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to go home to Momma.”

“I’ll tell the doctors you feel great, and you’re ready to go home,” I told him. “I’m sure they’ll let us get out of here.”

At about eleven o’clock that morning, his doctor stopped in and cleared us to leave. That’s exactly what Dad wanted to hear.

We stopped at Fuddruckers on the way home and had hamburgers. We always liked stopping at Fuddruckers. It was part of our leaving-the-hospital routine. It was early afternoon, and this was shaping up to be a good day.

When I got him to his house in Sherrills Ford, he felt so good and was doing so well, I was content. I spent a few minutes catching Mom up on what the doctors had told me to expect from Dad over the next few days. There were some new medicines he would be taking. So I had to familiarize Mom with those. Mom loved being in charge of the medicines Dad had to take. She would put them in a pill box and tell him what to take and when to take them.

They seemed to be in such good shape, Mom and Dad, that I decided I was going to run over to the office. My office was right around the corner behind my house.

“I’ll be back in a little while, y’all, to make sure you’re doin’ okay,” I said.

“Okay,” Dad said. “Me and Mom will be right here. We’ll be fine.”

When I left, I was confident that everything was under control. I didn’t feel like it was necessary to ask Buffy to go watch them nor did I call my sister to go sit with them.

Dad had been in the hospital for a few days, and I could tell he was eager to visit with Mom. Dad really looked good, and he was full after his cheeseburger. I could just picture him crawling in his chair and taking a nap.

About an hour later, my phone rang. It was Mom. “Dad fell,” she said. “Can you come over here and help get him up?”

I rushed to my
car
and over to their house. On the way, I thought: “How could you have done that? How could you have left him alone?”

I totally made a mistake by not staying with them or calling someone. Leaving them alone was dumb.

Dad didn’t break any bones when he fell, but I know it broke his spirit. He really never recovered from that fall. We got him up and he was able to walk a little bit. But that fall hurt his body way more than he let any of us know. He was weak. He was in pain. And he was never the same again.

Even when I think of that day now, it hurts my heart that I let it happen. I knew his time was short and that there wasn’t much chance he was ever getting better. But I wanted to keep him around as long as I could.

But when he hit the floor that day, it knocked most of the life out of him. I just wish I would have been there to catch him when he fell.

A few weeks later, in the middle of December, Dad’s condition had worsened. He didn’t have much energy. He didn’t do much, and he really wouldn’t say all that much.

I made another decision that I wish I hadn’t made. This was the last one. I went over that day like I always did, and when I got there, Dad was lying in his chair.

“You all right, Dad?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay, son.”

“Good,” I told him. “Because we got stuff we need to get done today. Get up. Get dressed. And let’s go do a little bit of shopping and get a good lunch at Stacey’s.”

Stacey’s is a neat little restaurant near our house that Dad loved going to. Everyone at Stacey’s treated Dad nice. They made him feel special.

“Let’s go,” I said. “Get up. It’ll be fun.”

Dad didn’t think that sounded like much fun, and he didn’t hesitate to let me know. “You just don’t get it, do you?” he said sharply. “How much I hurt, how much pain I’m in.”

I could barely breathe. “Aw, come on, Dad. We need to go get Mom her Christmas present. Let’s go see Santa.”

Dad didn’t laugh.

I was just trying to push him a little and encourage him. He didn’t like anything I was saying. For him, that was the last straw.

“You don’t even understand what I’m going through or how bad just lying here hurts,” he said. “Just leave me alone.”

It wasn’t a very merry Christmas for us that year. Dad just lay over there in his chair very much disconnected from all that was going on around him. We brought in a nurse to sit with Dad near the end. We explained to her about Dad’s day, how he could get up and come sit in his chair and she would need to help him do that. And when he needed to use the bathroom, the nurse would have to help him do that as well. We assumed Dad wasn’t paying any attention to anything we were saying. But as soon as we told the nurse she would have to help him go to the bathroom, he said: “And I pee a lot.”

He still had it.

That made us laugh that day, and it still does.

That was the middle of December 1999. Dad died on January 10, 2000. But really, he quit living on that day in December when I pushed him too hard. I had pushed him, all right, right over the edge. He was done fighting. I wish I hadn’t done that that day. It was just too much.

That January night before Dad died, I could tell the end was near. So I helped him out of his chair, walked him to his bed, and lay down with him. As we lay there, I prayed. I asked God to tell Dad I was sorry, sorry for making him feel like I was being unfair to him at the end.

I loved him so much. And all the years of us fighting his dreadful disease together were special for us. He trusted me and believed we could win this fight.

But we didn’t.

I’d been able to do so much for him—taking him to all the treatments, moving him and Mom, spending all that time together at the end, even going to Hawaii. Dad always told people how much he loved me and how much he appreciated all I had done for him and Mom. But as he lay there in my arms, struggling, taking his last breaths, I felt like I had let him down. I just closed my eyes and prayed he remembered the good times.

PHOTOGRAPHIC INSERT

FUTURE RACER:
How ’bout that hair and snazzy silk shirt on a twelve-year-old?
Courtesy of the Waltrip Family

MOMMA’S BOY:
With my mom, Margaret Jean Evans Waltrip, at home in Owensboro, Kentucky.
Courtesy of the Waltrip Family

Young Gun:
Pole winner in Indy, 1989.
Courtesy of the Waltrip Family

LUNCH WITH ROYALTY:
Me with King Richard, wife Lynda, and son Kyle Petty. Eating out of the back of a van.
RacingOne/ISC Archives/Getty Images

PROUD PARENTS:
Celebrating Mother’s Day with Leroy and Margaret.
Courtesy of the Waltrip Family

BIG WIN:
Buffy and me after the All-Star race, my first official victory—well, not really.
Dozier Mobley/Getty Images Sport/Getty Images

BAHAMA BOYS:
Me and Dale with Captain Terry (right) and mate after a good day fishing.
Courtesy of the Waltrip Family

BIG E:
The seven-time champion defined NASCAR and made me a winner.
Jamie Squire/Getty Images Sport/Getty Images

GOLFING BUDDIES:
Enjoying a beautiful day with my dad.
Courtesy of the Waltrip Family

ONE TO GO:
Just like Dale said it would be. Me, Dale Junior, and Dale, racing toward the perfect finish. We thought.
Bill Frakes/Sports Illustrated/Getty Images

VICTORY LANE:
After the Daytona 500, before I knew.
Jamie Squire/Getty Images Sport/Getty Images

ME AND HARLEY:
Holding NASCAR’s biggest prize, the Harley J. Earl trophy.
RacingOne/ISC Archives/Getty Images