Lucky That Way, a nuanced, richly engaging memoir, chronicles the joys and tribulations of a daughter who rediscovers her father as he nears the end of his life. Ernie Gerhardt, an artist and teacher, is largely estranged from his five children, but when he suffers a debilitating stroke, his daughter Pamela must fly to Las Vegas to tend to him. When she arrives to find Ernie newly and shockingly fragile, she is hit by an unexpected wave of tenderness. Pamela Gerhardt’s heartfelt story about a family coming to terms with their aging father’s illness and imminent death takes readers on an emotional roller coaster that highlights love, loss, humor, and sadness.
Q:
Why did you decide to write this book?
As the post-stroke journey was unfolding I kept
thinking about the emails and cell phone calls as my family tried to manage my
dad's care long distance. My siblings and I at the time, like many contemporary
families, were living in four different cities (St. Louis, MO; Columbia, SC;
Washington, DC; and Tampa, FL). Meanwhile, our father had a stroke out in
Arizona while on vacation. So logistically it was pretty crazy. And it felt
different from when my parents took care of their elderly parents, who lived in
the same town, a 5-minute drive away. My dad encouraged me to write it all
down. He too recognized the unique contemporary hurdles.
Also, I began to research literature and books
already out there on the subject of elderly care and end-of-life issues. I
found that the literature fell into two categories: one, how-to books that told you what kind of
questions to ask administrators of assisted living facilities or how to find
the best at-home caregiver; two, sentimental, very serious stories that perhaps
didn't accurately reflect the gritty, sloppy, and sometimes laugh-out-loud aspects
of elderly care. My dad was a very funny
man. We were flawed humans grappling with life’s greatest mystery--the final
stages of life. I believed many families and readers would benefit from a
different kind of story, different from the other books. I wanted to dig deep
and share my very personal story until I arrived at the universal. I think I
succeeded. The positive reader responses have been overwhelming.
At the end of the day so much more is at stake than
knowing the correct questions to ask the assisted living people.
Q:
What
was your family like as you were growing up?
The book highlights some of our funnier moments. My
dad would do stuff like plop the head of a GI Joe doll on top of a chicken as
he was dressing it for dinner. Both parents were very creative people. My mom
was involved in amateur theater and sang. My dad played several instruments and
painted and sang. He came from a long line of musicians and singers--so even
the grandparents and great uncles played banjos, mandolins, harmonicas and
accordions. My parents had a large group of friends who were musicians,
singers, photographers, and actors. So that part of growing up was very colorful.
At the same time, my dad could be difficult. As with many artists, he struggled
with his own demons at times. After my mom died 25 years ago, those demons took
on a more forceful role and hindered his relationships with his children. We
realized that my mom had probably been the glue that held it all together.
Q: Was it difficult to write about your father?
No. He had a big personality so it was easy to recall
his funnier moments and convey his rich personality. During the post-stroke
journey, under his encouragement, I literally wrote everything down and kept
copious notes. I knew I wanted to remember exactly what took place, to remember
the small details and moments that created the larger story. The only part that
was difficult was struggling to get it right. You want to be accurate and fair.
You want to be sure that your individual perception is not skewing the
information. We all go through that process of recalling family memories and
wondering if the story is right. It’s a little bit like several people witnessing
a car crash or some other event and they tell the police officer completely
different versions of the same story. Perception is a powerful thing. So I
tried hard to be fair and objective, to tell the truth--the real truth.
Q:
Is there anywhere that readers can go to see some of your father’s artwork?
I currently have a few photos of his paintings on my
website, pamelagerhardt.com. I plan to upload some more photos. Unfortunately,
all of the best paintings have been sold. So some of the best works are hanging
on the walls of strangers. I have asked some people if they would be interested
in selling the paintings back to the family. All of them say no. It’s
fascinating--the paintings are a part of their family story. People have told
me how they grew up staring at my father’s painting over their family room
fireplace. They have more right to the work, more memory attached to it, than
I. My dad worked quickly, and sold his paintings quickly. He had five children
to feed and clothe. I just completed an essay about this idea of bits of my
father on the walls of others and sent it to The Huffington Post. I’m waiting to hear from the editor.
Q:
What would your father think about the book?
Oh, boy. He would love it. Absolutely. He would love
the attention, and I hope he would find that I did him justice. His friends
have told me that he would have been very pleased.
Q:
What books or projects are you working on now?
I am writing essays. I just sent one to the The Huffington Post and one to The New York Times. My past work has been published frequently in
The Washington Post (you can find past articles and essays on my website). I
teach narrative nonfiction at The University of Maryland, an advanced writing
course for juniors and seniors, which I love.
In terms of book projects, throughout the stroke journey I became very
curious about why no one has ever written about the assisted living experience
from a first person perspective. Why are there no stories from the inside, from
people living it? So I’m very interested in putting together a Studs Terkel
type book (as in his book, Working)
where I interview people, transcribe their stories, and let them speak in
first-person. Showtime recently ran a documentary reality series called Time of Death. It was fabulous, but
brutal to watch, as it highlighted the final weeks, days, and hours of people
with terminal illnesses. I would be interested in hearing from people who are
not necessarily terminal, but approaching the final years. People who are in relatively good health but
know time is running out. What’s it like when you know, statistically, you have
only a short time left? Maybe we would be surprised. Maybe it’s not as horrible
as we fear. For several decades now
we’ve been obsessed with youth. At the same time, the advent of modern medicine
and ICUs cloak the end-of-life experience, hide it from the everyday. But
hospice, palliative care and the growing home-aide industry are ushering some
of that experience back into our living rooms. As a society we are slowly moving away from
Death Denial (an actual term). The Baby Boomers, a huge segment of the
population and a generation accustomed to self-reflection, might really benefit
from shared experiences as they face aging.