My Life, My Fight Page 4

  By the next morning, the older siblings were starting to worry that Val wouldn’t make it back in time. Dad had gotten worse, to the point where we had to keep sponging his mouth because he couldn’t swallow. Every kid thinks their parents are invincible, especially their dad. We were the same, except our dad was 6′11″, huge and strong, so we had even more reason to believe that he couldn’t die. Seeing him so helpless and unable to fight off whatever was killing him was almost too much for me. I couldn’t even comprehend that my big, strong, grumpy dad was lying helpless in a bed. It didn’t make any sense. He could do anything—and now he couldn’t even breathe on his own.

  Having all of our older siblings there was a good distraction. People were coming in and out of the hospital room all day. Someone would go on a food run and I’d tag along. Or we’d go outside with the cousins and run around for a bit. But any time one of us went back into the room and saw Dad, it hit us again. We’d have a cry together and then someone would crack a joke and we’d be laughing but still kind of crying. I started spending more and more time out in the waiting area just to avoid seeing Dad so frail. Back in the room we would over-analyze every little noise or twitch he made. Was he trying to smile? Was he trying to tell us something?

  Val was due to arrive in Auckland that afternoon and was going to race down to Rotorua, a three-hour drive away. We all kept telling Dad to hold on just a little longer because Val was the last one to come. If he could just hold on, he could go surrounded by all his kids.

  Val arrived at 8 p.m. We let her have some time alone with Dad before all 14 of us joined her around his bed. The doctors had already told us that he would go that night, so even though he was in intensive care, where there are strict visiting hours, we were allowed to be there all day and into the night. Hospital rooms are tiny, so having all 14 of us in there, plus my siblings’ kids, meant we were all squashed up. Then we waited.

  Every few moments someone would tell a story about Dad or crack a joke that would have us all giggling, but mostly we just watched and waited. I never thought I’d ever want my dad to die, but after seeing him struggling so much those last few days, I just wanted him to be at peace. It’s weird to stand there and wait for heartbreak. I’d never taken a second in my life to consider what I would do if Dad died and suddenly there I was, waiting for Dad to die. And, of course, being Dad, he had to make it dramatic.

  All of us had our eyes glued to his massive chest as it would slowly rise and fall with each breath. After about an hour, he took a really long breath and his chest puffed out real big, and then it stopped. I heard someone sob and I thought that was it, he was gone. But then a second later he breathed out and his chest deflated. We were all coming back from that moment when we noticed his chest hadn’t risen again, and the emotions came out again. And then he breathed again! Honestly, it was like he was playing one last game with us.

  He did that a few more times before some of the older brothers grumbled that he was just pissing around now, which made us all laugh. They had a point. Here we were trying to prepare for the worst moment of our lives and it was like Dad couldn’t make up his mind whether to stay or go. Then it messed with us because we started to think that maybe those long breaths meant he was fighting through it. Maybe he was the one in a million who beats the odds.

  It must’ve sounded ridiculous to all the nurses and anyone else in the ward. It was ten o’clock at night and this massive family was crying and then laughing and then crying and laughing again. I don’t know if it’s a brown thing, but if you’re not laughing at the hospital, no matter what the situation, you’re doing it wrong.

  When it finally happened, it was somehow a surprise and a relief at the same time. We all broke down. Someone, or maybe more than one person, started screaming. The nurses came by with tissues and words of comfort. When someone came in to check he had really passed, everyone except for Viv had to leave the room. That’s when we knew he was really gone.

  We’d been crying for weeks but Dad had always been sick, so it was easy to believe that the sickness would never beat him. We thought that we’d grow up and have to look after him, like we were supposed to. When I think back now, it’s amazing he lived so long with all the health issues he had. I like to think he fought until his youngest kids were all in their teens and could maybe look out for themselves.

  He pushed us out as far as he could before resting, and I’ll always be thankful for that.

  Dad took his final breath at 10:56 p.m. on 2 May 2007. It was a Wednesday.

  3.

  THE FUNERAL

  Every culture does funerals differently. Some are pretty boring if I’m honest, and usually start and finish on the day of the service. Dad was white, but none of his kids were. So instead of trying to decide between a Tongan, Māori, or Tokelauan funeral, we just made up our own version.

  When we walked back into the house after leaving the hospital there was still a space cleared in the lounge for Dad’s hospital bed. We designated that spot to be where he would rest until the burial. I guess he was still coming home that week after all, just not how we thought.

  Things got hectic trying to prepare the house for the service. I don’t know who made the decision to hold the funeral in our lounge, but it made sense. Dad was never religious and would have hated a church service. The lounge was his church.

  Sid, Gabby, Lisa, and I just did what we were told—cleaning our rooms or going with someone older to pick up mattresses for everyone to sleep on. The boys’ room and girls’ room suddenly had to accommodate a lot more boys and girls. I don’t think anyone slept in Dad’s room, that would have been too weird.

