JohnCr8on’s Snapshots

It’s the last place we want to be.  It’s the only place we want to be… At the bedside of a dying loved one.

I have a friend who is preparing to say goodbye to his mother.  It could be a few days or many weeks.  It’s difficult to know.  She’s lived a long life.  But, at every age, it’s hard to say goodbye to your mom.

The bedside is a mixed blessing.  If you’re there, it probably means that the person you love is suffering, perhaps not spiritually, but certainly physically.  That’s never fun.

But, if you’re at the bedside, it also means the person you love has the opportunity to give you comfort before they go.  That is truly something to treasure.

That was my experience with both my parents.  I thought I was going to be with them so they would be comforted, loved in their final hours.  But, it really was the other way round.  I went to my parents’ beside to say, “I love you,” to be sure.  I also was there so I wouldn’t be alone when it was time for them to go.

Both my parents, while physically helpless, were completely in control of their final hours on earth.  They knew how much time they had.  We followed their lead.

*             *             *

Only a few friends had the opportunity to say goodbye to Mom.  She was stuck in a hospital bed in Denver.  Doctors talked about months.  Mom knew it was only a matter of days.  So did the nurses (including Joni) who were charged with her care.  They let us know.

Joni and the kids stopped by Mom’s room early in the morning on Emma’s fifth birthday.  They would go on to Atwood that day to celebrate Emma’s day with the Mickeys.  “We’re coming to say goodbye because we may not see you again,” Emma announced to Mom as she walked up to her bed.  We shifted uncomfortably the way one does when a child speaks out loud the truth everyone knows.

Several visitors stopped by that day – Lisa Reuber from Atwood and extended family who lived in the Denver area.  We laughed with Dad’s cousin Jeanne who lives within miles but we seldom see when she quoted her own father, “You can count on Creightons to be at weddings and funerals but you won’t see them much in between.”  We had just been to Jeanne’s wedding a few months before.

There was a moment in the afternoon when there were no visitors.  Alec and I sat in the room watching M*A*S*H.  We bought videos of the first few seasons to pass the time.  Mom was “resting her eyes” as she liked to say.  Dad was in the hall.

“Get your father,” Mom said unexpectedly and with urgency.  He came into the room.  We all stood at her side.  She squeezed his hand and nodded her head.  She fell into a half-sleep from which she never really returned.

Early in the morning, just after dawn, we heard Mom speak.  “Love so much,” she called out three times.  “We love you,” we said in return.

“Morning paper,” she said faintly.  I ran to the nurse’s station and found a copy of the Rocky Mountain News.  We read her the day’s headlines as she had read books to us so many morning’s in our youth.  Reading together was the appropriate goodbye.

*             *             *

Dad’s illness – pulmonary fibrosis – was long.  Anyone else might have succumbed long ago.  But, Dad was the model of health.  More fit than people half his age – except for his lungs.

Like Mom, Dad and his nurse knew when the end was near.  Dad spent his last days at home just as he wished.  He spent his days downstairs and continued to sleep upstairs at night.  He wanted to do things the way he always had.

The stairs become more than he could do.  An electric chair was installed to move him up and down.  Karol Ruda, his hospice nurse, stopped by to help us move Dad upstairs.  For a moment at the top of the stairs it was more than he could bear.  He left us but only for a moment.  I walked Karol to her car and she told me matter of fact, “It won’t be long.”  She knew Dad was ready.  She wanted to make sure we were, too.

A hospital bed was installed downstairs the next morning.  We helped Dad move and that’s where he’d stay.

Karol stopped by again the next night.  Dad was having a difficult time but his spirit was the same: confident.  Life and death is what it is from his point of view.  Karol, as a hospice nurse, felt the same.  As Karol prepared to leave Dad mustered, “Thanks a lot, Karol.”

“You’re welcome, Bob.”

“I probably won’t see you again,” Dad said.

“I think you’re right, Bob. It’s been a real pleasure to know you.”

“It’s been a pleasure to know you, too.  I really appreciate it, Karol.”

They talked in a manner as if the entire situation was completely routine.

Dad asked me to call Alec and have him drive to Atwood that night.  It was eleven p.m. but Dad did not want Alec to wait.  He did not think he would make it through the night.

But Dad rallied.  His strength, such that it was, returned.  We had a good day.  Lavina, Alec and I each had our turns to talk.  Dad told us he loved us more times that day than he had his entire life combined.  “That gets easier to say the more you say it,” he observed in a curious sort of way.  ”I’ve had a good life,” he said with genuine conviction to ease our fears.

Together, we watched several episodes of the West Wing.  Dad checked the news, his heart rate and pulse-ox several times, too.  He was fully engaged and keeping stats to the end.

