Select chapters from Court’s upcoming book “Let them Know I Tried”.

Put in a Good Word for Me - The Story Behind “My Dying Day”

Courtney Sell

It took nearly eight years for my Father to pass away after initially being diagnosed with an aggressive form of Prostate cancer. The Physicians predicted his lifespan to go on as far as six to twelve months upon the reveal, however it would appear that he must have had a strong foundation of Angels by his side. I was only a freshman in High School when my Brother and I received the tragic news. Our Father was not long for this earth and I hadn’t even played my first football game yet. As time went on, months upon months, years upon years, it almost felt as if the Doctor's made an incredibly foolish mistake. How could a man who spent all of his time walking around town, mowing the lawn, going to our Football games, preaching every Sunday at his church, walking our dog for miles on end apparently be dying from a cancer that was said to have spread from his prostate, to his hips, pelvis, spine and brain. Something seemed off. Some of my friends even thought I was lying to them when I would tell them that he was actually very sick. Most of the time, I just got a lot of unsure looks and rolled-eyes. I took off for Brooklyn in 2001 to attend Pratt Institute, and my Father was the one who drove me all the way from Cape Cod to the campus. It seemed like a whole other world, one on the other side of our white-picket-fence coastal town suburban lives. After my first semester, I dropped out and began traveling the country hoping to make my own career as a Documentary Filmmaker without the help of an education. My passion for making films was too strong to be contained in a school environment. My Father even encouraged me to leave and go at it myself. He was supportive like that - also a rebel in his youth, something we undoubtably shared as Father and Son.

My first documentary was in regards to the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I traveled down to New Orleans just weeks after the storm with a dear friend of mine who grew up in the Crescent City. It was completely devastating to observe. Boats hung from trees on the banks of Pass Christian, Mississippi, people lived in tents, flood waters everywhere, barely any infrastructure and with minimal help from the Government, it was nearly the wild west. Crime was at an all time high and our curfew was so strict, that if the Military Police caught you out past ten, you would be arrested and most likely lost forever in the system. I nearly escaped being detained myself after breaking curfew to walk to my friends house. One morning, I recall walking down Magazine Street in the historic Lower Garden District and passing by a brick building that had crumbled from the intense wrath of Katrina. Underneath the mountain of shattered bricks and concrete, I noticed a pair of legs sticking out from the side. A body of a homeless individual had been crushed to smithereens. Their body laid underneath the rubble for what felt to be weeks on end and every time I’d pass by, I’d gawk in amazement at how such a situation could be left as is. I wondered about who they were, what their life must have been like, who their family was, what their childhood must have been like and so fourth. Even in broad daylight, there was murders happening all around. The sounds of gunfire echoed through the air nearly every hour. A dead body in the park across from the bar I frequented remained to decompose for days in the afternoon sunlight. Many of my friends had violent break-in’s in their apartments, thankfully none were hurt. By the time I was done filming the documentary entitled “No Place Like Home”, I felt as if I just graduated the hard life with honors. Around Thanksgiving, I received a phone call from my Mother explaining to me that my Father was nearing his end and that I should come home soon. I took a few weeks to finish editing the documentary and then packed my bags and grabbed the next flight out to Boston.

Back home, Dad was beginning to show signs of suffering. His hair had gone grey, his lower back was in an increasing amount of pain causing him to walk with a minor hunch and he would need to nap for most of the afternoon as the pain killers were hitting him hard. He and I never had the best relationship, but even as a very young adult, I knew that compassion was all that could be had. I was watching a grown man slowly die, my Father none the less. I was in no way, shape or form able to help as the entire situation was far over my head, yet I was able to sit, observe and learn how to handle both whatever was happening in front of me as well as the emotions within. Due to his longwinded “death sentence diagnosis” as he referred to it as being, the idea of him passing oddly enough felt as if it would never come. Every day for nearly eight years, we were told he could die at any moment yet, that day never came. I’m still unsure if that hurt more than had he simply passed away quickly overnight. I grew an incredibly thick skin due to this and after the first round of emotions arrived when I first learned the news, the rest of the journey felt as if I was merely an audience member in a surgical observational booth. Very little emotion but not in a sociopathic manner, as I obviously have extreme empathy and sympathy for my Father, but without viewing the situation through blurry, teary eyes, it became more like being a fly-on-the-wall. I suspect this is what truly catapulted me into becoming a full time Documentary Filmmaker. I am used to observing life through the lens of my camera - perhaps that is a protected, defensive technique.

