FIVE YEARS HENCE
REST IN
PEACE, DAD
A hard end
for a hard luck guy
(Sunday March 3, 2013. New York, NY)
Five years ago today the Brooding Cynyc lost his Father. That single death took from BC not only the finest
man he had ever known but also his closest friend, confidante, and most trusted
confessor. BC was blessed to have gotten
to know his Father very well over the course of his last 18 years on earth. Not many are bestowed such a gift, the
invaluable experience to learn the intimate memories his Father so graciously,
generously and candidly shared.
BC learned about his Dad by hearing about him as a boy. The
circumstances of his birthplace, birth order, and the composition of his family
as well as the times of those days were all intricately provided by verbal
brushstrokes and his Dad's ability to use his palette of colors to capture the mood
and tone of his earliest years. His
powers of recall never diminished and that the clarity of his memories was so
potent attests to their significance in making him the man he eventually was.
Hardship and grinding poverty formed his youngest years and those two forces
left indelible marks on his character and spirit. In many ways, as was so common in
pre-depression America and during that decade of shared sacrifice and vouchers,
of rampant unemployment and despair, those experiences of deprivation girded
him for what would be a lifetime of financial insecurity which compelled him to
work two and at times three jobs just to make distant ends meet. He assumed his responsibilities and
obligations in that straightforward a manner that seems to have been expressed
genes in that generations DNA.
A HARD END FOR A HARD LUCK GUY
Nothing ever came easy for him
and he never had a moment of expectation to the contrary; he expected to work
and work hard, to stay true to his beliefs and code and maybe, just maybe,
things would work out. His points of
reference were rooted as were so many millions of his peers, in the Great
Depression, a time of great difficulty the binds of which were finally broken,
oddly enough, with the advent of the Second World War. After Pearl Harbor he listened with his family to Franklin
Roosevelt on a crackly old Philco radio forever brand December 7, 1941 “a day that will live
in infamy”. He watched as one by one his older brothers were sucked up by the
great vacuum of the “war machine” that would out produce, out man, out do the
Axis powers and ride that young generations shoulders to victory. None of his brothers returned from The War the same as they were when they went in just as Dad was changed by the Marine Corps when he was called to serve.
By the time he sat in the
Chapel at Marine Air Station Cherry Point, North Carolina, the great war effort
had become the burgeoning “military-industrial complex”. He told the young Brooding Cynyc years later
his recollections of sitting in that pew before boarding a troop ship the next
morning and thinking that the Marines who had occupied that very same pew were
likely already dead on various South Pacific atolls and spits of blood soaked
coral reefs as well as those far flung battle grounds that would come to define
Marine Corps tenacity and bravery forever; Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Iowa Jima, Okinawa
and other godless anonymous tropical islands of death.
Perhaps after having a
character forged in the cauldron of deprivation, sacrifice, and war, life, no
matter how challenging and difficult, no matter how racked by tragedy,
disappointment, and irony, could ever be seen as all that bad. His life, he knew, would never be graced by
good luck and no amount of the hard scrabble daily grind that lasted decades could
he call bad luck. No, his was a hard
luck, a fate perhaps pre-ordained by a god with a twisted sense of humor and a
touch of a mean streak he never spared one of his most loyal, devout and true
believers from.
And so it was as it ever had
been.
***** *****
***** ***** *****
Five years ago on this day
that amazingly kind and gentle man passed away.
In commemorating his life on this sad day, below are some of the notes
made by his son during the course of a three week
hospitalization. Brooding Cynyc kept watch over him every
night of those three weeks despite the maddening fact that his Dad was
comatose. Perhaps it is in the notes
that follow written five years ago that the best tribute can be made to
that fine and grace filled man can be found.
