Learning To Love The Valleys

My Dad taught me about responsibility, loyalty, Norman Rockwell, patriotism, and church participation.  He always drove us to church where he was an usher.  I learned from him about tithing, charity, respect, voting, and appreciation of personal history and heritage.  He told me to be brave and honest.  He was the Grand Knight of the Knights of Columbus, and the Kentucky Derby was one of his favorite events.

I was mad at him for not buying me a typewriter when I needed it to do shorthand homework during high school.  Instead he suggested I get a part-time job and rent one for myself.  When I graduated from high school I had completed the business/secretarial course and participated in the work/study program.  I had rented a typewriter while learning the value of work.  (I thanked my father for that in his old age.)  I’ve since used shorthand and typing all of my life.

He always wore a suit and tie, was a sharp dresser; and that’s how I remember him the day he burst through the screen door on to our porch, shouting, “They’re coming home!  It’s all over!”  As our neighbors came through their doors just as excited, the whole neighborhood burst into applause and cheers.  Others stood quietly, shedding tears.  “The President just announced it!”  my father called.  “It’s over!”  He knew his brother could now come home, as well as my mother’s brothers, who were “over there.”  One of her brothers would not be returning, however.  He had given his life for his country.

I remember my father running into the house to get all his little American flags which he then lined the sidewalk with in front of our house.  Others hung their American flags out, and our tree-lined neighborhood in White Plains, New York was proud and happy that World War II had ended.
My parents danced in the kitchen that night….

Now, my mother, two sisters, and I stood around my father’s hospital bed at the time of his death many years later, his red hair now white.
I recalled his loyalty to the Yankees.

A friend had told me that when someone is hanging on endlessly at the time of approaching death, rubbing the top of their head in a slow circular motion helps them to let go.  I fought back tears as I slowly placed my hand gently on his head and began the first circle gradually.  Then a priest approached and started praying softly.  One by one each of us joined in as my hand went slowly round and round, and my Dad breathed his last breath on earth.  He had been the oldest child in his own family and saw each of his siblings die before he went to join them.  His green Irish eyes were now closed.  My hand felt extremely heavy as I slowly lifted it from his head.  The pain of final parting invaded my heart.

My father lived his entire life of 82 years in the same city where he had been born.  He had worked 44 years for the City Hall’s Finance Department.
I remembered my mother telling me that, from the day of his own father’s death, he had worn a yellow rose in his lapel every day, purchased at the florist’s on his way to the office.

We celebrated his life at a funeral mass in the same church where he had been baptized as an infant.  I put a yellow rose in the coffin with him.  As we left the church we all sang, “The Battle Hymn of The Republic.”

“In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,  With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;  As he died to make us holy, let us die that all be free!”

Although it was extremely difficult, I feel privileged to have been with each of my parents at their deaths.  My father’s death was expected when I arrived at his bedside.  My Mom’s came with little warning four years later.

“Please come and visit me.”  She had asked me to arrange for a flight from Colorado to New York to spend some time with her.  It turned out to be the most intimate, loving time of my life with her.

She had kept our big home immaculate and did most of the interior painting and wallpapering.  Creative in her ways of decorating each room, she was even more so in the way she dressed.  She was a beautiful woman who wore her long auburn hair swept up, and flowered aprons over her dresses.  On special occasions she enjoyed dressing up with hats, shoes, and gloves to match each outfit.  She sewed by hand, in tiny perfect stitches, and liked to embroider.  I learned to appreciate mix-matching colors from her, and to carry creativity into cooking.  I went to Monday night novenas to the Blessed Mother with her throughout my childhood, traveling to the church together on the city bus despite the constant pain in her knees.
Now, she needed me….

She had taught me to express gratefulness by writing thank you notes whenever receiving a kindness or gift.  The day after Christmas was always spent writing thank you notes.  I learned singing from her.  When I was a small child, we sang, “Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree With Anyone Else But Me…”, and “In Your Easter Bonnet.”  She was my encouragement in schoolwork and in participation in school programs and plays.

I liked to watch her dance with my father.  They were great ballroom dancers!

Now, she wanted me to come and visit her.

So I went, and we had such fun dining out each evening.  After my Dad’s death she had purchased a new car so that others could drive her where she needed to go.  (She had never driven a car.)  We went all over in her beautiful car, dining, clothes shopping, and visiting.  We laughed together and shared as we never had before, about girlish crushes of our teens, about motherhood, and of former misunderstandings.  She talked of her teenage dreams of being an actress.

She told me I was conceived on St. Patrick’s Day….

Then, one night, I awoke to hear her breathing heavily in her room.  I could see the light on and went to her.  She was sitting on the edge of the bed in her robe and told me not to worry; she was just having a little chest pain.  I insisted on driving her to the emergency room to be checked.  She told me she would not leave until I listened to her plans for her funeral.  I protested.  “Mom, there’s no need to talk like that.  We just need to find out what’s causing the pain and we’ll be back.”   No.  She refused to come with me unless I first listened to her funeral plans.  Realizing she would not budge until I heard her plans, I reluctantly sat down next to her on the bed.

She took her time explaining the scriptural readings and hymns she would like at her funeral mass.  She breathlessly hummed a bit of each hymn to be sure I knew the ones she wanted.  She surprised me by saying she wanted the mass to be celebrated at the church of her childhood, in upstate New York, the church of her Baptism, First Communion, Penance, and Confirmation.  It was also the parish of the parochial school which she had attended.  Not only that, but she told me where the money was hidden for the dress she wanted me to buy for her to wear in her casket.  It was to be pale pink, with a high lace collar and long sleeves with lace cuffs.

When she was finished talking she slowly dressed and I drove her to the hospital where she was admitted.  Her physician persuaded her to have some tests she had previously refused.  Afterwards, he described her arteriosclerosis and what he thought would be necessary surgery.  She was very sick following the tests.

She suddenly had a heart attack and was rushed into surgery.  She never woke up again, remaining in a coma. I stood with my brother, sisters, aunts and uncles as the priest anointed her for the last time.  She died a few days later.  Standing at her bedside at that moment, I was grateful for the time and intimacy we had shared.

It was a great source of comfort for me to know she had the funeral she had planned with me, and the dress she wore was the one that we purchased in response to her request:  the pink one with lace collar and cuffs.

A few days later we drove to Mt. Calvary Cemetery in White Plains, to the family plot, to her final resting place with my father, with our family name echoing before me on the tombstone, in deafening silence.

I had purchased a huge basked of green carnations, with large green ribbons and bows, an Irish tribute, for her funeral mass.
I have a hard time letting go of loved ones, so I tuck them in special places in my heart to be with me always.  That’s part of grieving for me.
I was happy whenever I saw my parents dancing, especially by the tall elaborately decorated Christmas tree each year.  Now, that is how I like to think of them…dancing in that large living room, or in the kitchen.