OCTOBER 2020
ONE DAY THERE IS something in Wolfie’s voice. Whether it is a change in his tone, a catch in his throat, or just my mother’s intuition, I hear it.
I don’t mention anything at first. I don’t want to, and I don’t know what to say.
I have a habit of blurting out whatever is on my mind, sometimes for the better and sometimes not, and this is one of those times when I don’t want to blow it. So I err on the side of biting my tongue.
A short time later, Wolfie calls me from outside Ed’s room at Saint John’s Hospital in Santa Monica.
“I don’t know how much longer we have,” he says.
My brother Patrick had said those exact same words to me about my mother. She lived another six months after he sounded that alarm.
This is a different situation. I know it. I hear it in Wolfie’s voice. He wouldn’t be telling me this if it wasn’t true—and it’s probably more dire than he lets on.
“Okay, I’ll be there,” I say.
Though Covid has complicated matters and robbed us of precious time together, being there for each other, one way or another, is what our lives have been about for much of the year. A few weeks earlier, Wolfie walked out of Ed’s hospital room looking for me. When I saw him in the hall, the look in his eyes said everything. I instinctively reached out and he crumbled into my arms. My six-foot little boy. I hugged him as tightly as I could. I don’t know where maternal strength comes from, but I was full of it and wanted to give him all of it.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this,” I said. “I’m sorry your dad is going through this. I’m sorry for all of us.”
Wolfie, his head buried in my shoulder, nodded.
“You’ve been so strong for so long,” I said. “You’re allowed to not be strong. You don’t have to be strong anymore.”
* * *
I make a promise to myself to be at the hospital every day. I feel unprepared, like this has snuck up on me. I can still hear Ed two years ago at Wolfie’s rehearsal casually mentioning that he has just been diagnosed with brain cancer. He was so nonchalant about it, like he was telling me about his latest new car. Later, I found out he had stage IV lung cancer, though I don’t recall Ed or Wolfie actually telling me the cancer had spread there, too. If they did, it didn’t register, which seems unlikely. I can’t believe I would hear “stage IV” and not get freaked out.
But I have watched Ed deal with cancer for twenty years. He has always said he was going to beat it, and I believed him. Each time it popped up, he swatted it away with the newest drugs and treatments. Ed beats everything. He gets stopped for drunk driving and they don’t take him to jail or even write him up. Why? Because he’s Eddie Van Halen. His talent has created a magic-carpet ride through life.
Not that he didn’t have hard times. His childhood was painful. When his parents moved from Indonesia to the Netherlands, Ed and Alex were subjected to racist slurs and teased as half-breeds because of their parents’ mixed ethnicity. After moving to Pasadena, they were extremely poor. They shared a house with other families. His mother worked as a maid, his dad as a janitor. Ed had tears in his eyes as he told me about their fake Christmas presents—boxes that were wrapped but empty, so when people came over to their house, they would think the Van Halens were just like any other family.
He had such a big sensitive heart and was a gentle old soul. It killed him that he hurt people. He was tortured knowing he had hurt me and disappointed his son in the past. In my 2008 book Losing It, I wrote to Ed in the acknowledgments: “You’re a good man, believe it. When you do, you’ll be free.” I didn’t want him to feel guilty anymore about things that had happened in the past. I had forgiven him. I wanted him to forgive himself.
When he finally got sober five years ago, he was able to let go and discover that he really was that good, kindhearted man I had described, and I think he thoroughly enjoyed taking a step back, exhaling, and knowing that he didn’t have anything more to prove to anyone, especially himself. He was free.
But definitely not finished. In mid-March, Ed had recovered from his back surgery and was set to return to Germany for more cancer treatments. My brother Patrick was going with him. Then Covid hit, flights to Europe were cancelled, and like the rest of us, Ed sheltered at home. We texted and FaceTimed over the summer. Between doctor appointments, he spent most of his time on his sofa watching TV. I wasn’t able to see the way his health was declining or how rapidly that was happening, and Ed didn’t mention anything to me when we spoke.
I wish I had asked more questions.
I wish I had called more often.
I wish I had just dropped by his house with dinner. Hey, whatcha doin’? Mind if I hang out on the sofa with you for a while?
I didn’t think it was any of my business.
The damn Covid. It was our Berlin Wall, the electrified fence in The Hunger Games, the sonar fence in Lost. It kept us from the everyday things that make life rich and meaningful—human contact, touch, kindness. I was reminded of being on a diet. The more we were deprived of these things, the more we craved them.
Neither Ed nor I ever had any thoughts of getting back together. But I always knew he had my back and he knew that I had his.
“Thinking of you,” I text him, along with a cat-hugging GIF.
No response.
A few days later . . .
“Morning, just checking in to see how you’re feeling,” I text.
“Terrible,” he responds. “I have a lump on my neck. Cancer sucks.”
“I’m sorry.”
“How are you? ❤❤❤”
“I think of you every day.”
“Thanks. This sucks.”
* * *
August 29, I text Ed: “40 years ago you were playing Shreveport, LA, and my life changed forever. ❤ I hope you’re doing well and feeling well.”
