A month from hell

My dad died on July 27. It was a blessing in a way, but it just really sucks not to have any parents. I won't get a card to "daughter" this year :(.

We are doing okay. I'm pretty much numb. If you have a minute, I will tell you what happened in my life since we got back from vacation on July 3...

While we were in Florida, my sisters called and said Dad was in the hospital with congestive heart failure. He was stable, so they told me to stay, so we did. When I got home, I began the near-daily trip to the hospital and then rehab center to keep tabs on what was going on, pick up and do Dad's laundry, bring him stuff from home, etc. It was getting to be a drag, to be honest. I had spent all of last summer moving him, getting the houses ready to buy/sell, and redoing our basement in the process, and I really wanted to have fun with the kids this summer.

We also could see that Dad was not getting well enough to go home alone. My sisters and I were trying to figure out what to do to keep him safe. After 19 days in rehab, he was headed home, and we finally got him to agree to go to a skilled nursing facility nearby (like 2 minutes from my house and 5 min from my sister's) so that he could get even stronger before heading home.

Meanwhile...

Kyle had volunteered to go to a mission in Appalachia for the week of July 17. We got him packed up and sent off with the teacher and some other kids from St. Xavier where he goes to school. There were about 6 schools from around the country going. When they got there, the kids were mixed into groups, and each day, they would work in the community to visit the elderly, work on a Habitat House, work on the farm, etc.

On Tuesday, it was Kyle's group's turn to cook for the kids on the mission. After fixing breakfast, lunch, and chopping wood for the evening's bonfire, they headed down to the creek/swimming hole for some relaxation during their free time. Kyle and another boy, Andrew, swam across the creek, about 40 yards wide. Two girls joined them. A fifth boy, named Finoy, was coming across as well and about half way across, he seemed to be having some trouble. Kyle and Andrew's first inclination was to go help him, but the girls went to school with Finoy, and told the boys that he was always joking around like that and that he wasn't having trouble. So they watched.

After about 30 seconds, Finoy went under and didn't come back up. Kyle and Andrew realized it wasn't a joke and dove in to grab him, but they couldn't find him. They dove under about 3 or 4 times and then called to the bank for someone to call 911. It took the EMS about 20 minutes to get there, and the whole time, Kyle, Andrew, and some of the other kids and adults at the creek kept swimming down under water looking for Finoy. Kyle said after about 4 minutes, he knew it was too late, but all he kept thinking was that "Somebody has to call his mom and dad. I had to find him, Mom!"

Once the EMS got there, the kids were sent to the mission house and had a prayer service and then mass. We got the call about 7 p.m. that there had been a drowning and that the boys were coming home and would be in about midnight. The teacher told me that a couple of the boys from St. X had seen the drowning, but he didn't know who. I prayed all evening that it wasn't Kyle, but not only had he seen it, he had been intimately involved with it.

We found out later that Finoy's body had been found in the spot where he went down, in a sink hole that was 20 feet deep, caught in a whirlpool that was hidden beneath the calm water on the surface. It had rained upstream, and the currents were strong. He got caught in a recirculating hole, and there would have been no way Kyle or Andrew could have saved him. The water rescue guy I spoke with said if anyone had tried to save Finoy without some type of rescue device, he would have gone down with him. I can't get that image out of my mind. If I lost Kyle, I would die.

So, Kyle got home about 12 a.m., and we drove home. He talked and talked about what happened. Once we got home, he told Kirk about it, and this time, he broke down and sobbed, saying, "All I can think is that a boy was drowning, and I stood there and watched! I should have gone in to help!" He talked and cried until about 2 a.m. and finally fell asleep exhausted.

The next day, I took him to the school counselor and he talked and talked. We were there for over an hour.

A prayer service was planned for the St. X boys who went to the mission. The day of the prayer service, Thursday, we had moved Dad to the nursing home. I got him set up after Colleen dropped him off. He told me he wasn't feeling well and that he had thrown up that morning before leaving rehab. He ordered just soup for lunch but didn't eat it. I left him about 2 and went home to get ready for the trip to Chicago and go to the prayer service..

At the service, we found out one boys' parents were driving their son to Chicago for Finoy's funeral and were offering to drive anyone who wanted to go with them. Kyle REALLY wanted to go, but I wasn't okay with him going without a parent along, so I volunteered to go as well. We were supposed to drive up on Friday afternoon, spend the night, and then attend the funeral the next morning, then drive home.

Kirk was in the midst of planning the first ever USO Homefront concert for that following Tuesday. Mrs. Biden was supposed to be there in person. There was to be a live address from Mrs. Obama. Montgomery Gentry was playing, and 18,000 free tickets had been given out as well as broadcasting the show on the Pentagon Channel. Troops from Afghanistan and Iraq were going to be able to watch it and some of them were giving shout outs to family members in the audience. It was a huge deal, and I told Kirk that I would take care of Kyle and for him to do whatever it was he had to do. You know how that is.

