Jesse’s Story

Emma, Jesse, and Sierra, from a portfolio of Jesse’s high school graduation photos.

My son Jesse is one of the sweetest and most generous men I know. His sparkling blue eyes under beautiful bushy eyebrows. His goofy gleeful chortle that erupts effortlessly. He’s an excellent musician, a badass bass player. He’s good with his hands and wonderfully creative. When he was in high school, he made his electric bass from a kit. An inventive chef, Jesse is able to concoct something delicious and original from any array of ingredients. But also, for much of his adult life, he’s struggled with bipolarism and depression and, as an at least partial consequence, alcoholism.

After high school, Jesse tried college at our request, but his mind never fit the mold that school demands. He returned to Iowa City, lived in a farmhouse near Lone Tree with friends, delivered pizza for The Wedge, and decided to become a chef. In the fall of 2006, he enrolled in a culinary school in New York City and found an apartment on St. Nicholas Avenue in Sugar Hill, across the street from where Sierra was living. He’d bring home whatever leftovers he could scavenge from his classes to share with his brother. Roast duck, pork roulade, spinach quiche, berry torte.

Jesse styling at the farmhouse near Lone Tree.

Each student was expected to have a job in the industry as a kind of internship. Jesse became a sous chef at The Fatty Crab, a popular Asian fusion restaurant in Manhattan’s Meatpacking District. On a trip to New York, Pat and I ate dinner there, Jesse bringing out mysterious little bites of food he made especially for us. Deciding he’d already found a good chef job, he dropped out of culinary school. When he came back to Iowa City in April 2009 after Pat’s first surgery, we realized the extent to which he’d been scuffling, drifting from job to job, squatting in a sketchy Brooklyn warehouse. We also began to notice his unhealthy relationship with alcohol.

He was hired as a sous chef at Leaf Kitchen, a job he came to love, and kindled a romantic relationship with Emily, a high school friend and waitperson at Leaf. But his drinking became more and more of a problem. Over the next six or seven years, Jesse’s life became the far-too-common nightmare of many alcoholics. Years of denial. A first OWI in 2010, a second in 2014. When he began to see a psychiatrist, we came to realize that depression and bipolarism were a part of his life. She prescribed antidepressants and mood stabilizers for Jesse, but he hated that they made him feel dull and drowsy. We finally got him to try rehab, which gave him tools to help address his condition, but he relapsed almost immediately.[1]

Jesse moved back in with us, which proved to be an untenable situation. While Pat struggled with her health, going through a second, third, and fourth surgery, she worried mightily about her youngest child. She saw his alcoholism as her failure as a parent, which did nothing to help their relationship. The tension in our household became toxic. We eventually helped Jesse locate and move into a small apartment at the end of Washington Street – best for us all.

He continued to flounder, but he also met a next-door neighbor, Lilia, who would become his soulmate. A German woman working as a postdoctoral research scientist at the university, Lilia could see all the goodness in him, and was strong enough to face his alcoholism without backing down or running away. When she moved to Manhattan in 2016 to continue her postdoc work at the Weill Cornell Medical College, Jesse soon joined her. Lilia set strict rules for cohabitation, but he still slipped off the wagon. His love for her spurred him to locate a good rehab program in the Boston area, and Lilia covered the cost by adding him to her health insurance as her domestic partner. After Jesse finished the first month of the program, he continued his treatments at Recovery Unplugged in Austin, thinking it would offer a good fit because it incorporated music-making into the rehab process.

After graduating from Recovery Unplugged, Jesse stayed in Austin, finding an apartment with a friend he met in the program. Lilia had returned to Germany by then, but they began making plans for him to move there so they could get married. In May 2019, as those plans were beginning to firm up, he got his third DUI. He served jail time, and the Texas penal system sank its claws in him. Five years parole. The rent for the ankle bracelet and subsequent electronic monitoring devices he was required to wear ran over $500 a month. Nearly two years ago, unable to cover his share of the rent, Jesse was asked to move out of the apartment, and he joined Austin’s unhoused community.

Jesse’s camp in 2022. His caption: “I’m exactly Where I’m At.”

I offered to help, but Jesse mostly passed on that offer, believing he needed to face the consequences of his actions. I always tried to remind him I was there for him. For various reasons, news from my son could be sporadic. He had a hard time hanging on to a cell phone. But these last three months, thanks to public library computers, we’ve been corresponding fairly regularly via email. Here’s his part of that conversation:

10/31/23

I’m struggling like Chaka Khan. Tell me something good.

All that’s left in the fields are cornflowers. They don’t fit behind my ear. How to impress the girls. Weave a wreath with prairie grass.

Ever dug a pit in a road bed? Pretty sure it doesn’t take seven guys.

I want municipal funds for a Christmas goose – on my bucket list for a long time. Now I can’t stop thinking about it. Blood and vinegar.

Homeless in Austin. Yesterday on the bus, some guy said, “Hey, I remember you.” I once gave him my shoes. Went home barefoot.

Need to remind myself to be that person.

update of sorts (11/28/23)

So, I’ve been busy in odd ways. Been hanging out at the Friends meeting house here. Participated in their business meeting and made editorial changes to the letter they were submitting to government officials – senators and such.

Can’t remember if I told you this, but I took on a boarder/companion named Mayra. She saw the world as out to get her, and I’ve tried to show her that there are good people and good things. It seems to me that the message is sinking in. I thank Max[2] for the tent and the rest. I’m able to give her and myself a safe space.

I attended a forum on city planning about cyclists and pedestrians and how to make them more safe. Also about diverting the city’s money from the highway and more towards infrastructure. I said my peace/piece and they thanked me for it.

Weather is getting colder. I send my love and wish you well.

–J

learning from history (12/8/23)

I’m going through a more difficult time right now, and it has caused me to remember our history. Remembering the struggles that you and Mama had trying to raise three children with not much for financial means. But we had friends. Those are means.

I give great thanks to all the people who helped us and me. I’m trying to do as much as I can to help my friends. But I’m having trouble parsing my own needs with theirs. I am recognizing that their problems are interfering with my own well-being, but I have trouble letting go.

I woke up today wanting to go tell all of them to go fuck themselves. I don’t want to feel that way, but it’s hard.

If you have any advice, I could use it right now.

Love you,

–J

12/10/23

Thank you, Papa. I’ve been feeling the same way. I’ve just been having trouble relaying it to my compatriots. I’ve been trying, but I’ve chosen to give up on them and leave them to their own devices. I’ve helped a lot of people at a sacrifice to myself. It is time to take another route.

Keep being a baller-ass father, and I’ll keep loving you and passing on all the good things that you have taught me.

I’m having trouble with my boarder. I’m reminded of a punk band’s album entitled “Everything Now” (12/21/23)

She seems to think that even while homeless, she can have anything she wants. I’ve provided the best I can, but it has been at a cost to my own well-being. I want to provide for her, but street life implies that we all provide for each other.

You once told me a part of a book you read about kids in hard times: “If I have ends, you have ends.” I take that to heart, but I feel like I’m running thin.

I don’t want to abandon her, but I think I might have to. The thought of it breaks my heart. Any advice that you might have I would be gracious to hear.

12/22/23

What you said is something that I have come to realize. Thank you for your words. I just need to figure out a way to let her go in a way that I don’t feel like a bad person.

I’m trying to work on myself and my own situation, which has been difficult. In addition, I’ve taken on a lot of other people’s burdens.

I may be homeless, but I still call my tent a house because that’s what it is for me right now.

When Mayra asked for safe harbor and I said I could provide it, I didn't fully understand what I had actually done in the last few years. When I first showed up, everyone was disparate. I gave everyone what I could – cooked for them, helped set up camps, gave them clothes and food and money that I had, showed them friendship. Now there is a community of people who look out for each other rather than just looking out for themselves.

People have been calling Mayra my wife. She is protected. I guess I should be proud of that.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my current state and think that I was meant to be here. I feel that I did my job and need to get out rather than get trapped. It is a slow process; I’m still trying.

Love, JPD

12/28/23

I’m glad to hear you had an interesting and eventually beneficial Christmas. Mine sucked. I had to kick Mayra out after she chose to abandon me for some strangers.

I met a nice girl on the bus, gave her my hat and some food. She said she lived in a house that had empty rooms and invited me to stay. Then I met her boyfriend, who threatened to hurt me twice. When he turned and said, “Why the fuck are you following us?” I responded, “I’m not,” and I went home.

At least some guy on the bus shared his blunt with me.

12/28/23

Oh, and two women showed up to the area where I live, asking about me. They had no other reason to be there.

I don’t like this. Sure, one of them is gorgeous and the other one is super nice. But fuck this shit – I don’t want anyone taking advantage of me. ‘Oh, I fucked up and made bad decisions. This guy is nice and will take care of me.’ Don’t need it, don’t want it.

I’m super lost right now.

12/30/23

I’m trying to avoid this, but I think everyone is going to come live next to me. I like my quiet. I enjoy the idea of balance, and yes, in theory balance should occur naturally. I’ve learned that sometimes it requires a lot of patience; it can’t be forced. C’est la vie.

I’ll figure it out. 