My support network was gone.  The Mickeys, Joni and Emma were in Kentucky for Coy Mickey’s funeral.  He passed suddenly and unexpectedly that same week.  The Mickeys did not have our good fortune to say proper goodbyes.  Joe, Ada Grace and I were together in Atwood – with Dad, Lavina and Alec.

Dad still felt strong, in a relative sort of way, at eleven this night.  Alec and I went upstairs to sleep, exhausted from our previous night’s vigil.  Lavina stayed with Dad, pulling the couch to the bed.

I heard the seven o’clock whistle and climbed out of bed, doing my best not to disturb Joe and Ada Grace.  Alec heard the whistle, too.  We both made our way downstairs.

Dad loved the Atwood whistle.  It sounds off at seven a.m., noon, one o’clock and six p.m.  It helped Dad keep his much loved daily routine.

There was a time, when Dad was the Atwood mayor, that the town council considered shutting the whistle down.  The mayor is a non-voting member of the council, except to break ties.  The vote on the whistle was deadlocked three to three.  Dad cast his sole vote as mayor to, “Let the whistle blow.”

Many years later, “the whistle returned the favor,” as Irv Hayden said at Dad’s funeral.  It roused Alec and I out of our slumber just in time to join Lavina at Dad’s side.  He squeezed our hands.  We squeezed his.  We said goodbye.

*             *             *

Saying goodbye to a parent is difficult to describe to someone who’s never had the experience.  There is little to say to someone who has.  They know.  I can imagine this is how women feel about childbirth.

I can only say I feel fortunate to have had the opportunity to be at Mom’s and Dad’s bedside.  They were my parents to the very end.  They gave me comfort and strength at their most vulnerable moment.  It is a strength I cherish and which helps me embrace death as a normal part of life.

“Some people say heaven is a place where everyone gets along all the time.  That sounds really boring to me.”

My Dad said this to me in the last days of his life.  Dad enjoyed life on earth very much.  He liked the messiness just as much as when things were smooth.  If it was interesting, he was interested.

That’s one reason my Dad enjoyed politics so much.  He enjoyed the give and take.  He found conflicting points of view to be more interesting than when everyone agreed.

Bob Dole was one of his favorite politicians.  He admired Dole’s service to Kansas.  But, he also enjoyed Dole’s acerbic sense of humor.

My Dad enjoyed cutting humor in general.  He didn’t enjoy in your face trash talk.  But he did enjoy pointed critiques and satire.  I don’t know that he enjoyed Don Rickles very much.  But, he found Bob Newhart very entertaining.

One of his favorite authors was Joseph Heller.  He would laugh and laugh when he read Catch-22.  He was one of the few people who read Heller’s other books, too.

He enjoyed the company of people whose sense of humor was prickly and off-color, people who pointed out hypocrisies in society – his brother John, Bob Day and KU and lifelong friend Al Frame.  He enjoyed getting these friends riled up.  There’s nothing he enjoyed more than when Al got on roll.  Dad was a wonderful audience laughing as Al beat the proverbial horse senseless.

As Dad entered the last weeks of his life, we had the inevitable conversations.  “Who would you like to speak at your funeral,” we eventually asked.

Among his responses he said, “And, Al Frame if he promises to offend someone.  I wouldn’t want some boring talk.”

Al did not offend at Dad’s memorial service.  Instead, he talked about “Small town friendships. The only kind I know.  In small towns,” Al explained, “We see each other every day.  So we form friendships based on real familiarity.”

Al went on to say, “It does not matter what religious beliefs we may have or what political beliefs we may have.  In a small town, what matters most is the friendship itself.”

Al took the occasion of my Dad’s memorial service to remind us all where we should focus our attention.  We should focus on the care and affection we have for one another rather than our disagreements.  It is this attitude and these types of friendships that enable people like my Dad and Al to say, “I’ve had a good life.”

In an effort to not completely disappoint our family, and honor my Dad’s request to offend, the night before Dad’s memorial service, Al’s son Mark sent us an email.  The email contained the text of John Cleese’s eulogy for Graham Chapman.  Mark attached a note, “Dad (Al) plans to say something like this.”

I laughed thinking of the many late night conversations among Creightons and Frames.  My Dad would have laughed, too.

The following video contains much love and affection and, please be warned, a few curse words.

I look at the picture on the card and I can’t help but feel joyful. A proud mom and dad, an enthusiastic brother and sister and a new baby all looking at the camera beaming with smiles (except for the baby of course). There is no one I know who deserves such happiness more than Debbie.

It’s a bittersweet feeling, looking at this loving family. It’s not a family I ever thought I’d know.

Debbie and Joni were co-workers at Holy Cross Hospital in Silver Springs, Maryland. They clicked right away. Paul, Debbie’s husband, and I hit it off, too. We became good friends. We liked to hang out together as our work schedules would allow. Mostly at their two bedroom house and our one bedroom apartment. We would just sit around and talk

We missed them when we left Maryland for Colorado.