So Friday morning I called Dad to see how he was. He said he wasn't feeling better and had thrown up again. He got sick while talking to me on the phone. I told him to call his nurse and that I would call the desk and make sure someone went down to check on him. We thought it was a virus or something minor. I called Colleen, and she went to see him. She called me back and said that the nursing home had done an xray and found an intestinal blockage and they were going to send Dad to the ER if an enema didn't get him some relief. About 1, she called back and said they were on their way to the hospital but that Kyle needed me more, and I should go to Chicago. She didn't think this was life-threatening at this point.

So I took my girls to Colleen's house so they could watch each other (Colleen's boys are 12 and 9) until her husband got home, but the next thing you know, she was calling me to tell me that Dad was really bad and she wasn't sure I should go. Then at 3, her husband, John, called and said that Dad was horrible and he didn't think he would make it and that I should get to the hospital right now.

The boys, the couple, and the teacher who had been on the trip were all meeting at my house at 4 to caravan to Chicago. I didn't see how Dad could be that bad so fast, and I REALLY wanted to go to Chicago, but all the adults said I should stay home, and that they would take care of Kyle. He hugged me and said, "Mom, you stay with Poppy. I will be okay." So I let him go and I headed to the hospital.

Dad was in bad shape when I got there. He was in severe respiratory distress, and we either had to medicate him to make him relax or intubate him, which in his Living Will he expressly said he didn't want. We got him oxygen through a CPAP machine and morphine to help him relax and by late that evening, his O2 levels were so low that he developed brain damage from lack of oxygen and went into a coma. He never woke up.

Kyle got home late Saturday night wanted to see Poppy, so Kirk brought him up. My sisters and I were with Dad 24/7 for the 5 days he was in the hospital. Kirk was popping in and out to check on us and bring us things. Our kids were farmed out hither and yon. On Tuesday, I got a call from Kyle that let me know he needed me, so I went home to be with him. I thought he needed me more than my dad at this point. I knew I had done all that I could do for Dad when it mattered and there was nothing I could do any more.

Kyle and I went to breakfast with my aunt and uncle and then I took Kyle to see one of the other counselors I know who deals in post traumatic stress. Kirk met us there, and we all talked about things and how to deal with the sadness and the guilt. It was good. After that Kyle and I went to a music store, and I bought him an acoustic guitar that he'd been wanting. He came home and played, and I went back to the hospital.

We moved Dad to Hospice the next morning.

On Wednesday, Kyle was supposed to start another camp, this one through the McConnell Center at the University of Louisville. It was called Young Leaders' Academy, and he had applied in June for it, and only 25 kids from the state of Kentucky were accepted. It was 4 days and nights at UofL in the dorm, with all expenses paid, interaction with McConnell Scholars, professors, etc. They were discussing historical leaders, and what makes a leader a hero or a villain. The one topic that got his attention was the question of whether Harry Truman was a hero or a villain because of his use of the atomic bomb.

He went on and went with the understanding that we would let him know if something happened to Dad. Kirk dropped him off that morning, and I let the director know what had been going on in Kyle's life. That evening after Dad died, I drove down to UofL because I didn't want Kyle to find out what had happened via text from a friend. He was coming out of the elevator on his way to swim with his new friends. When he saw me he looked at me like, "What are you doing here?" and then a second later, it was like, "Oh."

I told him Poppy had died and said he could come home if he wanted, but that the visitation and funeral weren't until Sunday and Monday after the camp had ended. I said Poppy had been so proud of him that he would want Kyle to stay. Kyle asked if I was okay with that, and I said absolutely, so he gave me a hug and a kiss and headed to the pool.

Kyle was a pall bearer for my dad at the funeral. He looked so grown up. You would not have known him. We've had him talk to the counselor again, and he seems to be doing okay. Me...not so much. I fixate on Finoy and the dynamics of recirculating holes and drownings and how Kyle could be dead right now. I listen to the messages Dad left on my phone over and over. I walk around his house roaming the rooms and can't believe he's gone. It's like he's still in rehab.

So, that's what I've been through in a month. My kids go back to school on Wednesday (girls) and Thursday (Kyle). I will collapse once they are gone. I got a gift certificate for a day at the spa for my birthday. I am going to use it!

Burying a Child of God

They began arriving one or two at a time, sitting in their cars, not sure of what to do. It was hot, and nobody wanted to get out first, so they waited in their suits with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning on until the hearse arrived. It was unlike any hearse any of them had seen before...a minivan with the funeral home's name on the back. The funeral director got out of the van and motioned for everyone to gather round. One by one, car doors opened and the young men made their way across the gravel road toward the pavilion.