“40 years!!! That’s insane!! Changed mine too!!! Love you Val, hope you’re good.”
* * *
In September, Ed suffered a minor stroke. He was already in the hospital, so he received immediate medical care, which was the lone bright spot in a sky that was rapidly filling with dark clouds.
None of us were ready to concede the fight with cancer, but it was proving to be a relentless, tireless, and uncaring opponent. I felt hope dwindle, and though I did not want to admit it, and I kept these terrible feelings to myself, I began to let go of the expectation that there would always be a tomorrow. See you tomorrow. Talk to you tomorrow. Let’s get together next weekend. We should plan a dinner.
I focused all my energy instead on the present. I did not want to waste a moment. If I wasn’t with Ed, I was texting with Wolfie.
Our conversations were reduced to single key words.
Good.
Awake.
Comfortable.
Sleeping.
One day Ed struggles to say something. It’s afternoon, and Wolfie and I and the rest of the crew are with him. Ed has tried to speak several times since the stroke and we have not been able to understand him. This time, after several tries, Wolfie pulls Ed’s oxygen mask off, and asks, “What do you need?”
Ed smiles—his eyes focused and fixed on Wolfie’s—and with perfect clarity, he says, “Pizza, please.”
The room fills with laughter. Ed’s eyes shine. I don’t know whether he has cracked a joke or is hungry and wants a slice of pepperoni—one more for the road. He loves pizza. Either way, it warms my heart to know he is still with us.
* * *
Just after Wolfie informs me that time is running out, Ed’s doctor comes into his hospital room. Looking directly at Ed but making sure to also connect with Wolfie, he says there isn’t much more they can do for Ed. But if Ed wants, they can continue to try to fight. Without a moment’s delay, Ed manages to say, “Let’s keep fighting.”
For the next week and a half, Wolfie and I are together in Ed’s hospital room every day. We sit on either side of him and share stories, make sure he is comfortable, and tell him that we love him. Wolfie has one hand and I have the other. We try not to leave him alone, so if one or both of us aren’t there, Ed’s brother takes the shift. Janie is also there. Ed knows he is surrounded by the people closest to him and that he is extremely loved.
Wolfie and Ed share earbuds and listen to Wolfie’s album together. They have shared music since Wolfie was in diapers and Ed sat him on his lap while he played the piano or the guitar. Ed brightens when he hears “Think It Over,” his favorite track. It is the most pop-sounding song on the album; the lyrics are about regret and looking back on past mistakes. By this time, though, Ed has clearly thought things over, made his peace, and all that matters to him is being with his son. As they listen, they hold hands and savor every second they have with each other, just like they used to, just like always.
I spend Friday night sitting on the bed next to Ed. For a while, it is just the two of us. I hold his hand. I stroke his forehead. I smile into his eyes.
“Maybe next time, right?” I say.
Both of us are crying.
“Maybe next time we’ll get it right.”
* * *
We are like any other family in this situation. Time doesn’t stop as much as it ceases to matter. We know the sand in the hourglass is running low, and we don’t look. Our focus is the now. People talk about living in the moment. Nothing puts you in the moment and makes you appreciate what it means to live like watching someone you love die. It’s all I think about as I sit there. This is what matters. Love.
In the end, all the other stuff disappears. What’s left is love.
Only love is real.
The end comes in slow motion. On Saturday, we spend hours with him, taking turns holding his hands, stroking his arm, smiling into his eyes, and repeating the only thing that matters, “I love you.” We make sure that he is comfortable. I feel my heart breaking and wonder how that can be when it is so full of love. Maybe it is too full and threatening to burst.
At night, Ed keeps looking off into the corner. He sees someone, and it seems as if he hears them, too. His face is light, calm, interested, and attentive. I see him smile. It is clear to me that someone is welcoming him, assuring him that he is going to be okay, giving him peace, and I want to know who is there.
But another part of me doesn’t want to acknowledge that this is happening. We are still fighting, still hoping. Then Ed lets us know that he is very tired. Wolfie and I get up and gather our stuff. I kiss Ed’s forehead.
“Sleep well,” I say.
“I’m so tired, I just can’t sleep,” he says.
“Try,” I say. “I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I love you, too,” he says.
He says the same thing to Wolfie. “I love you.”
Later that night, after all of us have left, Ed suffers another stroke. When Alex shows up in the morning, he can’t wake Ed. He calls Wolfie, and says, “I’ve been trying to wake your dad for a half hour and haven’t been able to.” Wolfie calls me, and we race to the hospital. We get to his room a few minutes before Ed is wheeled back in after being given a brain scan. His doctor follows and shows us the scans. We can see the damage without needing an explanation. It is devastating.
“Listen, I know we said we were going to fight, and Ed wanted to fight, but I don’t know if we can ever get him awake again,” the doctor says. “What we can do, though, is make him really comfortable.”
And that’s what they do.
* * *
He hangs on through Monday. On Tuesday morning Wolfie calls and tells me that Ed’s breathing has changed and that I have to get to the hospital ASAP.