It was around April when he asked me if I would be interested in documenting his final days in order to hopefully raise awareness for early prostate cancer detection. At first I said no. The weight of such a task seemed grueling and extremely dangerous. I pose this question in many articles I write regarding the craft of Documentary Filmmaking; “How Close is Close Enough?”. As he was my Father, that immediately strikes a nerve. Not to mention I would then be documenting his dying days. Would that break the fourth wall? Is it exploitive? I had a lot to consider. After a few weeks of thinking it over, with what felt like a thousand bottles of wine consumed to help ease the anxiety, I hesitantly agreed. The main reason I came to was that I sincerely believed in his message. As prostate cancer, still to this day, is widely considered an “Old Mans Disease”, my Father’s health and life could have been saved had his Doctors simply gave him an easy PSA blood test. He would still be alive today if they weren’t so ignorant. Even today, as a thirty nine year old man, I have to argue with my Doctors to give me a PSA test. They mainly smirk and laugh until they realize how serious I am. At one point I even threatened to walk out of the office during a physical if they refused to give me my much needed PSA blood test. I became enraged, especially after seeing what my Father had gone through all because of this ridiculous stigma. When I explained to them what my Father went through, they usually apologized instantly and gave me the test. It sucks that it should be that hard. My Father was barely fifty when he was diagnosed. Therefore, so much for the “Old Man Disease” stigma.

We began documenting his journey, from chemo therapy, to extremely personal interviews with him and other members of my Family, to B-Roll of him on the beach and eventually reaching an entire other cinematic realm I was not expecting. The documentary was bringing us together. He acted as my Producer, gaining clearance to hospitals and nursing homes, got all legal documents signed, releases secured, etc. He was the best Producer I actually have ever had. We occasionally would have our common arguments and bouts, but nothing too serious. We never saw eye-to-eye politically or on various other topics and in the beginning, it made it hard for either of us to have a worthwhile conversation. I was young and ignorant and he was older and stubborn. Not really the best mix. Though halfway through the shoot, I could tell that he was beginning to fade and the idea of us continuing to fight over petty things just seemed pointless by this time. Both of us were using the film as a sort of therapy and eventually we found a rather perfect middle ground. I was an observer of his looming death and he was the Guide.

On a Monday afternoon, I came downstairs after editing all night. I entered the kitchen only to find my Dad sitting at the table with a pile of paperwork in front of him. It was his will and other legal documents. He asked if I would be interested in going down to the Funeral home so he could pick out his casket. Slightly taken aback, I agreed and we headed straight to the funeral home where he would soon be, in just a few months later, laying in an open casket. I filmed the entire process and afterwards, he drove to the nearby cemetery and showed me the plot he had picked up earlier on; Underneath a beautiful, giant purple and green bush. I put my camera on a tripod and asked him if he could introduce the situation and explain a bit about where we were. As he began to talk, my emotions hit me for the first time since this specific journey began. I forgot to focus the camera and to this day, the footage is out of focus and slightly blurry. While looking back at the documentary now, I think it makes the moment even more personal and powerful. I even forgot to hit stop on the camera and allowed it to roll through moments after. He simply stands at his own grave quietly with a nervous look on his face while the summer wind blows through his thinning hair.

About a month later, the dreadful “seven days” began. He had become bed bound at our home, in his room, and the Hospice Nurse told us that he had just a few days left. He spent his days in bed calling up his old high school friends asking them what they were doing on the next weekend. When they seemed confused about why someone whom they hadn’t spoken too in years was calling, he would then go on to invite them to his own funeral. I was there for some of the calls and it was actually rather comical, in the darkest sense, but that was just my Dad’s personality. Most of the calls were on speaker phone so I could hear the stunned responses. We would both look at each other and chuckle quietly. I am nearly positive most of them thought these were prank calls. He had an extremely strange and occasionally dark sense of humor that certainly caused some people to pull away from him. It was just who he was. Honestly, I have the same trait thanks to him and I fully believe it helped keep him alive for so long. He could laugh at anything. I would even catch him smiling at Funerals as if he knew everything was completely alright and seemingly confused why everyone was crying and so sad. He was a Holy man, a Reverend and a Chaplain who comforted those dying in the nearly nursing home, unbeknownst to any of them, that he too was also on his way out very, very soon. Perhaps even beating some of them to Heaven!

