2 Board Alley

My Father, the Soldier

Here's a photo of my father sent to me today by my cousin.  I have very few pictures of my father from his youth that it was a delight to get this one. 

Friday: The Slow Move Back to Normal

 I'm at my sister's house and fly home tomorrow. 

My father's funeral was a traditional Catholic mass sung on Veteran's Day.  We made it as inclusive of our whole family as possible: My stepmother and my uncle joined the three of us in covering the coffin with the pall;  My stepsister's husband and sons joined my stepbrother, husband, and brother-in-law in being pallbearers;  My stepsister and my cousin did the readings; my nieces brought up the gifts for communion; and my sister and I each read poems we'd written as eulogies.  My sister also spoke for both of us in acknowledging how much work and love my brother and sister-in-law had given Dad over the past five years. 

Although the day began bright and sunshiny, by the time we'd driven across the state to the cemetery, it was gray and cold.  I was glad that the kids had stayed behind and that the only people at the cemetery were adults--my uncle and aunt, the three of us and our spouses, my stepbrother and his friend and my stepsister and her son, and my stepmother.

The service was short and ended with the playing of taps and the presenting of the flag to my stepmother.  We strolled down to my grandparents' grave with our uncle and then climbed into our cars and headed out.

And this post ends my chronicle of my father's last years.  I'm going to keep the rest of my grief private and if I post about Dad, it will be about his life, not his death. 

Thank you all who have read and responded over the years.  There aren't enough words to use to thank you.

Joseph Howard, July 14, 1919--November 7, 2008

We've had an exhausting day planning Dad's funeral, and the fatigue is outpaced by the knowledge that we had a remarkable man for a parent. 

He was in great spirits when he died--chatting with the nurses, sitting in his chair in the sun, and then quickly and quietly, his head bent down and his spirit left his body.  The night before, he'd been having a wonderful time at a social event at the nursing home, laughing and patting some balloons in the air.  I think he knew he was leaving this life, and knowing that filled him with lightness and joy. 

Here's his fullobituary, which my brother, sister and I wrote together throughout October. 

Back Home

I just got home about an hour ago, after having spent four days in New England with my siblings and my father.  Dad's condition seems to have plateaued--but he's frailer than he was when I saw him in July.  When I drove in on Thursday, I went directly to the nursing home and spent an hour watching television with him.  He was having a terrible time distinguishing the the program ("Judge Alex") from the commercials, from reality.  I told him I was his daughter, which he refused to believe. When I asked him who I was, he said "you're the girl who feeds the dog."  When I left, I kissed him and went into the chapel and cried.

Friday was spent driving to my sister's and back and then meeting with the funeral home director to discuss our plans.  I don't do well at that sort of meeting--anything that involves plans (of any kind) and money brings out my taciturn and direct side, and I felt like a humorless old schoolteacher. 

Thank goodness for my nieces.  We went to the fifth grade band's spaghetti dinner (fundraiser), and I sat at an elementary school cafeteria table for the the first time in decades.  Elbow to elbow with the rest of the adults, we were served by very conscientious student musicians. The night before, I  learned about a new Halloween tradition, called "Spooking," which is the reverse of trick or treating--you get a bag, fill it with candy, dress up in black and then drop off the candy at a friend's house.  It's supposed to be a surprise--but sometimes the mom in the waiting car is a giveaway.  It was cute, and I got to join in the fun by wresting a Jolly Rancher Apple candy out of the dog's mouth (jaws like steel, that one). 

I visited Dad one more time on Saturday morning.  He was sleeping while a football game played, and so I sunk into the rocker across from him and just watched him.  I prayed that he not suffer, I prayed to my grandparents to be there in spirit to take him, I prayed for my mother to be there, too.  When he woke up, he began talking about the team we were on and how hard everyone was working.  I looked at him and thanked him for being a wonderful, loving parent, and told him that if he wanted to go, the three of us wouldn't hold him back.  Dad remarked that we were a great team.  It crossed my mind that we would probably look a little foolish to a passerby since we seemed to be having two distinct conversations.   But I didn't care.  I got up and kissed him on the head and the cheek and held his hand.  "I love you, Dad."  and he held on to my hand and looked at me and said "I love you, too, Joanna." And with that, I ran inside the chapel and cried. 

Saturday afternoon involved driving through Connecticut and getting lost--on Wormhole Hill Lane, and had to have my sister redirect me.  And I'm glad she did because I was able to join a certain young mermaid and her Tigger brother at the community center, for Trunk or Treat, a community organized fun evening for little kids.  This morning I got to play "green light, green light" with Tigger, and Aunt Joanna May I with his sister before I packed up and drove to Bradley for the flight home. 

All of you friends who have commented here during this month have been a real boost for me.  I know that this experience is hard to read about, and I thank you for stopping in from time to time. 

