#david choate

[getoutofthisplace]

Dear Gus & Magnus,

I didn't take a picture today, but here's one from this day 16 years ago. I had been laid off from Alltel for a few months and I was waiting on a court date for my divorce. I was lost and eager for a reset, though I wasn't sure how to get one.

I drank a lot during that time, and I had a habit of drinking too much and calling my dad in the middle of the night -- I'm still emotionally unpacking why I did that. But mostly I know it was a reaction to feeling like a failure. Like I could never live up to the standards he had set for me. He didn't want me to get a divorce, he didn't like that I wasn't working. He didn't like that I had spent that day in search of an inkpad so that I could get Kaia's paw tattooed on my chest.

He made me dinner that night, and -- looking back -- I recognize his behavior that night (and most times) as the best way he knew how to help me get control of my life. He loved me, but he wasn't emotionally equipped to help me handle that kind of thing. And that's okay.

I miss him. And -- as always -- I wish he could see me now. I wish he could have gotten to know you two and Mom. I know he would have been extremely proud of what I've accomplished at this point. (And also shocked, because he thought I was a train wreck waiting to happen.)

Dad.

Judsonia, Arkansas. 7.30.2009 - 7.54pm.

[getoutofthisplace]

Dear Gus & Magnus,

The only picture I took today featured a naked, post-bath Magnus hiding from me under his crib, and as a favor to him I decided not to post it to the Internet, so instead I dug into the archives and found this one from a decade ago.

Dad had had his stroke less than a month earlier and was in rehab -- and I think Papou was in the same rehab at the same time, but I didn't know him yet because Mom was just my really attractive coworker at the time and nothing more. I still thought of my dad as the dad I had always known back then. Over the next three and a half years, of course, he would become a different version of himself; a version that lacked the consistently sharp and cynical wit I had loved (and that you probably sometimes see in me).

A rehab staffer got onto me that day for taking a picture of my dad, which irritated me, so I started taking pictures of Dad's reflection in the window. Music therapy was his favorite thing in rehab. He would bob his head and pretend to play his invisible bass guitar along with the dude playing the acoustic.

Dad.

Little Rock, Arkansas. 11.30.2013 - 10.54am.

[getoutofthisplace]

Dear Gus & Magnus,

I dropped Gus at school this morning, then drove by myself to Kansas City for a video shoot, but I didn't take any photos other than of my meals. So I dove into the archives to see what I was doing on this day in previous years.

This one's from seven years ago. That's Mom and Papa working out in the gym at the Courtyard Marriott in Jackson. We were on our way to Orange Beach, Alabama for a week or so. Here's a photo I posted from later in the day, after we made it to the beach.

Now that I am in my 40s and I'm spending so much time in hotels, it's funny for me to think about my father going to a hotel gym. I suppose he had his health goals then similar to how I have mine now. After he died, I eventually inherited a lot of his shorts and athletic shirts. In fact, I'm fairly certain that I now routinely wear the clothes he's wearing in this photo. Weird. (Also weird that they fit me.)

Dad.

Jackson, Mississippi. 6.20.2015 - 8.04am.

[getoutofthisplace]

Dear Gus & Magnus,

I didn't take a photo today, so I dug through my archives for something to share and found screenshots from a text message from my dad sent on this day six years ago. He'd found out his cancer had come back (after saying there was a 99% chance it wouldn't) and he was supposed to have surgery to remove it -- that's what he means when he says he hopes to be recovered enough to make it Friday and Saturday, which would be Mom and my rehearsal dinner and wedding. His text was in response to a letter I had delivered to him at the hospital during one of my visits. The letter was everything I would regret not telling him if he died that day. A letter I started writing in the hospital waiting room back when he had his stroke three years earlier.

I was so nervous about him reading it that when he responded via text, I don't think I processed his words at the time, even though I knew I would find them important later, so I screenshot them. And then I kind of forgot.

The doctor ended up pushing the surgery until after the wedding so he could be there. That Monday we went in for the surgery and the doctor had read an article over the weekend about how some brain cancers spread along the spine, so he decided to do a last-minute scan. Sure enough, Dad's cancer had spread all the way down his spine. Some of the tumors had even grown completely around his spine. When they grew, they would eventually pinch his spinal cord. I went into the consultation room with him right after he'd found out. He cried and we held each other and I think we both accepted that this would kill him.

He lasted nearly an entire year, but it was not a good year. He got progressively worse, physically and mentally. At one point he sincerely asked me to put him out of his misery. By the time he died, we were all ready.

I miss him. And I'm glad I found these messages because they mean more today than they did back in 2016. I inherited a portion of the farm he talks about. The only way I could get it -- long story -- was to sell it, which I felt guilty about, but circumstances were...not as Dad said they would be, and I've mostly let my anger about that go.

My biggest regret is that I wish he could have met you two and I could have experienced what he talks about in his message -- having my dad in one room and my sons in the other.

Dad.

3.27.2016 - 4.36pm.

[getoutofthisplace]

Dear Gus,

Four years ago, I drove to Papa’s house to help in whatever way I could. The house had burned down the night before and nearly killed him in the process. I took this picture as I pulled in through the gate. That’s Papa walking toward me on the left side of the driveway. When I got parallel to him, I stopped the truck and got out. He collapsed into tears and fell into my arms. He was so tired of feeling like the world was out to get him–via stroke, cancer, and housefire. 

We sifted through the ashes to try and find something to salvage, but it was no use. And then the smoldering ashes caught what was left of the house on fire and the fire department had to come back. It was all so devastating.

Dad

Judsonia, Arkansas. 12.7.2014 - 11.55am.

[getoutofthisplace]

Dear Gus,

On this day eight years ago, I drove up from New Orleans and the Nicks drove over from Memphis to celebrate Papa’s birthday. Cowboy Steve’s band played music in the barn and Who Dat’s catered. A lot of Papa’s neighbors and coworkers came, and he liked carrying Caroline--his only grandchild at the time--around with him.

Dad

Judsonia, Arkansas. 11.6.2010 - 8.25pm.

[getoutofthisplace]

Dear Gus,

I took this photo eight years ago. A lot of things have happened in the time between then and now. I hadn’t specifically meant to get Papa in the photo, but there he is, sticking out more now that he’s gone than he did on the day I captured this moment. Eight years ago was before he’d had the initial stroke that kicked off a series of events that led to his death. And that house is gone--burned to the ground and taking everything else in this photo with it. The sofa, the refrigerator, the play crib against the cabinets. All gone. 

At the time, I would’ve bet Abbey the dog would’ve been the first thing in this photo to leave the world, but instead, she is the only thing still here. The photo is much more uplifting when you think of it as supplemental documentation of the resiliency and survival of a dog who has fought bravely against coyotes and raccoons until she lay mangled on the doorstep. But she’s always recovered. She is still here.

Dad

North Little Rock, Arkansas. 4.25.2010 - 1.17pm

[getoutofthisplace]

Dear Gus,

I went and had a talk with Papa today for the first time since he died. I spoke out loud, to his headstone, as if it were him. I don’t think he could hear me—I don’t believe in an afterlife—but sometimes it’s good to voice things, to put them out into the air so you can hear what it sounds like, even if no one else can.

Dad

North Little Rock, Arkansas. 12.29.2017 - 12.03pm.