We were excited to visit Maryland just a few months after their son Ben was born. I had a business trip and Joni joined me. It was great to be reunited. I can still remember sitting on Paul’s and Debbie’s couch, rocking Ben, while counting his eleven toes (that’s not a typo). I teased Paul and Debbie. “The kids are going to love this at school,” I said. “Six toes on one foot… now, that’s cool.” That was nearly 13 years ago.

But school playmates is not what fate had in store for Ben. It turned out that Paul’s and Debbie’s DNA did not mix well. A genetic fluke limited Ben’s time. He was just a brief visitor to our world.

Paul and Debbie told us the tragic news casually over dinner when Ben was about 18 months old. They were both pillars. I could not believe how they were able to muster so much calm (on the outside at least) to talk about Ben’s condition. We were grateful to be by their side along with a handful of others when they laid Ben to rest a few months later.

Ben’s picture stands in my office to this day. He sits next to photos of my Mom and Dad and our three kids. He reminds me of how precious life is. He reminds me not to take for granted the time I have with my own children. I try to listen to Ben as best as I can. I am proud to have known him.

I am proud of Paul and Debbie, too. They handled the cruelties of parenthood with as much grace as I think is possible. Unfortunately, their marriage could not survive. They both wanted to be parents again but could not bear the risk of having children together. The odds, though small, were that the same ailment could inflict any child they had together. So, they parted ways.

Paul and Debbie both have new families, now. There are four children between them. We keep in touch mostly through holiday cards, occasional emails and hopeful promises to visit sometime soon.

From the pictures and letters we receive, it is clear that Paul and Debbie are both happy. They are in love filled homes. We are happy for them because they are two people with much love to give.

I am sad that Paul and Debbie could not be a family together. But, I find them both inspiring. While I am certain there remains profound sadness deep within their hearts, they did not let the cruel twists of fate consume them. They picked themselves up. They dusted themselves off. They are both accomplished professionals, loving spouses and devoted parents. Role models for all of us with families and careers.

As I look up now at Ben’s picture, I like to think that the smiling faces I found in today’s mail are his legacy. Ben was part of a family that could not be. And, yet, in his short time on earth he and his parents inspired others, including Joni and me.

Ben, Paul and Debbie are just ordinary folks who are also a testament to the fragility and tenacity that lies within us all. I look at Ben’s picture, I think of Paul and Debbie, and I realize it is possible to navigate through the most difficult times life has to offer and find happiness, again.

I will be forever grateful for the lessons they taught me about love.

I can’t wait to give my kids a hug tonight.

It is my first vivid memory of standing in this room.  I’m told I was there before but I really don’t remember.  I would return more times than I can count to say goodbye to neighbors, friends and family.  My most recent visit was to escort my son and youngest daughter to give goodbye pictures to my father.  My oldest sent a picture but did not want to make the visit.

On this day, I stood in the viewing room at Schandler’s Funeral Home (now William’s) to say goodbye to an occasional playmate.  I was nine years old.  He was eight.

Too many young people died in my years growing up in Atwood.  I have many vivid memories of hearing the news of a tragic accident or sitting uncomfortably in the pews of one of the town churches, chafing in my church clothes as songs and eulogies cascaded around my ears.

This is the first death of a playmate I remember.  I don’t know where I was when I heard the news.  I do remember that my mother cried a lot and looked ashen for what seemed like weeks but was probably days.

I made up visions of the tragedy for myself based on the bits and pieces of information I took in from people’s conversations.  How much is true I don’t know for sure.

I see best friends, cousins, laughing in the family garage.  It’s a day like any other filled with the joyful sounds that are unique to eight year-old boys.  Laughing, wrestling, arguing and laughing again.  They are playing cowboys or soldiers.  I’m not sure.  It doesn’t matter.  They’re having fun.

One of the boys, I’m not sure which, picks up the shotgun that leans in the corner of the garage.  They both want it.  They grab and tussle as young boys do.  They are unaware that a shell still rests in the chamber.

There’s an explosion.  One life ends.  The life of the other boy is changed forever.  It could have just as easily been the other way ’round.

I stand over the open casket and play these images through my mind.  Looking down, I see the familiar face of a neighbor and yet, dressed in a suit, he seems a stranger.  I take a long look.  I’m curious why he holds a rose between his hands.  The story on the school playground is that it covers up a wound.  I don’t know.

As I look, I don’t feel anything except the etching of images on my mind.  Imgages I see from time-to-time to this day.

My mother touches me gently on the shoulder.  I follow her to the door so the procession line behind us might advance.  I don’t look back but I never forget.

Tragedies we cannot explain are part of every community.  They hurt.  They scar.  The painful memories never go completely away.  But we move on because we have to.  Our families and our communities still need us.