Scribbled While Listening to Ethelbert Miller

Holding the Image:  Letting it Change

The prayer shawl turns brown-carmel, umber and gold

My father's head sags towards his chest, eyes shut, slack

A tassle of white hair turns his head into a point

And the green cord around his waist has grown thick,

running around his waist, his chest, his shoulders;

unfurled leaves emerging on the cord and peach blossoms,

petunias, dandelions and daisies bloom together on this green tether

Soon my father will be a seed, crennelated and tusky

Soon we will plant him

Soon he will grow

Beyond us

Beyond Life

Beyond Time

Holding An Image With Joy

In an earlier post, I linked to the Catholic Encyclopedia, at a definition of the sacrament of the sick.   It is supposed to absolve sins and bring the person into greater spiritual strength by the workings of the Holy Spirit. 

Since my father has had the sacrament, he has been light and happy--certainly his body is wearing out, but his own spirit has been infused with something that expresses itself as joy when my siblings and their families visit. 

In my mind's eye, I view him sitting cross legged on his bed, wrapped in a yellow sheet that resembles a prayer shawl, and smiling.  The room is suffused with light--bright and clear.

Lately, the vision has shifted, and he is now wearing an orange robe belted with a green cord and he seems to be slouching and not paying as much attention to the room.  His face is slack, almost as if he were sleeping, and the room is darker--a late afternoon room.

These images have just popped up and they seem to change with the week. I don't know if the colors reflect chakras or if they signify something else.  I'm trying to keep an open mind and let these visions come to me, as they seem to signify something almost holy about this time. To ignore them or to forget them would be to behave out of fear and to miss an important event happening to our family.

I leave for New England on Thursday.

And So Today

I've had a wretched cold for the past week--and feel strong enough to head to the doctor tomorrow.  I'm back at school and my students are, as always, good and patient with their froggy-voiced professor.

I think it was stress that did me in.  A week ago last Friday, my siblings met with a priest who suggested that they do the Sacrament of the Sick with my father as soon as possible.  Due to the priest's availablilty, "as soon as possible" became the next day.  My brother brought his family, my sister came alone (her kids are too small to deal with), my father's brother and sister- in- law came, as did one of their cousins, a nun who lives in the same nursing home.  According to my brother's report, it was a lot like an Irish Wake, except the person, Dad, was dead.

Dad was in great spirits though, enjoying everything and understanding nothing, he clowned around like he used to in old time.  The priest asked him if he understood what was going on, and Dad replied "Well, we did a lot of praying, and then someone got out the good stuff and put it on me ."  Indeed.  And as the nurse was taking Dad down to his lunch, Dad said "I don't know why you think I'm sick--those folks in there are the sick ones."

I felt wretched that day--trying to be a scintillating and fascinated wife as we toured my husband's old haunts in Olean.  I barely slept, and spent the ride to the airport crying, meditating, and changing my mind about driving across the state to see Dad.  When we were leaving the B and B, the staff mentioned that they hoped my father would do well, and I said, ever so tactfully, "he's not going to do well.  He's dying."  One of the women ran back and got an glass Wyler's chicken broth jar filled with water and labelled "St. Jude."  She gave me instructions to use, and I was so touched, I was speechless.  Here was a total stranger giving me a valuable religious relic of hers. 

By the time we flew home, I felt that I was coming down with something alright.  I sat down at the computer and edited the final draft of my father's obituary that the three of us have been doing round-robin via email. 

Monday morning confirmed that I had indeed come down with something.  And I stayed in bed until Friday.  In the meantime, I monitored my students' work online and slept all the time. 

On Tuesday, my stepmother and her children visited Dad for a final time.  It sounds like it went well.  And throughout the week the report has been that my father is in great spirits although the meds for his heart and kidneys continue to compete with each other.

I wanted to be back up with him this past weekend, and hope that I can do a fly up, fly back this comiong weekend.  I have felt such a hard pang to be with my father now.

Visiting My Father on the Turnpike of Life

I spent a week up north, visiting my father and other family members.  I should say that  I spent time procrastinating about visiting my father, because that's what I do.  On Tuesday, I flew in and drove a rental car to a hotel near his nursing home.  On Wednesday, after a bout of insomnia not aided by either melatonin or a sleeping pill, I went down the street to his nursing home to visit after lunch.

Both of my sibs have told me that they have seen him growing frailer with each week, and I prepared (as I procrastinated) to walk in on my father lying in bed, with the blankets drawn as well as the curtains, candles burning and the sound of sorrowful voices reciting novena after novena, while my siblings gently sobbed at the bedside. 