A month earlier, while in the nursing home while my Dad prayed over an elderly man as he screamed in agony and pain, I watched as the man gasped for air and died then and there. His screams just came to a screeching halt. A strange, odd silence fell over the room if not the entire nursing home. My Father put his hand on the frail mans chest and said a prayer. I was too shaken to film the entire scenario and only captured the mans curled toes, as if cramped up from rigor mortis already. Afterwards at lunch in the cafeteria, he knew I was shaken up a bit and just smiled. He told me if only gets easier with experience. After lunch he brought me into another room where a woman with Alzheimers suffered in bed. She was in her later stages, believing she was a little girl and crying out for her Mother. It was truly heartbreaking to say the least. I didn’t roll my camera on this experience because I wanted to respect her entirely and not scare her. Out of the blue she began to taunt me, call me names, pick on me, insult me and speak god awful things in my direction as if we were on the kindergarten playground. I was stunned and didn’t know what to do. I almost felt like retaliating to be honest, though I would never have done such a thing. My Father, realizing how sensitive I already was after the last Patient, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out of the room. He told me to wait in the hallway while he went back in to pray with the woman. It was hard not to take her words seriously, but knowing what I know now, I completely understand and respect her confusion and fear. About a few minutes later, he came out of her room smiling and walked me down the hall laughing to himself. I’m still unsure if he was laughing at some of the things she called me or if he just found the entire situation funny. Either way, it made me laugh a bit too.

“Courtney, now you know,” he looked over at me smiling “sometimes death can make people say the darnedest things.” He began to laugh quietly again. I learned she died later that night.

From day one to day four of the “seven days”, he was upbeat, would see Family and friends in his room, tell jokes, share stories of his past (many of which our own family didn’t know) and truly seemed to be having a great time. He loved attention so the more eyes on him, the happier he was. Even though he wasn’t eating and looked like a skeleton, his sense of humor, wit and upbeat attitude was strikingly beautiful. I would spend my nights drinking wine with my then girlfriend and editing the footage I captured of him for our documentary. It was a significant and powerful moment in my life. On Day five, I woke up on a terrible hangover and sauntered into his room. He was fast asleep and at first, I mistook him for being dead. I rushed over and shook him a bit. When he woke up, he seemed confused. I told him that I had finished the short documentary and it was excellent to which he smiled without saying a word and fell back asleep. Downstairs, my Family sat around the kitchen table, all sleep deprived wondering how long this entire journey will take. It was beginning to take its toll on all of us. He was refusing to let go. Eight years was a long time, but those seven days felt even longer.

I found the entire situation extremely interesting, even as a young adult, as my Father seemed to have as much faith in God and Jesus as the most Holy of men, yet, he seemed to be scared to let go. It was a pretty ironic moment for me to come to terms with. Later that night, the Hospice nurse interrupted our dinner and told us to go upstairs, as it appeared he was about to pass. We all rushed up stairs and stood around his bedside. He seemed a bit agitated, so we placed pillows around his head just so he wouldn’t hurt himself by hitting the wall. My Mother spoke softly to him, holding his hand and letting him know it was ok to go, but he wasn’t having it. My Brother and his then Girlfriend had to leave the room, and soon, so did my Mother and the Nurse. I stayed behind and sat next to him, just watching his chest raise up and sink down as he seemed to gasp for air. I felt completely at peace. Though the situation was terrible and tragic, I knew it was going to be ok. Everything was going to be just fine. This is how life works. It is all a part of the big plan. Fortunately, he was in his own house which he helped build, his own bed, surrounded by Family; seemingly the perfect scenario for a dying person. At one point, he did open his eyes and smiled at me. I reached over and gave him a hug and whispered in his ear “Put in a good word for me, Dad”. He began to cry and closed his eyes again and rolled around in agony and sadness. I left the room thinking that would be it however, he did not pass that night.

On day seven, I happened to be visiting my Cousin and Grandmother at her house. My Mom had told me to go over to get away for a bit to decompress. Over dinner, I was explaining what my next cinematic journey would be, to go overseas, specifically Germany and make films there as that is where many of our ancestors are from. As I spoke, the phone rang and my Grandmother answered. Her face turned white and she instantly turned to me and said “Go home now.” I knew exactly what was happening. I rushed out, jumped in my car and peeled out of the driveway. I forgot to even put on my shoes and drove home barefoot.

