I'm the first-born; I was the one who made Mom a Mom and Dad a Dad. Mom wanted to have kids right away and for a few months, when it didn't happen, she cried. But by the time their first anniversary came along, she was in the final trimester with me. I was supposed to be born on Christmas, but I was fashionably late, just in time to celebrate New Year's Eve.
Mom, being the younger of two (an older brother, now a retired priest in the Fall River diocese), always wanted a big family. Dad was soon reassigned to an air base on the Cape; I think it was the longest we stayed anywhere during Dad's Air Force career; during this period of time, Diane, Philip, Elaine and Sharon were born. We were maybe an hour's drive away from our folks' family homes in the Fall River area. Our maternal grandmother died of cancer before I turned 3. She and my Grandfather were my godparents. We never knew our paternal grandfather who died while Dad, the youngest of 6, was still in middle school. We made plenty of trips back and forth; I can remember singing Christmas carols in the car. I dread the day I bring home a girlfriend to meet Mom; she has been waiting for years to tell the story of how I ended up getting covered with a bucket of clams over my head.
During those early years, younger enlisted military like my Dad didn't make much, and he often moonlighted to make more for his growing family. I think Dad didn't quite know what to make of me; for example, he often bought what he thought were cool boy toys for holiday gifts, and Mom said I barely looked at some of those (but I loved my toy bazooka with the blue missiles...) I think that as the oldest of a young growing family, I was expected to serve as a good example for the younger siblings.
From the time I left for college at 16, I've paid my own way (room and board as well as college); it was almost a culture shock when I visited home with my youngest siblings, Pete and Vivian, now in high school. They would casually dig out cans of soda pop or cartons of Blue Bell out of the freezer. Cake, soda, and ice cream were for special events like birthdays and first sacraments at church.
Dad wasn't the type who was demonstrative with his words (maybe reflective of his military discipline), but you could tell in other ways. The family was returning from Germany where Dad had been stationed. They briefly stayed at my college--my Dad was going to retire out of a San Antonio military base and hadn't secured housing. We were getting in line for Communion at the lovely college chapel and my Dad was making these sounds. It later dawned on me that he was emotional at seeing all his family together again.
In later years, it became more challenging to come home for the holidays. For example, in 2013, I had a new job in WV starting on my birthday (I had been waiting since late October for an interim background check). If and when I would come, he would inevitably think I needed a haircut (not that he paid); usually, he would take me to the NCO Club at the nearby base. Dad loved his beer (although he cut down due to doctor's orders the last few years). I am perhaps the slowest beer drinker in the world; he wanted to buy the next round, and my glass was still two-thirds full. I would try to get him to talk to me about the past, e.g., about his dad who died young, about favorite childhood memories. In particular, he talked to me about one snowy Christmas Eve, going to Midnight Mass, sleigh rides, etc. He explained why he joined the Air Force, some of the missing details of what happened in his last European assignment. (I can still recall I was at Grandfather's on Christmas, and there was a call about my Dad being in a hospital. My Grandfather took the call, and I could tell that he was worried. My Aunt Bea, one of Dad's older sisters probably there to pick me up to visit with her two daughters and my Grandmother, grabbed the phone and told me, "It's nothing Just shingles..." I was ticked off I wasn't getting the call...) But I remember trying to put together a soundtrack for the folks' golden anniversary; we all knew the folks loved Nat King Cole's "Too Young" (Mom was 18 and Dad was 21 at their wedding). But trying to get other songs out of them was almost impossible. I also did a post on Dad's favorite songs, but Mom didn't send me any suggestions
Dad and I had differing styles. In a number of ways, I'm more like Mom; I think I must have a Howdy Doody persona because people will seemingly pick me out of a crowd of shoppers, say, to grab a grocery item for them. I loved cocktail parties at academic conferences and introduce myself to scholars who had published key studies I had read in doctoral seminars. People I barely knew would tell me personal things within 5 minutes. For example, back at Newman while I was at UH, I knew a young talented outgoing positive black Christian singer, Janie. Her husband was a quiet white postal worker. He told me a heartbreaking story over how his parents disowned him after he married Janie and even refused to see their own grandchildren.
However, unlike my folks, I can be blunt and don't suffer fools badly. My Dad was more cautious; maybe it was his military disciple, or maybe a concern that spoken words could be used against you in a Machiavellian plot--something he couldn't risk as the breadwinner of a large family.
There were too few talks. Talking with Dad over the phone was tough because of his hearing disability (too many years on the flight line). If you look at Dad's 80th birthday pictures, he wore his age well; his big brother Ray (Emile) was just 2 years older. I knew Dad had developed back problems, and I remember Mom worried that he couldn't qualify for surgery because of his age. He finally did get his surgery, but he seemed to be listless after his surgery, unlike past surgeries. This bothered me.
Then a surreal sequences of events. The hospital had delayed discharging Dad to a rehab facility near the folks' house. I think he was finally discharged on a Sunday and admitted to the facility. Vivian sent out a positive report that the first rehab session went well on her way to fly back to Missouri. I was watching Monday evening television when I got a phone call from Mom. She told me Dad was dying and I needed to get there as soon as possible. There was a moment during the phone call where they had to escort her from Dad's side, and she was crying then; it looked like he wouldn't even survive the phone call. Nothing prepares you for that. I had just read Vivian's positive report. It seems shortly after Dad's session, Mom left to get a bite to eat. Dad's blood pressure fell through the floor--septic shock. It took everything the ambulance could do to get him to the military hospital barely alive, and they were doing all they could do just to keep him alive, but it was clear that his organs were beginning to shut down.
I believe I've written this account elsewhere but the details are seared in my memory. I couldn't find a seat to San Antonio out of Pittsburgh Tuesday. It was about a 1200 mile drive to San Antonio; should I just get on the road and start driving. Sharon called me Tuesday afternoon to repeat I needed to get there ASAP. I was hoping maybe he had been upgraded from critical to stable. (I've watched too many medical shows on TV.) I double-checked the flights and found a 3-leg one-way from Pittsburgh to San Antonio at noon. Sharon and husband Glenn were there to pick me up. No stopping on the way to grab a bite to eat. Little did I realize just two hours later Dad would be gone. All the siblings and spouses were there except Vivian, who later told us she had "known" it would be the last time she saw him and had said her goodbyes then; of course, she came back for the funeral Mass. They lessened the drugs so he could regain consciousness. I could tell he saw me and recognized me. It's weird what you think of in those circumstances; I think it's part of my humor and way of dealing with stress: I kidded that, yeah, I knew I had to get my hair cut. You tell him that you love him, that you'll watch after Mom. I want him to fight the good fight, even though he has been fighting all he can and is now in pain. I bring up some memories of our times together.
And then I'm in a state of confusion: why are they taking his breathing tubes out? Isn't it too early to do that? Dad starts hacking, his throat raw. Diane is calmly telling Dad to focus on his breathing; take deep breaths, Dad. Dad's breathing is becoming shallower. I don't know what's going on--can't the doctors see that his breathing is in trouble? Mom is now crying that the love of her life is gone. I no longer can see any motion from Dad; within a minute or so the doctor who has been outside comes in to announce Dad was dead.
I never heard Uncle Ray's peach story. I'll never hear the other stories and memories that died with Dad. I miss you, Dad. I love you.
