Authoria: This is the final half of the opening chapter “Circumstances”, which tells the story of the deaths of my parents and what happened to me before, during, and after.
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My father had suffered a major stroke that same year on Father’s Day, whenever it was in June. So while my mother entered her declining final four months, my father’s health nosedived with a significant impact on his quality of life. I remember sitting in the living room with my parents, my mother sickly and bloated and drugged to the gills and my father stroking out, begging them to let me call for paramedics for him. I should have done it anyway, something I’ll never forgive myself for, but I think it shows how muddled my own brain was by exhaustion and stress that it did not occur to me at all. I went back to my bedroom and cried for hours, refusing to come out – quite the rebellion, in my household, although it had little impact. From that point on, Poppa was crippled by the effects of the stroke and somewhat (in his words) “addlebrained” about things like leaving the stove on, or doors open. I was on constant watch.
Poppa was 20 years older than my mother (yes yes, cradle robber!), so at 71 he was suffering from a lifetime of post-war PTSD and alcoholism (neither ever diagnosed, but I assure you both conditions were real) and chain smoking. His family generally lived to 100 (literally) so while I accepted his declining health, I did not fear it as much as I should have. Denial is not just a river in Egypt, etc. etc.
During prep for an angioplasty surgery on Poppa’s left leg, heart flutters showed up and the surgeon called off the operation in order to monitor Poppa’s condition. That was in February, 1996, and kicked off three months of Poppa shuffling off this mortal coil in defeat. Nothing I did or said gave him the will power to keep going; he was tired and sick and worried about me, and finally his body collapsed on April 25, 1996. I had to drive two hours to get to him – the nurses at the out-of-town V.A. hospital had sent me home that afternoon for fear that I was driving myself to collapse, a plan that backfired on all of us spectacularly, I think. I had to “call it”, although he was pretty much already gone by the time I got there, so his official death day is April 26 because he was taken off life support at around 2am in the morning. I still get it mixed up, thinking he died on the 25th, because to me it was just one long day. I was shocked because despite all evidence to the contrary, I really had expected Poppa to keep going for another decade or more.
I was 25, just shy of 26.
For me, this was the end of my whole immediate family. All of my grandparents were already dead (the last survivor, my paternal grandmother Granny, died in 1992), and I have no brothers or sisters. My parents worked long and hard to alienate their own siblings (they were the black sheep of their respective families, by choice) and while Mother’s whole tribe showed up for her final days, they did not stick around or have much to offer me. I do not throw that out as an accusation; after years of training, I only knew how to alienate them myself, and they did not know me at all. There were overtures, which I let fall dead at my feet, and after that a respectful distance was maintained by all parties. When my mother’s older sister, Aunt Barbara, died two years later from breast cancer, I cried but did not bother going to the funeral. I did not feel that I belonged there, or that I would be welcome. A fallacy on both counts, I think, but what is done is done.
In the background, Aunt Sheila (mother’s younger sister) and Cousin Jimbo (and his partner, Paul) ended up shadowing me for years, sending holiday cards and irregular emails. They were desperate to at least stay in touch, something I did not put much thought towards because I felt I had nothing to offer them. My immediate family unit was destroyed, and without it, I was not sure why anyone else who is related to me would care about my life. I still don’t know if that was due to the need to prove myself or if I was just ignorant…maybe both.
I was fortunate that I was able to move home and devote myself to taking care of my folks [1]. Many children, especially adult children, do not get that kind of opportunity, and while being their caretaker was a Hell I would not wish on my worst enemies, I am glad I was there as much as I was. In the end that was all I had to take with me: memories.