Upon arriving at our driveway, I noticed a whole bunch of cars blocking my space. I parked in the front yard causing tire marks in the grass and ran inside. The Hospice Nurse was standing in the kitchen with a few of my Parents friends. They all looked spent and had bloodshot eyes. They seemed stunned to see me as if they thought I would have a breakdown, yet little did they know I had already grown an extremely tough skin. I rushed passed even though they told me to stay downstairs with them and headed upstairs. In his room, my Family stood around my Father as he was just about to take his last breath. I walked over and opened the window as I was always told to do so when someone passes, just in case their “soul” needs to move freely out of the area in which the body dies. I watched him die a few moments later. Had I been one minute late, I would have missed his passing. Did he wait for me?

When he died, everyone but me left the room. I told the Nurse and my Mom not to call the undertaker immediately so I could spend some time with him first. I sat beside the bed, once again watching his chest as if I felt he was faking it. There was no movement. My Father was such a prankster that I envisioned him jumping up and scaring me and laughing hysterically at the entire scenario. I wouldn’t have been mad at all. I grabbed his hand and it was completely limp. The feeling of lifelessness is rather a strange sensation at touch. There was a soul in that vessel just moment ago. I had no spiritual ideology at that time in my life, yet was simply fascinated by the idea of life and death and how the line is so incredibly thin. This was my entry point into the realm of death and dying. It wasn’t scary or sad to me, but merely interesting. Not to say I wasn’t heartbroken and sad to lose my Father, but in my deepest of hearts, knew everything would be ok. Little did I realize how death would continue to follow me around on my travels.

Years later I relocated to Hollywood to continue pursuing my film career. Yet instead of heading over to the Studios and big companies, I found myself haunting the campus of the historic Philosophical Research Society in Los Feliz. Founded in 1934 by renowned Scholar and Author Manly P. Hall, the PRS is home to one of the largest metaphysical libraries in the United States. For five years I was there every single day they were open, studying on my own, reading up on comparative religion, mysticism, Buddhism, Hinduism, The Bhagavad Gita, Magick, The Upanishads, Simon Weil, Vedanta, Theosophy, Christian Mysticism and everything in between. Those years were the staple of my life. Struggling to survive, I made a few bucks here and there working odd film jobs all the while spending the rest of my time studying. It was at the PRS I took my first course on end-of-life companionship with an organization called “Going with Grace”. During the lecture, I was able to speak on my Father, share this story and really connect with the others in the room. I knew I wanted to begin my journey as a companion but just didn’t know how. As a Documentary Filmmaker, I strive to make work that inspires, enlightens and bring a broader awareness to subjects that are of the utmost importance to our society. Death is clearly one of the largest subjects I can imagine to tackle.

I spent those five years thinking of my Father’s journey and couldn’t help but think that he essentially prepped me for what was to come. Asking me to make his film, exposing me to such things at such an early age, it was if he knew my future before I even did. My passion for this work is as strong if not stronger than my passion for filmmaking. I hope, just as I utilize the craft of documentary filmmaker to inspire and help others, that through the work as an end-of-life companion, I can do the exact some thing.

All Dressed Up & Ready to Die

On Sundays, I would usually walk down from my apartment in Beachwood Canyon, directly underneath the iconic Hollywood Sign to the Farmers Market. On this specific Sunday, it was gorgeous outside. So gorgeous in fact, that I decided to have a glass of wine before noon on our rooftop just to relax after a crazy week of film production. I was in the midst of making a feature length documentary during lockdown and it was becoming extremely stressful. Without owning a car, I would walk from location to location with all of my equipment in my gigantic backpack to conduct all interviews outside. Four months of production had rushed by and I felt certain that I was the only filmmaker still attempting to make a movie during a deadly world wide crisis. I was hoping to wrap the entire film in a few weeks and my excitement was massive. Under the morning sun, I felt so blissed out and just happy to be living in my dream neighborhood with my dear friends with such incredible weather and everything seemed perfect.

Around one in the afternoon I began my trek down to whatever remained of the market. I knew it would be slim pickings as most people get there by nine and grab all the good stuff. Either way, I was just happy to be outside and walking around Hollywood. As I passed Cahuenga  Blvd., I noticed a bunch of firetrucks and police cars with their sirens on. “Whatever” I thought. It’s Hollywood. There is always crime and craziness wherever you look. This was nothing new. As I expected, I missed all the good produce at the market so decided to stop at Trader Joes instead before walking home.

