We all have events that we would call defining events or
life-changing events in our lives. This week is a defining week in my
life. This week mirrors Mother’s Day
week of 1972. That week was the terrible end to an 8-week ordeal. Mother’s Day was on Sunday, May 14th,
1972. My dad had been in intensive care
for six weeks following open-heart surgery.
We went to the hospital to see my mom and bring her little gifts we had
made, my two sisters, my little brother, and I.
Grandma and Grandpa took us up that day.
But we couldn’t see my dad.
Children under the age of 16 were not allowed in Intensive Care, so six
weeks had gone by with no visits. Beth
and I tried to sneak in, but we were caught and chased out many times over
those weeks. Mom taped snapshots of the four of us by his bed, to remind him
that he had to come home, that we were waiting for him.
He was 34, and had been in great health; he was a swimmer, a
boxer, and had the strong body of an athlete.
He could do push-ups with one hand, diamond push-ups, and push-ups with
claps between each one. He could hold us
on his hands while lying on his back and lift us high in the air, even me at
11years old. He worked two jobs to support us, but he still went to church with
us on Sundays and spent time with us when he wasn’t working. He was a believer in the possible, and he
made me believe that I could be anything that I wanted to be, even if I was a
girl.
Eight weeks earlier, the phone rang one cold March
night. I was sitting in the kitchen at
the table doing homework. It was my
dad’s work calling for my mom. They told
her that my dad had had a heart attack and was being taken by ambulance to the
hospital. She thought it was a joke. It took a few minutes for her to realize it
was true. My grandparents came right
over, (they only lived a mile away), and grandpa went with my mom to the
hospital while grandma stayed with us.
That began the journey that ended on May 15th.
Mother’s Day, May 14th was my dad’s last full day
on this earth. It seemed like a normal
day, at least as normal as it could have been under the circumstances. We kids had no idea how serious the situation
was. I was the oldest, at 11, Beth was
10, Kim was 4, and Jimmy was 3. How
could we begin to understand? Beth and I
knew his kidneys weren’t working, that something had gone wrong during the
surgery and they wouldn’t start. We knew
they had to bring in a special doctor and a new machine that did something
called peritoneal dialysis, but we had no idea what that really meant, except
that the machine was cleaning his blood because his kidneys weren’t
working. Truly, we thought they would
start working soon, and all would be well. Back then, there were no kidney
transplants, no answers beyond what was being done.
And so, we spent Mother’s Day afternoon at the hospital,
visiting with my mom until it was time for her to go in with dad, 10 minutes
every 2 hours. I stayed with her when
the others left that day. We sat in the
waiting room, watching the black and white TV and talking to other family
members. My other grandmother, my dad’s
mom, was there, too. Her birthday had
been the Thursday before, just like this year.
There was tension between family members, so she was in a different
waiting room. My aunt or grandpa took me
home later that evening.
On Monday, May 15th, I got up and got ready for
school. Grandma Marian was staying with
us. It was a beautiful Spring day. We had PE (we called it gym then) at the end
of the day. Kickball. I was chosen last. Not unusual, I am not very athletic. But that day, I kicked a home run. I don’t know why, but I remember I wanted to
tell my dad. After school, we went to
Uncle Bill and Aunt Sandy’s house. They
lived around the block from us, and Aunt Sandy was making spaghetti for dinner. Their house was full-they had four children
between the ages of 4 and 6, all four of us kids were there, too, and Aunt
Carol was there with Julie. Yep, 9
kids, 7 under the age of 6, and 2 women.
It was chaos. After dinner, Aunt
Carol was going to take Beth and me home.
I thought that was weird, since we only lived around the block. Aunt Carol has always been very sweet and has
hated any kind of bad news. She had been
told not to tell us anything, but we were trying to guess. I remember asking if there was a surprise,
and she said “kind of”. She smiled, but
now I know that smile was a defense mechanism.
She loved my dad, too, and had no idea how any of us were going to move
forward. I thought she was taking us
home to see dad, that he had been released from the hospital.
So, after dinner, she took us home. In her car.
