Life Begins At 50???

Around her 50th birthday Ma became ill with what she thought was a bad cold. Her house smelled strongly of Vick's and attempts to get her to go to the doctor's met with strong resistance. My brother had become ill and was avoiding going to the doctor's until Ma made him promise to go. He promised on the condition that she go to the emergency room and have her chest x-rayed. Mom did not take the giving of her word lightly and she did go to hospital as promised. She had been treating pneumonia, a heart attack, phlebitis and blood clots with Vick's and nearly died. She was in the hospital for a month and was never able to go back to being a waitress again.

Ma stayed at home for a few years and the medications she was taking started her hearing loss. She became bored and wanted to work again, in spite of being told not to by her doctor. She started cleaning houses for people and I often wondered what they would do if they came home and found her dead at the bottom of their stairs. She cleaned houses from about her 55th birthday until she was 77 when we insisted strongly that she stop. She is a strong, simple woman and her work ethic endeared her to her customers. She was treated like family by many of her customers and they still drop in occasionally to see how she is doing.

In 1994 I moved out West and lost the pulse of the everyday Ma saga, but stayed in touch by phone weekly. It was real apparent that Ma's hearing was all but gone when talking to her by phone. What she didn't hear she made up. This led to some very interesting assumptions made by Ma that had to be corrected by a visit by my brother who made certain she understood clearly what was told to her. I called one time and she asked if I was dating anyone, I told her I was and she asked what she did for a living. I told her that my friend was a widow and did not have to work. Ma quietly said "well I guess that is an ok way to make a living, are you ok with that?" I called my brother and asked him to try and straighten out her misunderstanding and he told me she thought I said she was a stripper, quite a difference between the words widow and stripper.

In 2000 I was working in Denver and went home for the holidays. Ma made dinner for all and just didn't look good. She became flush and I took her to the hospital the next day. She had experienced congestive heart failure and remained in the hospital my entire stay. After that her health degenerated progressively and her hearing was all but gone despite hearing aids.

She refused to stop working and driving a car. I moved back to WNY in October of 2004 and became primary caregiver for my mother a job I have yet been able to relinquish that role.

MA

Ma was the 4th of 5 children born in January 1929 in Buffalo, NY in the "Old First Ward". Her father was a self taught stationery engineer who managed to provide modest necessities throughout the depression. They were not well off but they didn't miss any meals. Her mother was a hardworking type with a heart of gold. She never turned away anyone that was hungry and she often fed the men jockeying for day labor on the waterfront from their meager provisions. They were devout Catholics and Ma was as reverent as you could imagine. Everyone in the First Ward were Irish Catholics, or so it seemed, and the community shared common challenges during difficult times. People all knew each other and the community bonded together in their support of relatives still in Ireland. St Brigid's church was built by Bishop Timon, the first Irish Catholic Bishop of the Diocese of Buffalo, and the church became a gathering place for the faithful. It also became a place where guns were smuggled to Ireland and the rebellious Irish met secretly to organize unions on the waterfront and in the steel mills.

How ma, a devout and reverent woman, ever ended up with my rabble rousing father is still a mystery to me. He was worldly and charming and she was unworldly and quiet. Mom and dad were married in Buffalo in 1951 and at first settled in the Ward. I was born when they lived over the "Soda and Ice Cream" shop on South Park Avenue. I was born in March of 1952 and sometime in the next year we moved out to South Buffalo before my Bother was born in July of 1953, Irish Twins. There were originally 5 of us born about 15 months apart, but a third boy died in child birth. My sisters were born in 1957 and 1958. We lived in a house purchased by my parents and paternal grandparents with whom we lived until I was about 12 years old.

We were not well off as my father was in and out of work until he went on the Fire Department in 1961. Ma supplemented our household income by working as a waitress. She was a hardworking loyal woman who never really had any interests other than her children. Relatives would joke about ma taking all us kids shopping on a Saturday. We were all hyperactive and Ma spent most of her time chasing us down the aisles and putting goods back on the shelf. She didn't get a lot of help with us from my father. We were often watched by my Maternal Grandmother who was a great storyteller and my Uncle Tom who never married.

Our home was a war zone at times as my father would disappear for weeks at a time and return home drunk and mean. Ma protected us kids from his temper and took the brunt of his abuse herself. She put up with a lot until my father stopped drinking in 1961. Soon after he stopped drinking he separated from Ma off and on for the rest of his life. Home 3-4 years at a time and then gone an equal amount. When he was around he was working, holding 3-4 jobs at a time. He was a hard worker but a difficult man.

Ma was the sole caregiver for us kids and had to work to provide us with the basics. She worked all kinds of crazy shifts to allow her to be home when we got home from school so she could monitor our free time. She really had no personal life to speak of and her only social outlet was her work as a waitress. This is very important because as she aged and degenerated she became unable to work and she had no other interests.

As my siblings and I grew up and had families of our own, Ma took care of our kids while we worked, vacationed or just needed time for ourselves. Ma took an important nurturing role with all of her grandchildren and sacrificed all she had for their care.