  When Dad came home early the next morning, none of us had slept. I’d never stayed awake that long in my life, but I didn’t want to sleep in case I missed something. I didn’t want to waste any of the last moments I’d have with Dad. In Tongan, Māori, and most Pacific cultures, the custom is to have your loved one rest at home before the burial. Each culture does it slightly differently, but the one thing they all have in common is the belief that the loved one should never be alone. None of us were ready to leave Dad’s side anyway, so we covered the floor of the lounge with mattresses and people could get some sleep while they were with him. He was home and in his favorite spot surrounded by his kids.

  As word got out that Sid Adams had passed away, people started dropping in to pay their respects. I had always known Dad to be quite standoffish with anyone who wasn’t family, so I didn’t think he had many friends. But he obviously had made an impression on everyone he met because it seemed like the whole town passed through our house to say goodbye. Extended family, school groups, workers at the timber yard, basketball people, even those who owned the dairy and the liquor store down the road came through.

  It was almost exciting to see all these people who knew Dad and had stories about him from before we were born. Everyone knew our house was Sid Adams’s house, so even if you were just driving past you probably could figure out what had happened. So many people passed through that we were all too busy making sure everyone was welcomed and fed to process our own loss just yet. But whenever there was a quiet moment without visitors, when it was just us and Dad, that’s when it would start to sink in.

  We sat on those mattresses next to Dad and talked for hours, sharing stories about him and how different he was for each of us. My oldest brothers talked about how he was so much tougher on them when they were young. Dad was too old to be handing out any hidings by the time I came along, but I would have preferred a couple of smacks over what I got instead, which was the disappointed voice. That would knock me out for days. I can handle the physical stuff, no sweat. It’s the thought of letting people down that gets me stressed out.

  It’s a shame that it took Dad’s death to bring all of us together again, because having everyone there supporting each other made all the difference. I didn’t do much in the days after Dad died—just hung around the house watching all these people I didn’t kno
w come to say hello and goodbye to the old man.

  On the day of the funeral we dressed up flash and cleaned up the lounge for the service. We mostly held it so that we could say our own goodbyes, forgetting how popular Dad was. People kept showing up until the lounge was packed, so we opened the doors out to the front yard. Then that filled up and people ended up down the driveway and having to stand on the footpath outside our gate. No one outside of the lounge would have been able to hear anything, but they didn’t seem to mind. All that mattered was that they were there. We could hardly believe it.

  The service was short, which was good since Dad looked a little bit cramped in his coffin. He might have lost a lot of weight before he died, but he was still a massive guy. An extra-long coffin had to be custom-made for him, but it was a tiny bit narrow so he looked like he was hunched into it. A snug coffin seemed strangely fitting for a guy who had always been larger than life.

  When it was time to put the lid on the coffin, it really hit Val hard. None of us were ready to see Dad for the last time, but Val jumped forward and put her arm across him, stopping whoever was about to close the coffin. Ralph, Warren, and Rob (who are all over 6′9″) rushed to comfort her but ended up fighting to restrain her. Gabby and I were watching, wondering why Val hated the coffin lid guy so much, and why she suddenly decided to fight three brothers at once. I wasn’t old enough to see it for the show of grief that it was.

  No one else dared get involved. If any of us had accidentally walked into one of Val’s swinging arms, we would’ve been out for the count, no doubt about it. In fact, if it weren’t for my three older brothers, I reckon Val could’ve taken on all of us that day, Royal Rumble style. Instead, Ralph, Warren, and Rob managed to subdue her, the lid was placed over the coffin, and I saw my dad and best friend for the last time.

  At the burial we formed a circle around Dad’s grave as he was being lowered into the ground. Next to the grave was a pile of flowers and wreaths that had been left by mourners at the service. We all grabbed some flowers and said our goodbyes as we threw them onto the lowered coffin. It was silent and emotional, and everyone was crying until we heard a loud thud that sounded as though Dad was knocking from inside the coffin. We all jumped, only to see that Sid had thrown in an entire pot plant. It was so random and dumb that we all cracked up. To anyone standing further away, it probably looked like we were huddled together sobbing, but really we were all laughing at Sid. Those random moments didn’t seem like much at the time, but I now see they kept me going on the worst day of my life.

  Afterwards, the house suddenly felt too big. The lounge had way too much space in it and, even though it was still full of mattresses and people, it felt weirdly quiet. In the years to come I slowly came to understand that the emptiness I felt was grief and the loneliness of living without Dad.

  Things had moved fast when Dad got sick, but everything suddenly slowed down after his burial. The older siblings had to get back to their jobs and families, so the fantastic four were back to being the only ones at home. I didn’t think all my siblings would be sticking around, and they had only been at the house for a few days, but I’d already gotten used to having a crowded house. Suddenly, the four of us in a three-bedroom home seemed like not nearly enough people.

  Mum was still around, and I recall her being at the funeral, but for some reason when I remember that time, she’s not really in the picture. I imagine it must have been hard for her to come back and immediately be the sole parent of four kids she hadn’t seen in half a decade, but she got no sympathy from us. As far as we were concerned, she’d only come back to her kids because she had to, and she was only sticking around out of obligation. Instead of being the parent we had in Dad, she felt more like a flatmate who we barely saw.

  Everyone was telling me to go back to school, but to me school seemed pointless. The only reason I went to school before was because Dad would have told me off if I didn’t. Now that Dad was gone, there was nothing stopping me from just staying home. I don’t think I’m unique. Most 13-year-olds, even the ones who are good at school, wouldn’t necessarily go if there was no one forcing them to.

  So instead I stayed home and played video games. And, without meaning to brag, I got pretty good. If it’s true that it takes 10,000 hours of practice to be an expert at something, I was definitely on my way to becoming an expert gamer. Some kids who lose a parent might get sent to grief counseling. I just played video games. I don’t know if it actually worked, but it did stop me from thinking about Dad every second of every day. Sometimes Viv would stop by the house and see me there during the day. She’d tell me off and send me on my way, but then she’d have to go to work and I would just walk back home.

  I didn’t go back to stay with Mohi and Matewai on the farm after the funeral. Instead, my eldest brother, Barry, started coming by the house and keeping an eye on me. Barry worked as a truck driver and would take me on a few jobs with him in his truck. It was good to get out of the house for a while, but I didn’t enjoy it as much as I did farming.

  What I didn’t know at the time is that Mohi and Matewai were looking into legally adopting me and having me live with them on the farm. I think if they’d given me that option, I would have jumped at it because home wasn’t what it used to be.

  Sid was 18 and off working full-time trying to pay the bills, Lisa had a boyfriend so was always busy, and Gabby was clashing a lot with Mum so had gone to stay with Viv. I wasn’t old enough to be completely independent but still old enough that people didn’t feel they had to babysit me. So I just existed in the house by myself.

  When I think back I realize that I was actually very lonely and, if I’m honest, probably a little depressed. No one had told us how to cope with grief. We didn’t see a counselor or go to any therapy sessions. After a while, Gabby, Lisa, and I would sometimes talk about Dad and tell stories about him or say how much we missed him. But Sid was tough; you couldn’t talk about your feelings with him because he had other worries, like bringing in money to feed everyone.

  In the summer after Dad died, Mum got me a job at a kiwifruit packing company. They weren’t supposed to hire anyone under the age of 16, but because I was so tall I guess no questions were asked. It was only a weekend job, but it was my first ever paid work and I took it seriously.

  Mum and I would drive there before sunrise and I’d spend 12 hours packing kiwifruit into boxes. It was super boring, but it was a job and I liked to do it well. At the end of the weekend $213 would be transferred into my bank account, a small fortune for a 13-year-old who never got more than a $2.50 allowance.

  As soon as I got paid I’d rush to the ATM and take out $20 and spend it all on fish and chips. In Rotorua in 2007 you could get a lot of fish and chips for 20 bucks. I’d grab a couple of the neighborhood boys who I would sometimes run around with and we’d eat the feast together. It was the first time in my life I was able to provide food for myself and for someone else, and I loved how it felt.

  I decided then that I’d make sure I could take care of myself as soon as possible.

  4.

  A SECOND CHANCE

  You could say my NBA career plan started at a Christmas family barbecue in Rotorua when I was 13 years old. We had gone to Viv’s place for a feed and Warren was up from Wellington. He asked how everyone was doing and we all mumbled that we were doing fine. He asked if I was still playing basketball and I said, “Yeah, kinda.” He was looking me up and down, noticing for the first time how tall I’d grown.

  “You want to play basketball seriously?” he asked. I had never even thought about it. My plan was still to become a farmer. But even though I didn’t pay any attention to the NBA, or even local basketball, I knew that professional basketball players got paid a lot of money. And if there was one thing that was going to motivate me to pursue a career in something it would be the money, because not having enough was the cause of all the arguments I’d heard between my dad and siblings. I nodded to Warren, deciding on the spot that since
I wasn’t doing much else, I could probably handle going to basketball practice a bit more. He just nodded back and carried on eating. It wasn’t a big revelation or discussion, nothing ever is in our family, but it set the wheels in motion.

  I started going to basketball practice even though I still wasn’t going to school. Doug Courtney, the Rotorua rep team coach, found some adidas shoes at a flea market that were size 16 and gave them to me. They were pretty much my only pair of shoes so I wore them everywhere—to trainings, school if I decided to go a couple of days, even on the farm.

  Doug told me that I should go down to Wellington for a basketball trial. It was for some rep team that he was coaching, but once again I didn’t really pay much attention beyond the fact that I was going to Wellington, a place I’d never been before.

  When you’re a kid you’re supposed to do whatever adults tell you to do. The adult in my life was my dad, and once he was gone I wasn’t sure if that meant I should be making my own decisions now. I decided that for the time being I’d listen to the adults around me, so when Doug Courtney said there was a basketball camp in Wellington and he’d take me, the only option was to say yes.

  Well, the camp sucked. Actually, no, the camp didn’t suck. Everyone there, from the coaches to the players to the management, was really good. I was the only one who sucked. I might have been tall, but that was about it. For the first time I had to train with other guys who were nearly the same height as me, but they had been training regularly for years. That weekend I got yelled at more than I’d been yelled at my entire life. Coaches were shouting out drills, which somehow everyone knew how to do except me. The other players were yelling at me, trying to tell me where to stand for every play.