So I was surprised to see him sitting at a table in the lunchroom, chatting it up with his friend Francis about finding work for all of the people living in "this place."  I kissed him and said "Hi Dad, I'm Joanna," just in case he didn't recognize me.  "Hi Sweetie, " he answered, and then introduced me to Francis and another man at the table.  In keeping with their conversation, he joked that his children were all halfway through careers while he was still trying to figure out what he wanted to do.  And look over there, he said, "there's that nice girl who's a part of our group."  By then, I figured that he was hallucinating, so I smiled and said "how nice."  Then I suggested that we walk back to his room, seeing as he was yawning and seemed tired. 

In the hallway, he mentioned seeing that nice woman again, who turned out to be real and a relative who works in the nursing home. 

As he walked down the hall, he kept saying he was tired and wanted a chair.  It's not that far from lunchroom to his room, but he was worn out by the time we got to his door , and he settled in to nap. 

The next afternoon, when I came over, he was napping in a wheelchair in the hallway.  I wouldn't let the staff wake him up; instead, I grabbed a chair from the dining room and pulled it over so we sat side by side in the hallway.  He woke up and chattered about everything going on, though he had not a clue what was really happening, and he cheerfully pretended to  use his cane as a rifle, "shooting" at people ahead of us.  There was no malice in his behavior--it was more like he was a little boy again, playing. 

Then his chair (which was like a Lazy-Boy on wheels rather than a true wheelchair) became an engine, and he wanted to go somewhere.  "It's a shame to have this engine and not be able to go anywhere and do anything," he commented, and my English-teacher brain started parsing all of the symbolism in that nest of thoughts, but on the outside, I just smiled sadly and agreed that yeah, it was rough.

Soon the nurse came by to tell him in Spanish  that dinner was ready, and he responded in perfect Italian.  Honest.  What would you like, Mr. Howard?" she asked.  In English, he said, "I'd like a turnpike for this engine of mine. It doesn't seem right not to be able to go anywhere with it."

"Well, all I can give ya tonight is dinner, I'm afraid," she said. 

And so dinner he had. The following day, we had a birthday party for him, which he couldn't attend because he was throwing up all day. We tried rolling him down in a wheelchair for a few minutes, but that was about all that he could take. 

The last afternoon we were together we spent in his room, watching the baseball game on TV.   He napped off and on, and I wrote some lines of poetry in my notebook.  I wanted to sit in his chair and hold him on my lap--that's how frail he's become.  His blood sugar had spiked at too high a level, and his nurse had called my brother about it.  By the time I got there,  Dad was fine.

But he's not fine, and he won't be fine ever again.  He has skin like a communion wafer now--thin, white.  And though he recognized me, that's not often the case according to others who see him more often.  A few weeks ago he  introduced his brother to everyone as his father, my uncle told us, for example. 

If I could, I'd move into his room to be with him all day and night, with a flaming sword at my side. I feel like protecting him, but from what?  Death?  The afterlife?  Death is not to be feared, but if you've lost one parent at a young age, you know that there is a certain physical finality in the act, and I feel like I bounce back and forth from a state of procrastinatory denial ("my father can't be dying if I don't see him") to a child/mother who wants to both protect Dad from any pain while keeping the enemy death at bay, thus protecting myself from losing another parent.  It's as though death were a punishment being meted out to both of us, and I am outraged that my father, who has had to deal with so much in life, is being punished when he didn't do anything to deserve it. I am terrified that I have been so horrible a human that life is going to take away my father as punishment.

But life, thank the gods, is not Greek drama.  I have all of these feelings and thoughts and so many more, and I write about this experience in this blog to record what I am feeling at the time, before memory comes in and starts editing things.

Dad

Dad at Christmas

One of the best things about Christmas this year was that my father came over and spent the day with us at my brother's house.  He sat in that chair for the most part, reading, napping, eating, and, of course, holding CC, the family cockapoo and watch dog.  She is also Dad's number- one fan, and whenever he visits, she leaps in his lap and licks his face.  I suspect that her enthusiasm reflects those golden days of a few years ago, when he lived with them and used to sneak her chocolate, which makes her terribly ill, but which she wolfed down like a good chocolate addict.

He did pretty well during the long day and only became crabby towards the end (as did we all).  My sister-in-law and I took him back to his room, and while she conferred with the staff, I sat down with Dad and listened to him read aloud from Neruda's 100 Sonetos de Amor.  In Spanish.  And then he translated them, too.  I began asking him questions in Spanish to see if he had a stronger memory in another language, but no.  he didn't remember my mother or his mother, regardless. 

But I don't want to end this post on a sad note.  The beauty of the visit was that all three of us children and our families got to spend the holiday together with Dad.  And another plentiful moment was listening to him talk with my sister-in-law on the drive home.  "Look at the size of the moon!  It's beautiful," he said.  Simple comments about the natural world said by someone who can still appreciate it. 

.

.