LAST EXHALE
When he took his last breath I didn’t see it. I know he had to have taken a last breath
because he was breathing very feebly, very shallowly, almost imperceptibility
since the nurse and respiratory technician had decoupled him from the IV’s and
tubes that had been doing for him what he could not do for himself for 20
days. Twenty days and twenty nights he
lay there being kept “alive” or rather, more accurately, having his breathing
and heartbeat sustained by the power ConEd supplied to the hospital. He never wanted this; he had been adamant
about this very scenario. We had spoken of it probably more times than most
fathers and sons do because death was my business. Not causing death, but trying to understand
it from the criminal sense and the autopsy table in the morgue.
He had an advanced directive; he’d made clear his wishes many times
in the years prior to his departure.
But, when he had fallen down the stairs and lay unconscious with shards
of his ribs piercing his lung causing a minute nick in his colon, the only
person at hand when he was finally taken to the hospital was her. My mother, Mamma Mia. In their later years he had tried to discuss their deaths, make
arrangements for burial and tend to all the other tasks that would suddenly befall family
members in the wake of one of their owns passing but, she refused. She wouldn’t hear of it.
So, advanced directive or not, he was transported to the nearest
Emergency Room by FDNY EMS and the staff there began doing their jobs. You see, he was conscious, sort of, when he
arrived in the ER but gravely, lethally injured; certainly not aware of just how
serious his condition was. So, the
nurses and doctors did what they are supposed to do. After all, what is the alternative? Had I been present that wickedly cold early
Sunday morning in that ER and had I told the staff that my dad had an advanced
directive would they have said, “Okay…thanks for letting us know. We’ll stop what we’re doing”, and pushed him
on a gurney into some shadowy, drafty side corridor to die? No.
But once they began tending to him they unintentionally initiated what
would be a protracted, dehumanizing, but, on their parts, valiant effort to make
him well again.
But now I was with him 19 days after that Sunday. He’d been through a great deal. His punctured lung was discovered and
repaired that first night in the hospital but it would be another 3 or 4 days
until a tiny tear in his transverse colon was radiological identified and, by
that time the contents of his colon had been leaking out into his abdominal
cavity and a raging infection had overtaken him. By the time that nick in his bowel was surgically repaired
he had been in an induced coma for 24 hours.
He would never rouse from that odd state; from the place he was poised
along that gradient of consciousness, and coma.
The monitor that sat on a small shelf adjacent to and just above his
head tracked his brain activity with puzzling consistency. He was not “brain dead”. But, where was he? Could he hear what was going on around him,
was in suffering and in pain, did he feel my hand in his when I clutched it? No one will ever know.
I became his night shift sentinel holding vigil with this man I
loved so much. Hour after hour, night
after night, I listened to the mechanical sounds of the life support
apparatus. I spoke to him, maybe I spoke
at him, I don’t know. It did not
matter. I stayed with him, read to him,
told him the news of the day ,old jokes and stories. I
studied him, his face with all the intensity I could muster until I saw his
face even when I fell into a few hours of restless sleep.
I could draw a perfect portrait of that face although I am not an
artist. I knew every line and
crease. I knew the odd twist the
respiratory tube gave his lips. I shaved
his face some nights; slowly, as gently as I could I did for him what he had so
many years ago taught me to do for myself.
Funny how such an innocuous, mundane matter of grooming became akin to a
sacred ritual on those nights.
The fateful cascade of events that ensued following his mysterious
fall was brutal to observe. But the
vigil would not end until he ended it.
And, it would be ended by a decision, a wrenching decision that could
have been avoided or could it have been?
I suppose that at any time after the colon surgery as his white blood
cell count remained increasingly and astronomical elevated and, gradually system by system,
organ by organ his corporeal body began to fail, my mother, his wife could have
stepped in and said “Enough! No more
attempts at dialysis, no more center lines, new drugs, or anything.” But, she could not even after it had become
grossly apparent to me and my siblings that he would never return to us as he had
been; that this three week war within him was being lost and all further
medical intervention would be nothing more than mutilation. We could not allow that but it was not our
call.