Defying speed limits, I race across the city, making the thirty-minute drive in half the time. At the hospital, though, I can’t find a parking space. A typical LA problem. I am on the phone with Wolfie, who is telling me to hurry. I spot a man walking to his car. Score! But he is followed by a very pregnant wife and a toddler who does not cooperate as they try to put him in his car seat. I have been there, but can’t they hurry?
“It’s taking them forever,” I tell Wolfie.
After five minutes (it felt like an hour), I finally pull into the spot and sprint into the hospital. I forget to look if I need to feed a meter or am in a ten-minute zone. I don’t care. Let them ticket me or tow the car. Inside the hospital, I stop at the lobby desk and go through the Covid routine I know too well. My temperature is taken; I am handed a new mask; I have to wait for a pass.
“Please hurry,” I say. “He’s dying.”
Because they’ve seen people dealing with this before, the hospital staff understands why I am in a panic and apologizes. I run across the lobby and catch the first elevator to open. I push the fourth-floor button. At the last second, a woman steps in and pushes two. My patience has never been taxed more. The extra few seconds seem like an eternity. Why couldn’t she have taken the stairs? I think. Why didn’t I sprint up the stairs? It’s a lesson, I tell myself. Right? It’s a lesson. When I finally get to Ed’s room, Wolfie is holding his hand. Alex is at the foot of the bed with his son, Malcolm. I pull up a chair and hold Ed’s other hand. At some point, Alex’s other son, Aric, arrives. So does Janie.
I can see the change in Ed. I have a sense that he has waited for all of us. We tell him that we love him.
“I love you” are the last words Ed says to Wolfie and me, and they are the last words we say to him before he stops breathing. Soon after, a doctor comes in, takes his pulse, and calls the time of death. It’s a little after ten o’clock in the morning.
After the doctor leaves the room, none of us moves or speaks. The weight of the moment leaves all of us still, frozen in time, motionless. After about twenty minutes, Janie says she wants to be with her family and leaves. The rest of us stay. I lose track of time until the door opens. A chaplain peeks in and asks if we would like some rosaries. She returns a few moments later, hands out the rosaries, and says a blessing. More time passes. None of us has a desire to leave Ed. Not now. Not ever. We are family. We tell stories about Ed and the Van Halen family. Alex remembers Indonesian words that used to make them laugh as kids. We share stories about Ed’s sense of humor. Suddenly, all of us are cracking up. It’s bizarre. I would never have imagined sitting in that hospital room hours after Ed has died and laughing as hard or as much, but that is what happens. We laugh—and it is so much better than crying, which we also do a fair amount of the time.
At some point, someone asks if anyone feels like pizza.
“I think Ed would want that,” Alex says.
Everyone agrees. Grinning, Alex takes out his cell phone and orders three large pepperoni from a local pizza restaurant. It seems so weird and so right and so Ed.
* * *
I am numb. In the middle of the night, I wake up sick to my stomach and run to the bathroom. I feel like I am regurgitating the whole year. I haven’t thrown up in decades. I go back to bed and sleep late into the morning. Late that afternoon, I drive to Wolfie’s house and make him and Andraia dinner—franks and beans, a childhood favorite. Comfort food.
Patrick comes over to offer support. After dinner, we look through several family photo albums that I brought over. My dad put them together years ago. Prompted by the pictures, we trade memories and stories as if we were playing cards and trying to top one another with more tears and more laughter. Where is Ed? Why is he missing this? Maybe he isn’t. We can feel him in the room. It inspires Wolfie.
“Ma, I want to finish ‘Distance’ and release it for Dad,” he says.
“That’s perfect,” I say, then I start to cry. I can’t help it. The tears gush out of me. “It’s really perfect.”
A few days later, Patrick and I are at Wolfie’s house again, watching old family Super 8 movies that he and our friend Dave had converted a while back into DVDs. There’s one of the three of us—Ed, Wolfie, and I—at the beach when Wolfie was about three years old. It is pure joy. We watch it over and over. Faith Ford was the one who took that video, I recall; then, as we are rewatching it, Faith calls from her home in Louisiana to express her condolences.
“Are you kidding me?” Wolfie says when I tell him who is on the phone.
“I know, right?” I say.
Now I am sure Ed is there with us.
I don’t remember how we go from watching these videos and looking at family photos to talking about how these should be compiled and edited into the video for “Distance,” but all of us agree that there is no more fitting way to illustrate Wolfie’s beautiful song. Ed’s music touched so many people and was and remains such an important part of their lives that it feels right to share this very personal part of his and our lives with Wolfie’s song.
We talk about it and agree that it can serve as a reminder that love is the best part of us and that we should cherish it.
I know my heart is full of love as we watch these videos.
It is floating on an ocean of tears.
It is full.
And it is afloat.
My thoughts keep going back to Ed in the hospital room, as if I am trying to understand and process what happened even though I know what did. But I do have a new insight. As I sat there holding Ed’s hand, crying as he left his physical body, the love we shared stayed with me, and still does, and always will.
Wolfie decides to not only release “Distance” but also include the song on his album. “Now it feels right,” he says.
He plays it for us and we cry.
A life without you, I’m not ready to move on
No matter what the distance is I will be with you
No matter what the distance is you’ll be okay