I’ve missed having the time to write here. A lot has happened lately and I find myself feeling like a jigsaw puzzle waiting to be put together. Sometimes I think how nice it would be to be a cat, or a squirrel — to have an awareness of what’s going on around me now, yet not be concerned with larger things like the future, relationships, consequences, time, finances.
My father passed away on May 11th. He would have been 89 this month. His health was fragile but not frail, his mind was sharp. It was all quite sudden. He had been in and out of the hospital and skilled nursing the previous months for heart and infection problems, but had been home for six weeks and seemed to be making a steady recovery. Then his neighbor called. He had never opened his kitchen curtains or bedroom blinds that day, and the door he normally left unlocked for her was secure. They found him in bed–he got hit with a massive stroke. Five days later he died.
I got the call from the neighbor on Wednesday evening immediately after they called 911. It was my 20th anniversary. Our planned celebratory family dinner at The Melting Pot turned into Pizza Boli’s in the dining room. I was up at the hospital the next morning — my dad lived about a 2-and-a-half-hour drive away. Staff were wonderful. They all knew him well, as he had taken care of my mom for 14 years and had been in and out of the hospital with her many times, as well as in himself a few. They all loved him, and everyone had some memory to share. As various nurses and doctors heard his name and connected it with “Leona’s husband” they came over to see him and talk.
The stroke had left him with very little movement on his left side. Ninety-eight percent of the day he slept. But the killer, literally, was losing the ability to control his throat muscles on that side. He couldn’t swallow.
Dad had made it very clear that under no circumstances did he want a feeding tube. No heroic measures. He had always felt that way, and dictated so in his living will. That didn’t leave many choices.
I made what choices I could over those three days, and we moved him into Neighborhood Hospice on Saturday. My mother had been there–and had died there–and I knew dad admired the staff and their loving dedication to their residents. I went home Saturday night so I could spend Mother’s Day with my kids.
My brother and his family, who also live in Maryland, drove up to see Dad on Sunday. Thirty minutes after they left, the hospice nurse called to tell me my dad was breathing his last.
My mom passed away in October. About 25 years ago she had her first stroke. Dad forced her to recover. He was a loving but unrelenting task master. After a year or so of rehab, anyone who hadn’t known my mom previously wouldn’t have had a clue she had suffered a stroke. Physically she was well. Mentally she was fully capable. But the stroke did rob her of her passion, her enthusiasm.
Then 14 years ago, in January, seven months before my first child was due, she had a massive stroke. Dad was the same loving but unrelenting task master. That winter, somehow, they were able to travel to Maryland for my son’s christening. But I don’t remember much of it. What I do remember is mom sitting in her wingback chair in their living room. A lopsided smile on her face, eyes watching but dimmed, a hard-won laugh or sentence making it past uncooperative mouth and throat muscles. I remember her, a brace on her left leg, her right arm around dad’s waist, grasping the waistband of his pants, and his arm around her waist, as they walked from the living room to the kitchen. I remember trying to do the same thing with her when dad was out at the grocery store, she and a I laughing as we both stumbled along.
Over the years she had a few more small strokes. Eventually, she couldn’t do anything — anything — her self. But she still commented on things from time to time and responded to questions. Her ability to form words — physically, not mentally — became more difficult for her. On top of that, she struggled with three stubborn wounds that refused to heal. I had no concept of the medical term “wound” until I saw one of hers, a stage 4 pressur ulcer. The first time I saw it I thought I was going to be sick. Dad tended them daily without a wince. We had the most wonderful neighborhood nurses who came every other day to check on her and change the dressings. I think I’ll be in touch with them always — they became like family. When they weren’t there, dad did it all. Changed her dressings, changed her bedclothes, washed her, dressed her, did the laundry. He was an expert at it. And never once did he resent it.
Everyone who knew my dad during those 14 years came away with a deep respect for what most considered the only person they had ever met who whole-heartedly embraced his marriage vows of “in sickness and in health, till death do us part,” always with love, never with resentment. Few experience the depth and strength of love my parents had for one another. When mom died, dad’s personal sense of direction and strength kept him looking forward. But in his heart, his reason for being had gone. Yes, he loved my brother and I and our families. God still granted him time on this earth and he would do his best by it. But he had always lived for mom.
For some people, this whole experience would shake their faith. For mom and dad, it strengthened it. He prayed the rosary with her every day, prayed to St. John Neumann–through whose intercession once before, our family is convinced–removed all trace of a tumor from my mother’s body, prayed to the blessed Infant of Prague, whose image now graces both of their prayer cards.
These things don’t shake my faith because I don’t see them as actions caused by God. They are simply life. God’s involvement comes if we are open to it, giving us the grace to learn, to grow, to somehow find it in ourselves to become stronger and better people from the awful things life can throw at us. In that sense, I agree with those who say there is always a purpose for our suffering. If, indeed, that is true, I believe the purpose of my parents’ long suffering was to change the lives of those who came to know them.
My brother and I are both adopted children. I can honestly say I believe I’ve truly been blessed with the parents God gave me.
Cranberries on the Counter 