Approaching the intersection underneath the 101 overpass, I noticed that the firetrucks and police cars were still there. People stood in a nearby parking lot looking up. I crossed the street and joined them. Without asking, I looked up to see a possible Jumper on the overpass. He was pacing back and fourth and all traffic had been halted. Two cops were standing near him begging him to get down, advice in which he clearly ignored. I recall he was dressed up as if he wore his Sundays best for the occasion. At one point, he dipped down to look underneath to Franklin Ave., appearing to be ready to jump, but stood straight back up. The crowd was crying and people in their cars watched in fear. Some even honked their horns as if trying to coach him to stop what he was doing and surrender. I put my Groceries down and looked around at the anxious crowd. Nobody was really talking and some people were on their knees praying. I reached into my bag of groceries and opened a beer I had bought at Trader Joes. My nerves were on edge.

Now for the record, I had no idea nor do I still have any idea what had gone on in this mans’ life to be in the position he put himself in. That being said, nobody deserves to be in that situation no matter what. Secretly under the overpass, Police blew up a giant, what appeared to be an air mattress to catch him in the case he does launch off. I remember selfishly just thinking to myself,

“Come on man, don’t ruin my day like this. Just get down.”

I should feel more badly about thinking such a thing, but in a way, it was honest and truthful. If he jumps, he would destroy all of our days, months and maybe even years with the memories of a terrible and gruesome tragedy. I finished my beer in nearly one gulp and opened a second.

The Police moved in on him and reached out to grab his hand, to which he swatted them away. The situation seemed to last for hours, but in hindsight, it was most likely only fifteen minutes. And just like that, the Man began to walk towards to Cops before turning and launching off the overpass headfirst. His body flew through the air so quickly, the Police underneath with the large air mattress were not yet prepared. I watched as he hit the ground about fifty feet away. His head shattered and the sound of a body being pummeled onto concrete was something I will never forget. The sound echoed through my mind every night afterwards for over two months. An elderly lady jumped out of a car screaming, crying and rushed up to the scene. A few Firefighters held her back. I think it was his Mother. Everyone behind me began to scream and weep and even a dog began to piss near my leg out of fear of the chaos. I sat down on the sidewalk and held my head in my hands. A girl sat down next to me and we weeped together. After a few minutes, I grabbed my groceries, finished my beer and headed back up the hill towards Beachwood. I was numb. I actually don’t really remember walking back home.

That night, I had what must have felt like a nervous breakdown. Perhaps it was. I couldn’t stop crying and couldn’t get the sight and sound out of my head. I had to go down to ‘Birds’, the neighborhood bar to shake it all off, yet it didn’t work. That sound of his body crushing into the pavement wouldn’t leave my mind. Who was he? What was his Family like? Did he have siblings? What was his relationship with his Grandparents like? Did they love him? Was he loved? Was he abandoned? What did he do for a living, if he had one? Did he ever have a puppy or a kitty as a kid? When he was a child, what did he dream about? What did he always want to become but couldn’t make it happen? For weeks, months, I walked around with the image of his bloody corpse in my third eye and the sound of his body cracking upon the hard ground in my head for months. On hikes, I would have to blast my earbuds as loud as I could in order to try and muffle out the sounds from that afternoon. I even called my Doctor and asked them to have me checked for some form of mental illness as I was losing it. They listened to me story and ignored further requests and simply told me I was traumatized but that is all. There apparently wasn’t anything they could do. It didn’t help I had the worst poor-mans struggling Artist healthcare in the world. My brain was rewired and there was no cure. Meditation was out as I couldn’t be alone in silence since the event. I constantly needed my headphones wherever I went just to sound out the noise in my head. I never walked that direction into Hollywood ever again.

About a week later from his launch and exit, my Girlfriend at the time and I decided to go to Malibu, to our favorite beach “Paradise Cove”. She could sense I needed a break. Before entering onto the 101 Freeway, we hit a red light. Straight ahead, I noticed a massive blood stain on the concrete and had to close my eyes until we passed by it. His blood had forever stained Franklin Ave. I witnessed the entire situation again and began to shake. I hid it well however, as one who. has deep rooted lifetime anxiety issues knows how to do when in company of others.

Between what I dealt with my Father, a few other violent instances I have had the unfortunate opportunity to witness and then this, I realized that death comes in many forms, and that in order to contribute whatever I can to this life, it would be to alleviate fear and suffering for those who are both actively dying or considering taking their own lives. After all, Death is a part of life, so we should not be afraid to speak on it. Perhaps if it was properly understand and accepted in mainstream conversations, this man would still be alive. Perhaps my Father wouldn’t have been so scared to finally let go. My passion for dealing with Death was cemented at an age where most kids are thinking about finishing college, playing sports, starting a family, buying a house, spring breaks, partying and everything else that comes with being a twenty one year old. I discovered something much more powerful and profound.