Around the block. When we got
there, the driveway was full and there were cars parked in front of the
house. We had to park 2 doors down, in
front of Mrs. Turner’s house. When we
entered the living room, there were so many people there, my grandma and
grandpa, Uncle Bill (my mom’s brother), Grandma Garver (my dad’s mom), Grandpa
Garver, Grandpa Lewis, our pastor, and I think my dad’s sisters and
brother. My mom whisked Beth and me
upstairs into her room before anybody could say anything. She sat us on their big, King-sized bed and
told us. She said daddy was gone, that
his heart had stopped. He tried to live,
she said. He fought to live. He had had 9 cardiac arrests that day. But his heart gave out and he was with Jesus.
She tried to stay strong, but tears came rolling down her face. I don’t know how long we stayed up there, but
when we came down, most of the people were gone.
The rest of that evening was crazy. Plans were being made; phone calls placed,
people coming over, and then quiet.
Finally it was just the five of us, something that would become normal
for us in the coming days. I think we
were all numb. The next day, mom had to
finalize some arrangements. They would
begin showing my dad at Walter’s Funeral Home on Tuesday evening, so during the
day, we had to find dresses to wear. We
didn’t have anything suitable, so Aunt Sandy took Beth and I out shopping. They don’t make black dresses for little girls,
especially in the Spring. We looked at a million stores and tried on many
dresses, which was torture for Beth, who hates to shop and didn’t get along
very well with Aunt Sandy. We finally found some blue dresses that would have
to be okay because they were the darkest ones available. They came from Hudson’s, a store we never
shopped at because it was too expensive.
That evening, mom took us four into the viewing room alone,
before the crowds came. We went up to
the casket and Kim and Jim both cried.
Jim, especially. He screamed. I
understood why. My dad, a very fit 5’11”
180 lbs man had lost nearly 90 lbs over six weeks. His body was emaciated and his face looked
terrible. They put so much make-up on
him to try to cover the ravages of the past six weeks, but the effect was that
he looked like a monster. His perfectly fitted suit, bought at Christmas by my
mom (32 waist, 42 coat) hung loosely, even though I know they had pinned it in
the back.
Tuesday night began a long week of viewing at Walter’s
Funeral home and the Funeral service at Salem United Church of Christ. The burial was at Toledo Memorial Park
Cemetery. Today, I can close my eyes and
remember. I can see the people, the
funeral home, the church, the cemetery, my dad in the casket. I remember the smell of the funeral home,
formaldehyde and flowers (there were so many flowers). I can feel the darkness of the church nave
where my dad’s casket was open before the service. I can see the endless line of cars at the
funeral, as he was so loved by so many people. I can feel the fear and
sadness. I can still watch, in my mind’s
eye, my mom’s stoic demeanor that week in front of others, and hear the
heart-wrenching sobs from her bedroom at night.
My life and the lives of my family changed that day. It was a defining moment, a life-changing
event. I learned what it meant to trust
God and to believe that He is Good even when the circumstances are not. I learned that people made assumptions that
weren’t true: That we were all ok, that
we got over it, that we had plenty of money.
My dad had a very small life insurance policy, after all he was young
and healthy. I learned that what you see on the outside is really never what
exists on the inside, behind closed doors.
I learned what it meant to struggle by watching my mom, who always put
us first. I learned my faith from
watching her depend on God and call on Jesus.
And eventually I learned that we would all be ok, that we had purposes
to fulfill and we would go on.
Many times over these years I have found myself missing my
dad. Graduations, birthdays, Christmases,
family vacations. My wedding day. The day my sons were born and each milestone
of their lives. I believe he knows all these things, and I
know I have carried him with me along my journey. I am certain he would be proud of me, and I know that we will be together
again, in paradise.
This week of 2017, 45 years later, mirrors that week of
1972, at least in dates and days. And I am still learning to trust God for all
my needs every day. I am so thankful for
Godly parents that have stood as my example of how to live, love, and have
faith in my Savior. That event, 45 years ago, changed my life. I have never feared death, and have been able
to make it through difficult places because I already knew the worst thing that
could happen had already happened. I
knew, from that event, that one day my life on Earth would end, too, but I also
knew that meant I would be reunited with Christ and with my loved ones who went
before me. My job, from that day
forward, was to make a difference while I am given the opportunity.