They fiddled with their ties and buttoned their jackets, respectful and awkward at the same time. The funeral director asked for pall bearers, and all the guys stepped forward. Only six were needed, so the rest of the young men gathered around and volunteered to read the prayers and readings during the service. They divided things up so that every one of the 12 or 13 of them had something to do. The funeral director checked his watch and said, "Let us begin."

The pall bearers approached the back of the van and gently lifted the casket out. The wooden handles dug into their flesh, but none of them flinched, and they carried the cloth-covered particle board casket to the pavilion and placed it carefully on the pedestal and waited.

One of them began to read, but it was hard to hear him over the drone of the cars passing on the interstate nearby and the roar of the lawn mower in the distance. Someone reminded the boys to read loudly, so when his turn came, each one fairly shouted in order to be heard. They were reminded that God has prepared a place for everyone of his children and that there is no death, only life in Christ.

When time came for someone to speak about the deceased, silence descended upon the group, and the young men, heads bowed, began to look uncomfortably out of the corners of their eyes, waiting for someone to say something. Finally, the teacher spoke. She said, "While we don't know much about Mr. Smith, we do know that he was created in God's image. We also know that he was God's son, and that makes him our brother. And as with anyone who has died, we mourn their passing and celebrate that he is with God in Heaven. I ask that as you go about your day today, you remember Mr. Smith. Remember him during the school year. Say a prayer for him when you do, and he will not be forgotten."

They prayed for Eternal Rest and Perpetual Light, and then the pall bearers lifted the casket and made their way over to the grave site. It was a hole in the ground. Nothing more. No fake grass to cover the dirt that had been dug away. No fancy stands to hold the casket or draped lowering devices to ease it down. Not even a vault in which to place the remains. Just a hole. Nothing more.

Prayers were said as a man watched from the seat of the backhoe. Two guys in tee shirts waited with their arms slung across the fence and a chain lift at their feet. Cars zoomed by. Someone honked. The boys made the sign of the cross and headed back to their cars. The funeral director thanked them for their service to a stranger.

The teacher asked me which boy was mine. I pointed him out in his dark suit and tie, looking much older than his 15 years. She asked what was his motivation for coming today. I told her that he had been a pall bearer for his aunt who had died when he was in the 7th grade. For his confirmation, he had chosen St. Joseph of Arimathea because he felt like it was an honor to escort the dead to their place of rest. When he saw that school had a St. Joseph of Arimathea Society, which presides over the funerals of the homeless and poor, he wanted to join. He had experienced death lately, a friend who had 1000 mourners and his grandfather who had a loving family. How sad, he thought, if those people had had no one to mourn for them. No one to see them to their rest. So he came. She wanted to know if he was doing the service at 1:30. I said I didn't know, but I would ask.

We returned to our car and followed the rest of the young men down the gravel drive and onto the blacktop. We sat in silence for a minute or two, and I said, "That was nice. I'm proud of you for doing that."

"Yeah. It was WAY different that Grandpa's," he replied. "I felt sad for the guy that there was nobody there but us, but at least we were there for him."

"Do you want to help with the next funeral?" I asked.

"Of course," my son replied. "Yes. Of course."

We shared lunch then, the two of us, and talked about the summer and the life experiences we'd had, so, so hard for both of us. I looked across the table at my boy, and thought, "I am so very lucky to have you for my son, and so very, very proud of the man you are becoming."

He must have read my mind because at that minute, he looked up from his plate of food and smiled at me, a big grin, and said, "Thanks for bringing me, Mom. It means a lot."

We finished eating and headed back to the Potter's Field. We waited once again as the cars drove up, one by one, and the young men got out and began walking to the pavilion where they gathered around to bury the next child of God.

on the patio

My cousin, Jim, just left a bit ago. He was the last guest from out of town to go home. The new normal is upon me. I'm sitting on my patio listening to Enya. Probably not a good idea, but it's the mood I'm in. The sky is pink and the cicadas are loud. If I close my eyes, I am back on Whitehall Court, and my mom will be in the chaise lounge next to me reading a book. I will be 17 again with everybody still alive and no experience with pain save a broken romance or two.

I miss my mom and dad. Both of Jim's parents are dead too, so he knows how it is. When he left tonight, I told him he could always stay at our house if he wanted to come to Louisville. I told my Aunt Nanette that I was afraid they wouldn't come see me again. I can't bear the thought of losing my extended family along with my parents. Kirk says I'm the matriarch now. How is it I'm the matriarch at 43? Shouldn't that title go to someone older?

I just want to go to bed and sleep for a week. I want my dad. I want my mom. Now that everyone is gone, I can finally let myself feel sad, but I just don't know if I can handle it.

My Dad

A true gentleman is rare these days. A gentle man even more so. How lucky we were that our dad was both.