My sisters each separately spent time alone with him to say good
bye, to tell him they loved him and it was okay to let go, it was okay to stop
fighting, it was time to go Home. They
both returned to their homes and lives but I stayed on. I could not, would not leave. I didn’t care how long it took but I was also
acutely aware what task had been left for me.
I would have to tell my mother that she had to tell him it was okay to
go Home. Wherever his consciousness was,
whatever neural capacity remained, he had to hear her voice giving permission to leave
us. So, I did. I told her on a bitterly cold Sunday night
and after a while she came out from his CCU room, she told me she had said good
bye to him and then left to go back to their apartment.
The window in his room looked out on the Hudson River, that
familiar sight was a mere 80 yards from the main entrance to the hospital. I stood looking out the window and five
stories below I saw my mother waiting at the taxi stand. The wind was whipping the bottom of her coat
and one end of her scarf. Her little
shopping back was being tortured by that fierce off the river wind. She looked so small, so alone, so deflated. I watched as she got into the back seat of a
cab and saw as she glanced up in the direction of the room I stood in. Maybe she was saying a final good bye to the
old fella. I don’t know. I never asked.
Within an hour or so his doctor returned to the CCU holding the
papers in his hand my mother had signed giving permission to have all the
machinery removed. Although it was close
to midnight he was impeccably dressed; a charcoal grey three piece pin striped
suit, starched white shirt and sedate burgundy tie. It must have been his standard uniform. Every time I spoke with him he had that suit
or one nearly identical on. He had a few
other ties too. He had been a fine
doctor to deal with, a very intelligent, perceptive man, a good clinician. I had come to like him in that odd way that
we can become awkwardly attached to a stranger who shares a crisis with
us. He kindly told me that I had done
the right thing encouraging her to let my dad go. He said words to me that I knew to be
sincere; I knew he wasn’t just saying words, that he was expressing his real
sentiments. It was as if he was condoning dad’s impending departure for surely
he’d not last long absent the life sustaining technology. I appreciated his candor, the respect he
always showed my comatose father, and the quiet dignity with which he carried
out the duties of his profession.
I returned to my post; an uncomfortable oddly shaped chair of whose
Byzantine design was incomprehensible.
Dad looked so different without the tubes and sensors, impaled no longer
by valves and gauges through which sustenance and antibiotics had flowed. They had changed his bedding. The clean white sheets were pulled almost up
to his neck and one of the nurses had made a considerate fold down on the top
of that sheet. From where I sat, then
stood, that pristine, stiff sheet covered his once sturdy body; a body now rendered so small and frail. But I had witnessed so many sorrowful
transformations during the course of his CCU stay that I was not particularly
moved.
I was moved when I put my mind to it, when I allowed my emotions
and memories to take the field. I stood
and looked at this man who had given me life and so very much more looking for
a sign; some movement or motion that would indicate some change of state. Just as I had sat night after night looking
for a twitch of a thumb, a crease in his brow, a return grasp on my fingers, it
did not come. How many nights had I
conjured up optical illusions, how many moments had my heart skipped a beat
when I thought I’d gotten through, that I’d made contact? Like a thirsty desert traveler with a
sunbaked brain who sees the nourishing, lifesaving pool of water beneath the
shade of a wide frond of palms, I was prone to mirages; staring so intently at
this man that my eye saw movement when there was none. But, I kept the Faith until it could no
longer be kept.
Alternatively throughout the next hours I sat and stood. I never stopped speaking to him, telling him
that a great and well-earned trip was ahead of him: that he’d soon see his own mom and dad, his brothers’ and sisters who’d
preceded him in death, his old buddies from the Marines, and all the others he’d
known, loved, and lived with throughout the often rocky, hard luck course of
his years on Earth. For those hours that
passed like minutes I adopted his Faith, his child-like belief in the catechism
of Catholicism. I so desperately wanted
all he believed in to be true because then everything would make sense; all his
hurt and pain, his labors and burdens, his reliance on what he believed, would
be worth it; rewarded because he had remained true in his Faith.