Ma was a self diagnosing patient when sick, using Vick's VapoRub for everything from a common cold to a heart attack when she was fifty. She didn't like medicine and I don't believe she ever took a medicine for as long as it was prescribed until she was about 50 years old when her heart attack and other ailments required her to take medicines daily or die. My story starts there and is ongoing today as she has dementia and can no longer live alone and I don't have the heart to put her in an assisted living facility. Our day to day living experiences are the source of much frustration and humor as we muddle through the dementia, hardening of the arteries, COPD and advanced hearing loss.

The Final Goodbye

Dad had made all his own arrangements before becoming incapacitated. I put the process in motion and his remains were removed from Hospice and cremated. The memorial mass was at St. Michael's Church where dad was a member. Thank God for friends and family as they supplied the labor to bring a breakfast to the church hall and my dear friend Gregg supplied the music. "Just a Closer Walk With Thee", "Danny Boy", and then a surprise for the Jesuits "Live Like You Were Dying". Dad indeed lived like he was dying. There were 200+ persons in the church. Family, friends, coworkers and retirees paying their last respects to a man loved and revered by many.

Life is far too short to live in quiet desperation. To live with self recrimination and self imposed limitations. If you have the courage to walk a different path, to love without expectation, to truly enjoy the company of friends you too can live like you are dying. Time is short, get on with it.

Escorting Dad to his own special St. Patrick's day.

Dad had become a fireman at the age of 30 and developed many life long friends from that experience. Tommy and Danny G. were brothers and dad was close to both of them, especially that last year or so.

Dad had begun losing is ability to swallow due to the cancer in his esophagus and confided this with Tommy and Danny. He didn't say much to anyone else until the expected verdict came in from an oncologist about November of 2007. His friend Danny had received a similar diagnosis for another form of the dreaded disease and both had their options outlined to them. They took counsel from each other and both arrived at the conclusion that they would rather go on their own terms than racked with the pain and indignities the treatment regimens would impose. Dad asked my brother and me to meet with him and he outlined what was going on and his plans to live his life on his terms for whatever time he had left. We agreed with him and discussed what he wanted to do about telling others and the arrangements for his inevitable passing. We made arrangements for his cremation and the memorial ceremony and we encouraged him to do whatever he wanted to do for as long as he was able. He continued working through December of 2008 and played cards every Thursday until January 11, 2009 when his health became too compromised to continue. On January 1st I moved in with dad to assist him in his lonely journey.

I had begun visiting my father in late November 2008 to watch the Buffalo Sabres play hockey on television and we watched every game together until March the 17th of 2009. He had begun using a cane to get around which he had refused prior because it made him look old. He was rather vain and had a full head of beautiful white hair that he cared for like it was gold. His vanity lives on through me and I have a great head of brown hair due good genes and an assist from my hair stylist/dye specialist which dad never quite understood. That cane became a symbol of his degeneration. He went from cane to walker to wheelchair to Hospice over the course of 10 weeks. His refusal to succumb without a fight to each level of degeneration filled me with pride in him and a little shame in myself as I don't find that kind of courage so close to the surface in myself. I have been forever changed by his example.

I need to take a side bar here to say a word about Hospice and their people. Gretchen the Great is a beautiful young blond woman, competent in every way. Especially in her ability to handle dad. If Gretchen said it ... it was law. Dad was easily influenced by beautiful women, and the combination of her beauty and knowledge placed her in revered status. I would make informed observations about dad's condition and he would argue with me and tell me I wasn't a doctor. Gretchen would more or less make the same observation and you would think he was hearing it for the first time. She certainly had his attention and his best interest in her heart. I am forever grateful to her and that organization. Hospice has a view of death and dying not easily accepted by mainstream professionals. Without their assistance I could never provide the kind of care dad required. They made the transition to the next life as smooth as possible. They provided doctors, medicine, equipment and emotional support that I could never have done without quitting my job and devoting every waking moment to his care.

People mean well but often put their own needs above those of a dying loved one. No one wants them to go and they try all kinds of motivational tactics to rouse the the patient from their lethargy. My dear departed sister insisted on physical exercise to work him back into shape. She was hurt when she was told "let me die in peace". She really wanted him to live and the inevitability of his passing was too much for her to acknowledge and accept. Most people spend their time with the departing soul telling them how much better they look and avoid the obvious discussions about their feelings and support of the person's choices. Dad and I had no problem freely discussing his passing and his view of what comes next. He was ready and able to go and just needed someone to be there with him. I had that privilege. Just before he passed I had a birthday, 39 again I think, on March 13th. He encouraged me to go out with my friends that night and I really didn't want to. Wednesday the 11th we spoke of birthdays and he told me he had hoped to make it to his birthday in October. I told him he was real short and I was hoping he would make it to mine on Friday. He gave me that look out of the side of his eyes that acknowledged the pending outcome and told me he was glad for the truth.

I went out for my birthday, leaving dad in the care of my brother. I set up the medicines and left for a few hours. Upon my return about 1 AM my brother was visibly shaken by the decline in my father in those few hours and he felt dad belonged in a hospital. We waited for dad to finish in the bathroom and together spoke to him about this. He told us he wanted to be at home and I agreed with him. Throughout that night dad was restless and dreaming out loud. He was speaking to his parents as if they were in the room, he recited his cyphers for some Sister Mary something or other, and he began undressing to go swimming in the pond. When I told him we didn't have a pond he sat back down and fell asleep. We both slept in the living room in recliner chairs and I awoke with him staring at me with very sad eyes. He stated/asked if he really did belong in a hospital and I told him yes. He asked me if I could make that happen and I told him I could. I then called Hospice and they assisted making all the arrangements necessary to bring him to their facility in Cheektowaga, NY. As we waited for the ambulance, dad had to go to the bathroom at home for the final time. As I placed him in the chair I saw the ambulance pull up and was wondering how I was going to handle all the conflicting responsibilities of the moment.

I got dad to the bathroom and situated and then answered the door for the EMT's. They set up the gurney in the living room and I assisted dad from the bathroom for the final time. The hall is narrow so I had to pull him backwards toward the living room and he could not see the attendants waiting there. When we were able to turn the chair he noticed that one of the attendants was another beautiful blond woman, like his Gretchen, and he started flirting with her and running his hands through his hair to improve his appearance. I called him on it saying, "you're dying for Chrissake." He said "I ain't dead yet." They gently led him out of his apartment for the last time. I contacted my siblings and drove to the Hospice facility.

People came and went Saturday, Sunday, and Monday and the drama proved too much for me. I began staying in the lounge and checking on him every 1/2 hour or so. This went on until the early morning of Tuesday, March 17th. My daughter stayed overnight and I went home to get some sleep. In the night dad had his "Last Stand", a common occurrence for men of his temperament. He removed the restraints and began sitting up trying to get out of bed. My daughter frantically told him to stop and he swore at her and continued to get up. She told him that she would sit on him if he didn't cooperate and he said "all right baby" and calmed down for the last time. They called me at home and said I should hurry to the facility as he was in his last hours. I contacted my siblings and went to the facility for the last time. We stayed all day and I made my every 1/2 hour checks as I read and watched TV in the lounge. The Sabres were playing Ottawa that night at 7:35 PM and I tuned in the set to watch the game without dad for the first time since November. I went in to check on him at 7:30 PM and kissed him on the neck and whispered in his ear "If you want to watch the game on the really big screen you need to go now". As I left the room the nurses rushed in and stopped me in my tracks, dad went to watch the game at face off time, 7:35 PM on March 17th, 2009.

Dad

Dad was the only child of Irish/Canadian immigrants who came to the United States in the 1920's looking for work. He was born in 1925 and his mother almost died in childbirth so he was raised by his Aunt Mary for several years while his mother recuperated. Mary died and he returned to live with his mom and dad when he was about 5 years old. He became very independent and self reliant as the result of his early experiences, a trait that would stay with him for a lifetime. At 17 he joined the Navy and fought in WWII. He returned and found work in the steel mills with his father. He developed a taste for the demon rum and all but destroyed himself and his family with his early escapades. He stopped drinking for life at the age of 36 and became a determined worker and friend to many. His independence and sarcastic Irish wit made him a favorite with his friends and his willingness to go the extra mile for anyone in need endeared him to many. Dark humor often put him at odds with self righteous folks whom he found to be a distinct pain in the ass.

Dad was an avid reader and worker of crossword puzzles most of his life and became quite learned. At the age of 48 he walked into the Buffalo Board of Education and took the GED exam without studying and passed with Flying colors. He went to college at the age of 65 and took courses in Psychology and Sign Language in which he also excelled. He was proud of his intellectual capabilities and developed them right up to the last days of his life.

Dad was often referred to as the Angel of Death as he was at the side of all his friends as they became old and sickly. He drove them to doctors appointments and went to everyones funeral as the old gang thinned. Being with him at the end of his life was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I am forever grateful for his willingness to share himself in this most private of times.

Let's get started.

In the typical Irish way, my parents took care of my grandparents and I, in turn inherited them. Dad passed this year on St. Patrick's Day (imagine that) after a long and painful bout with cancer.

I returned home from the west in 2004 and became primary caregiver to my parents who were estranged and living apart for 10 years when I came back. Two residences and lots of miles on my car went into their care, and each were and are very different people with differing levels of care needed. The care of my father was relatively easy as he was a fiercely independent and competent man who took pride in taking care of himself. Other than a few little necessary tasks he was pretty much self sustaining up till the last three months of his life. That experience is the one I plan on sharing in this venue and then I will move on to mom who is a challenge as she is not competent but thinks that she is. That is my ongoing responsibility, self imposed but necessary. I plan on sharing my ongoing perspective as ringmaster of this circus. God Bless for now.