Thanks, Papa

I shared this with Lilia but thought it might interest you so I’ll pass it along. (1/22/24)

I had another interesting day yesterday. I went to the Quaker meeting house and then to the library, where I ran into Mayra, whom I hadn’t seen in a hot minute. She introduced me to a guy she had been hanging around for the last two weeks named Angel. He was very skeptical of me at first, guarded and protective of her. After he felt me out, he opened up. Turned out to be a really nice guy. We kept talking and he said to me, “She loves you.” I laughed, and he said, “No no no, she really loves you; she talks about you all the time and I see the way she is around you.”

I recognize it, but I don’t think she really knows what love is. I mean, it took me a long time to figure out what love actually feels like. That’s why I’m sure I love you.

Later that night, it was raining non-stop, and David, Mason and I were hiding under the awning of the McDonald’s. There was another guy there we didn't know who asked me for a lighter, which he used to set a T-shirt wrapped in a chunk of plywood on fire. David asked me for some water, which he used to put out the fire. I helped stomp it out and threw that stupid mess over the bushes. We told him that what he did wasn’t cool. David made the wise decision to leave, as we were on camera and we frequent the place. We both told Mason that we need to leave, and he was like, “Naw, I’m just going to stay here.”

Dumbass.

I’ve been subject to an interesting I-don’t-know-what. (1/30/24)

I know I told you about Mayra. She is off on her own, and I don’t know where she is. Random people keep asking me about her. Some are asking about her and some are asking why aren’t you together in the sense of you are supposed to be together, so where is she?

It happens on an almost daily basis, and it is kind of fucking with my head, and when I say kind of, I mean completely.

Two days after that last post, at dawn, Jesse was hit by a car while crossing a busy intersection. He was clinically dead when the EMTs arrived, but they were able to resuscitate him and transport him to a hospital. That Saturday, his sister Emma flew from Roanoke, his brother Sierra flew from Seattle, and my girlfriend Cile and I flew from Iowa City. We made our way to the hospital to be with Jesse and learn more about his medical status. His injuries were extensive; most serious were cervical spine fractures and a spinal cord injury. He was in spinal shock. In response, the neurology team had done a partial cervical decompression. He was critically stable, responsive but heavily sedated and intubated.

Monday morning, we met with most of the ICU care team, hoping to get a clearer picture of Jesse’s prognosis. That afternoon, we finally met with the neurosurgeon who performed the cervical decompression. That conversation confirmed our worst fears: the cervical spinal damage was so extensive that Jesse’s best outcome would be a life as a quadriplegic. Given all the adversity he’d faced in his life, Sierra, Emma, and I agreed this was more than he should be asked to bear. We elected to have his life support withdrawn, and after this was done late Tuesday night, Jesse peacefully slipped free of his body. That strong and generous heart beat on for more than five minutes after his last breath.

Sierra, Jesse, and Emma making noodles, Christmas 2011.

I lost track of time after that. We sat in the ICU room, the door closed and curtain drawn, sharing memories. Jesse making pasta in our tiny kitchen, laughing with Sierra and Emma, three-foot-long noodles draped over every piece of furniture. Jesse at a party, dancing by himself as if in some kind of spotlight, a significant hole in the armpit of his yellow shirt. Jesse biking through the countryside with a friend, pulling out a set of tools to repair the friend’s bike so they could continue riding. We traced the tattoos running down his left arm: the bison jumping off the cliff of his shoulder turning into eagles and then into razor blades tumbling down his forearm and sardines swimming over his fingers. I played “To Lay Me Down” from my phone, Jerry Garcia singing, “To lie with you, once more, to lie with you/ With our dreams entwined together/ To wake beside you, my love still sleeping.”

In my last dream the next morning, I was in bed with Pat in the farmhouse near West Branch where we lived in the nineties. Awoken by a knock at the door, I wrapped a bedsheet around myself, went to the top of the stairs, and called, “Come in!” At the bottom of the stairs appeared a group of my students from the last two years I taught – Justin, Peja, Ryan, Seth, Mats, Ethan, Zane, Drew, Alex. They said, “We’ve come to see Jesse.” I told them to come up. They trooped past me to the end of the hallway, entered my son’s bedroom, and closed the door. In the jumbled logic of dreams, it felt right – to be in the house of Jesse’s youth, his mom still alive, and my students coming to be with him.

Footnotes

[1] We experienced firsthand the dire shortage of addiction treatment and mental health care resources in Iowa. The one affordable rehab facility in Iowa City had a lengthy waiting list. And that place primarily provided court-ordered weekend rehab, a revolving door for folks with DUI convictions. We paid out of pocket for Jesse’s psychiatric care and for his rehab at the nearest facility offering both mental health care and addiction rehab, over fifty miles away.

[2]  The private nickname that Jesse and Sierra used to refer to each other.