There was a last breath. I
just missed it. I did see his final
exhale; it was as soft as a slumbering baby’s sigh, as gentle as the Soul that
was departing from his now lifeless body.
I gripped the cool metal at the foot of his bed and felt a sudden chill. My feet got cold and I took two steps forward
and I was at his head. I kissed him on
the forehead and ran my fingers through his suddenly soft white hair. I looked at him. I put my hand on his chest and thanked him.
He was the finest man I have ever known and I remain humbled and
proud that he was my dad.
He was the best of the best; the strongest of the strong and I will
miss him not only because he was my Father but because he was my friend.
Godspeed, Marine.
Step lightly over.
You have been called home.
I love you Dad, always will.
You made the difference.
March 3, 2008
Nyack, New York
***** *****
***** ***** *****
Physics and Death
Some of the most basic of the Laws of Physics relate to matter;
that which occupies space. The
fundamental definition of matter explains that it can neither be created nor
destroyed. All the matter that has ever
existed in the universe still exists; the only change it is subject to is the
form it takes. Solids can turn to
liquids, inert gases to compressed volatile elements capable of creating
energy.
Where do we fit into the Laws of Physics, after all, we are
something else. We are matter in the
most empirical sense meeting its simple definition but transcending it by leaps
and bounds. Still, the basic principals
hold true and that much has been recognized since antiquity. Written in the King James Version of the
Bible in the Book of Genesis, is the phrase "By the sweat of your brow you
will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were
taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return." Some scholars say that the more familiar
phrase, “earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust", which is often
used in funeral services comes not from the Bible but rather The Book of Common
Prayer which is firmly based on that verse 3:19 from Genesis. Maybe so but this is not a theological
analysis.
This is about death, a very personal death, the most personal death
I have ever experienced. What lies
before me just feet away may be physical matter but is really my dad, a man, a
human being who has lived many decades, seen, experienced, and participated in
many events from the most mundane to those that were most significant within the
contours of his life. He was an animate,
thinking, thoughtful, caring, loving being until just days ago when a fall
began a cascade of biological events within his body that have him here now,
tonight, as last night and the night before, hovering in a state of being that
exists only because there is machinery that allows it.
February 22, 2008
NYC
***** *****
***** ***** *****
IN THE CITY
He’d lived his entire life within a ten mile radius of the place he
was born. Aside from his time in the
Marine Corps, this radius was the entirety of his world. He walked the same streets as an old man as
he did as a child. His memories were his
daily landscape, he was never far from what had driven him and haunted him;
from the sites of his happiest moments as well as his bleakest. The world changed around him, the buildings
and streets aged, saw times of despair and rejuvenation while he remained who
he had always been. The confines of his
world could be as comforting as they could be saddening. It was all a matter of perception and
perspective.
His people had come from Ireland in the 1880’s and settled in
Brooklyn. By the time his Dad married
his Mom in Holy Trinity Church in Hell’s Kitchen his fate may have been
sealed. Who knows? Are we all not
subject to fate? To birthplace, birth right, and genetics? Yup. It is very difficult to move too far beyond
where we began. No, it’s not impossible
but it requires a conscious effort, energy, desire and a fair amount of
luck.
But his generation did not really think in such terms; they did
what they had to do both out of obligation and expectation and, if afterwards
they managed to break through the ceiling, so much the better but, you had
better not think it would happen. That
would be wrong; don’t get above your raising, don’t forget where you come from,
remember who you are.
February 19, 2008
The Bronx, New York
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
ETD
The finality of death is close at hand. Actually Death is here. He is lurking in that far corner right now,
that corner between the little bedside table and the window from which the
Hudson River shimmies in the night from the reflected lights of upper
Manhattan. Yes, Death is so close he can
almost be touched. I’ve tried. I’ve lunged toward him when I thought he’d
let his guard down or was too preoccupied with other items (souls) on his agenda
but, I was never quick enough, not quite nimble enough to grab him by the
wrist. But, he is here and he seems as
patient as I. We can both maintain this
watch over my father who lies silently but perhaps aware of his two guardians;
I, determined to wrest him away from the abyss, the other eager to be done with
him and move on.
