Honoring Gary Sr. Memory: Funeral and Memorial Fund

I am devastated to have to write that on Thursday Oct 24th my dad, Gary Len Gordon, passed away after some of the hardest months of our lives.

To bring it back to the beginning of the saga:

on June 22nd, while alone at his house, my dad tripped and severely injured his upper spine. He lay there for hours desperately trying, but unable to move from the neck down. Finally, through the help of his smart speaker, he managed to reach 911. He was rushed to the hospital and taken into emergency surgery.

By the time I arrived, he was just coming back from surgery, his face covered in remnants of dried blood and bruises. He had suffered an incomplete quadriplegic injury, and only time would tell how much of his mobility he would recover.

Since they were monitoring his brain function, he wasn’t allowed any stronger pain medication than Tylenol. Yet, through all that pain my dad—the wise-cracking comedian—had jokes for me as soon as I walked through the door. He followed up, as usual, by interrogating me on “when I was going to finally give him a grandbaby”—as if he didn’t just have a life altering experience.

These lighthearted moments kept us going through all the hurdles to come, and there will be plenty of hurdles.

My dad was a private, independent person. If you look that up in the dictionary you’d see a picture of him. He was a handyman by trade and by passion, someone who could fix just about anything— he loved working with his hands.

He was an avid outdoorsman who loved to bike, fish, and spend time with his dog Patches. Patches was more than a pet to him, Patches was always by his side, even insisting on sleeping under the covers with him. However, my dad’s strong desire for independence and active lifestyle clashed painfully with the harsh reality of his new life, first confined to a bed and then to a wheelchair.

Over the next four months, he moved through three different rehab facilities. In that first week, I became his decision-maker, fielding nonstop calls from specialists and social workers who needed my approval for every new procedure. As I navigated his care, I quickly realized that I wasn’t really making decisions; I was just signing off on them, powerless to choose, it felt

like we stepped into the healthcare systems funhouse and couldn’t find our way out.

The first facility was a nightmare. After they moved him with little to no notice— we found him subject to terrible conditions: a too-small bed, no neck brace, and no air conditioning in the middle of the summer. We were distraught to learn that they’d left him all night without turning or checking on him. With minimal care from staff he developed bladder infections and swelling. While I felt helpless, just trying to keep up with each new issue, my father a man who took great pride in his independence was being indignified by our broken healthcare system.

A glimmer of hope came when he was finally transferred to a new facility that recommended him for further rehab at Mary Free Bed. We were thrilled; finally, something was going our way. At Mary Free Bed, he began to regain some neural control and autonomy over his body, though small progress he was able to use the bathroom on his own with support and control his electronic chair. After all these months in the hospital all he wanted was to get back home, and it appeared we finally had a date in sight.

Even then, the financial pressures weighed heavily. Medicaid forced him to spend down his savings and monthly income in order to qualify for care. That left family to cover remaining bills like water, electric, mortgage, and phone. Through it all, he wrestled with the realization that his old life—the outdoors, his independence, his passion for craftsmanship—might be out of reach. He fell into deep depressions, mourning all he’d lost.

One of the hardest moments came when he realized he might never bring his beloved Patches back home. His health left him too weak to care for his dog, and he tearfully told me to keep Patches for good, relinquishing his ownership for the sake of Patches quality of life.

We spent many hours preparing for his return home. Lining up in home care, getting measurements so he could have all of the support he needed.

My dad, after the longest four months of his life, returned home on Monday Oct 21st. Outside of he physical inhibitions he appeared to be in good health. It was utter shock, terror, and disbelief to receive a call on Thursday night being told he’d stopped breathing. Coming from Grand Rapids we rushed down to him, only to hear he was gone before we were halfway there.

Walking into that quiet house, I placed my hand on his chest, hoping he’d somehow wake up. Praying this was just one more terrible hurdle we would overcome together.

In a way, these last four months have been a blessing; to have the time we spent together. Still, my heart aches that I won’t ever get to know him the way I wanted to and that he’ll never get to meet the grandbaby he kept asking about. But I don’t want this story to end on that note. I believe that, in life, we are constantly exchanging parts of ourselves with each other, and that’s what shapes us. As humans, I think we can’t help but do it. We don’t even realize it most of the time—until you catch yourself laughing like them or doing one of their mannerisms. More of my dad’s story will unfold through my life as I live, and I will grow a deeper connection to the man that he was because of it.

My dad’s journey—and our family’s—wasn’t just about him or his recovery. It was a fight against a healthcare system that, for all it does to help, can be painfully indifferent. It will take what it needs from you until there’s nothing left in terms of insurance or funds, and then pass you on to the next, often just to face the same. It was a constant struggle to secure the dignity and care he deserved, leaving us with decisions that stripped us of our power of choice.

We are holding a visitation on November 8, 2024, at 11 a.m., at 3926 S 9th St, Kalamazoo, MI 49009, followed by a noon service and reception.

We are seeking help to cover medical costs that were accrued doing his time in the hospital, as well as burial and funeral expenses.

We take solace in knowing that though our health care system is faulty our community is not.

Thank you for your support