It didn’t matter if we were headed to Communion at mass or going into the Pizza Hut for dinner, Dad always, always let his girls go first. Even when he was having such a hard time getting around these past few months, sometimes even using his walker, he’d reach over to hold the door so we could go through before him. We’d say, “We’ve got it, Dad. You go on.” But he’d reply, “After you.” I know anyone who saw us out must have thought he had some terrible daughters. What they should have thought was that those girls had one exceptional dad.

We knew Dad loved us because he told us every day. One of the last things he said in the hospital was, “I love you. I love all of you.” He was never harsh with us or yelled. If we were getting out of line, all he had to do was say, “Hey,” and we knew he meant business.

Our dad was kind to everyone from old people to little children. He loved babies and could soothe one in a matter of seconds. He just had the touch, and babies knew it was okay when they were in my dad’s arms. Same with the elderly. He would offer his arm and slow to meet their pace and talk and smile as they got wherever they needed to go.

He was a man of principle. He would not do anything that was questionable or wrong. He was one of the men at church who actually counted the collection in the basement after mass and then drove it to the bank to deposit it in the drop box. He spoke up for what was right and held fast to his beliefs: Go to mass every Sunday, even on vacation. Take care of the poor. Don’t judge others. Always tell the truth. Buy American. Vote the Democratic ticket. He was never rude or pushy or forced us to follow him blindly, but we knew where he stood. The first time Kirk and I bought something other than a Chevy, I felt badly, but after we bought a Toyota, I went down and apologized!

He was always asking what he could do for us. He drove us everywhere when we were kids. We knew we could count on him to take us to the skating rink on Friday night and pick up five friends along the way. He would take us aside and ask if we needed any money and then slip us a couple of dollars to spend that night. My Uncle Jim remembered Dad always asking, “Can I get you anything?” If he had it to give, it was yours. No questions asked.

He came to every ball game, every play, every parent teacher conference. Whether he was watching Colleen or me sit on the bench or watching Jennifer catch fly balls in left field, we knew Dad was there, cheering us on.

His blue eyes had a twinkle that let you know he was up to something. He loved to joke and kid around and make people laugh. It was only after Mom died that that twinkle began to fade. I’d catch a glimpse of it every now and again when he was with his grandchildren, and I’d be whisked back to my childhood and the stories he’d tell that might start with something like, “And there I was, 30,000 feet above the ground and no parachute! What was I gonna do?”

The gentle man that Dad was began to become apparent to me one Christmas when I was about 10. That year, on his own, he contacted the parish and asked if there was a family who might need some groceries. He went to Kroger by himself and came home with bags and bags of food for this family. Canned ham. Tuna. Peanut butter. Crackers. Coffee. Spaghetti and sauce. Eggs. Bacon. All the food they needed was in these bags. What impressed me most, though, was he also filled the bags with food they didn’t need like Oreos and Captain Crunch and Pop Tarts and potato chips. Things that they would surely want but probably couldn’t afford. He did this every year, eventually taking us with him to help pick out the goodies, making this a tradition for us. My family has tried to do the same, but I am just not as faithful as my dad was.

And speaking of faithful, his devotion to our mother was beyond compare. I never realized how deeply he loved her until she got so sick after her final surgery. I can still picture him walking to her room in the hospital, the newspaper tucked under his arm, as he made his daily trip downtown to sit with her for hours and hours. I never heard him complain or get frustrated that he had to go to the hospital one more time. He was there, every single day, to be with my mom.

And then when she finally went home with Hospice, I watched in amazement as this man, who rarely changed a diaper, learned to crush Mom’s medication and mix it with her TPN and feed her through a tube in her stomach. He learned how to fill syringes with saline and flush her IV lines and deliver medicine that way too. He cleaned up after her when she threw up and emptied her catheter bag and helped her brush her teeth. Whatever she needed, if he could get it for her, he did.

This past September, Colleen and I joined Dad in St. Louis for his 60th high school reunion. He had gone to boarding school in Wisconsin, and we were anxious to get the scoop on what our Dad was like when he was a teenager. To find out what kind of trouble he’d gotten in. How much mischief he’d made in high school. We were sorely disappointed. Every man we talked with told us something you already know. One of Dad’s best friends in high schools said it best when he answered, “John was just one of the nicest guys I ever met.”

When I emailed Dad’s high school friends about his passing, they all commented on what a wonderful guy he had been. One of his friends called Dad “One of "God's Noblemen”.”

Another sent this response,

“By some intuition, from long, long ago, Fitz knew how to live.... by loving all people of God's creation...not in any overt showy, or superficial way, but from within, quietly, reverently, gratefully.
Through all of God's creation and creatures we get a glimpse of God. From some, we get a better glimpse, and from some of God's special friends we get quite a wonderful view that leaves us in awe. So, the adjective "awesome" is what I sense in reflecting God's gift to us in his gentle son, John.”