Much has been written about Death.
Volumes could fill the shelves of numerous libraries as repositories for
all the words that have been written about Death.
Death sometimes comes “like a thief in the night”. That is not so
here. That he is a thief there can be no
mistake but he has chosen this time to arrive with feigned politeness, to sit
among us in this cramped place, and wait.
We are all waiting. But we are
waiting for different and vastly contrary outcomes.
We wait for the physiology of this one particular man, his internal
organs and systems, the variety of specialized cells that comprise him to
finally make him whole again, to complete their assigned tasks and permit him
to be roused from his most unnatural sleep.
Death is waiting to take him.
Death mocks us and our hope, our prayers, our energy. Death sits with his legs crossed and a
sinister sneer on his face as if he knows something we don’t. But we know what he knows. He is certain he will be victorious, proven
right and ultimately take this man from us.
He sits with the patience that confidence brings. After all, he’s been at this a long
time. This is new for us, bewilderingly,
heartbreakingly surreal. This is his ballgame
and we just his current opponent.
When I am alone in the small hours of the morning and it is only
Dad, Death and I here together, I can fume, I can seethe with rage that, if
unleashed would certainly be capable of beating Death to death. How about that? Beating Death to death.
Death is a formidable adversary especially when he sets his cold
gaze on one who has not lived a full life, anyone finding themselves
confronting death prematurely. These are
prized captures for Death and he seems to take a particularly cruel delight
when he can escort one to where ever Death takes them.
Perhaps it is wrong of us to accept some deaths more easily than
others. But human nature infuses us with
expectations; points of reference that allow us to categorize, rank, and rate
death based largely on age. When grandma
expires at 99 years old even the jargon used at such a time is vastly different
from when our neighbor’s 7 year old succumbs to a fatal disease or is struck by
a car while chasing a bouncing ball across the street.
We all live with the specter of death. Its inevitability, inescapable but most of
us do not dwell on it or, when we do occasionally contemplate it, we will only
go so far with that line of thought. As
we age we go further and further with that line of thought simply because the
arithmetic of sentience becomes less and less abstract. The 20 year old sees an almost unlimited open
vista of days to live ahead while the 80 year old knows that the days ahead are
limited.
Death is nothing if nothing, creative.
He comes in my guises. Sometimes he uses disguises. He comes in many and varied forms and shapes
from disease to disaster, from accident to incidence. Perhaps his most sadistic incarnation is when
he dons the cloak of malignant disease; of a long protracted debilitating
descent that takes his target piece by piece and, in so doing inflicts collateral
damage.
I know he is here. I am not
sure he will win this time. He will
ultimately take dad just as he will me and everyone I’ve ever known and all
those who occupy this planet with me today.
He just seems a little settled in and getting more accustomed to the
routine he has established in this little cubicle.
Death can be “cheated”, “narrowly escaped” but never defeated. It is just not possible.
From where I sit tonight Death’s estimated time of departure, that
moment when he has seen enough and helps extract my dad’s Soul from his
lifeless body, has not yet been posted but I check the board every now and
then. He might be a bit delayed
by turbulent weather or grounded by the fog of antibiotics coursing through the
system of a body elsewhere in this building.
But he is here. He has arrived.
He’s just not yet ready to leave.
The question now, the only remaining question, the question that
begrudgingly lets me say a prayer, hold dad’s hand, kiss him on the forehead
and just sit with him is, when will Death make his exit? When will he depart? He came here alone but will leave with
someone else. He’ll make the next leg of
his timeless journey in the company of another.
It could very well be that he will leave and take my dad with him.
February 25, 2008
The Bronx
New York City
Copyright The Brooding Cynyx 2013 © All Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment