A Mother's Grief

About a week after Rick had died, my mom and I were sitting in the living room chatting.   She looked at me and said, “Jane, you marry whomever you want to, don’t listen to anyone.”  “Mom,” I yelled, “his body isn’t even cold in the grave!  She said, “I know, honey; I just want you to know that whatever you decide to do in the future, it’s up to you.  Don’t listen to anyone else.”

“Okay, Mom, where is all of this coming from?”  I asked.  “When your father died, everyone had their opinions about what I should do.  Peepop wanted to take care of us but I never really got along with him and I didn’t want to be under his care.  There were loads of people to offer advice but not a lot of people there to help.  Your Aunt Rose had said when I had married your dad that if Uncle Tom ever died, she would marry Dad (Jack).  He would never in a million years even consider going out with her.  Dad (Jack) was the one who was there to help me.  He was the one to take care of us because Jimmy was his brother.  He was having a hard time with the grief and it helped him to be around us.  It was the most natural thing that he asked me to marry him,” she explained.

"Peepop (my grandfather) was furious and thought that it 'looked terrible' for Jack to propose to me.  If I had listened to them, we never would have married.  It was what God planned for us.  Peepop refused to go to the wedding and forced Nanny(my grandmother) to stay at home even though she wanted to be there.  It wasn’t a good time,” she said.  “I want you to know that I’m behind whatever you decide and know that it is your decision.”  I was a flabbergasted, Okay, mom but to tell you the truth I’m not quite up to that yet.  I’ll be happy just to make it through the year.

I didn’t know anyone who had been widowed at forty.  It was difficult to know that what I was feeling was normal.  People that knew me had no idea what to say to me.  I found myself trying to make my friends feel comfortable with me.  Many people would ask me how I was doing and I would begin to cry.  I am quite literal; if you ask me that question I presume you are really looking for an answer.  “I made you cry.” I would hear over and over.  I tried to explain, “You didn’t make me cry; death is sad and hard to take.  I think there are a certain number of tears that have to fall before I won’t cry”

Over the weeks that my mom was with me, she shared many stories that I had never heard before.  She was widowed at 29 and she had walked through grief.  She had four children and had to survive for us.  Listening to her stories made me stronger;  I knew I would make it through this to the other side.  These were stories that I don’t think I would have ever heard under other circumstances. My mom shared her most precious gift; she shared her life, her memories, her love and her loss.

Home Again

I told my mom the next morning that I had to go home.  She was perfectly fine with whatever I wanted to do.  At any other time in my life I probably could have stayed and savored the water, the views, the solitude but I felt somewhat in limbo, not knowing where I stood in my life.  I am a “have at it” kind of gal.  If there’s a job to be done, I prefer to face it head on and get it over with. 

The boys were okay with going home too.  We packed up our things and left after lunch.  I wrote a thank you to Mary and Bill in the guest book they kept in the house.  It was a beautiful place to be; as I close my eyes and look back I see the yellows of my room, the blueness of the skies and water and dazzling night sky filled with stars.  The worries whirling around in my head could not be calmed by them.  I needed to get my house in order.

The drive back home always seems shorter to me, no matter where I travel.  It only took about an hour and a half.  We missed rush hour and the boys were in the backyard playing in no time.  One of the first things I did was to drive to the medical facility and bring back all the boxes and boxes of medical supplies we had been provided.  There were so many things left unopened.

I called my sister in-law, Christine and asked her about all of the drugs that I had for Rick.  My cupboards were full.  She said she would drop by later with Danny and take a look.  When she arrived and looked, she was astounded at the vast amount of items in “the pharmacy.”  As a pharmacist, she had seen so many sick people or spouses of patients who arrived in her pharmacy looking for medication to counteract the effects of chemo or other symptoms of disease.  She would be so sad to have to tell them that one pill might cost around $300, which they couldn’t pay. One bottle that she had in her hand was an anti-nausea drug that she told me was worth at least $1100.  I had a load of pain-killers which she said was the street addicts’ drug of choice and was worth almost as much.   We took load after load into the bathroom so that she could flush them down.  It was against the law for them to be re-dispensed or given to anyone else.  It just seemed like such a waste.  I also felt extraordinarily fortunate that Rick did not have to suffer without these drugs.

The medical supply company had come and removed the hospital bed, the bedside commode, the wheelchair and walker.  It felt great to reclaim my home.  I needed to do some spring cleaning and when I am in the antsy state of life cleaning is a great outlet for that energy.

I located the insurance policies and tried to contact the companies.  Rick and I had purchased the life insurance almost 15 years before and the company had changed hands several times.  I got out the policies and looked them over.  I almost keeled over when I read the beneficiary clause that  named my brother in-law instead of me.  I went ballistic; I was in a total panic.  How could we have made this mistake?  Oh dear god, tell me it isn’t true.  Tell me that I will have money to raise my boys with.  My mom came in and read it and she said I should call the insurance agent. 

Now this man must have been a hundred because he was quite elderly when we had purchased the policy from him.  When I called the number on the policy, a woman answered the phone and named a different insurance company and told me he had retired 11 years before.  Luckily, she did have his phone number and I was able to get him at his home.  He asked me to look for particular items within the policy and in  about ten minutes, he was able to assure me that I was fine; I would be the only beneficiary of the two policies.

Mom suggested a cup of tea to calm myself with.  We sat down and had a cup and my mom started to tell me about the night that my father died.  It was weird because I had never heard this tale before.  I would think she would have shared this prior to this moment.  I knew I had take it as it was being offered.

Karen and Paul dropped over to visit with my mom and to see the kids.  Michael Sean and Jack were thrilled to see their cousins.  They headed out back.  It seemed too calm and quiet in the house without Rick to concentrate on.  It felt extremely strange.  Karen decided to go with me over to the funeral home to retrieve the death certificates.  I would need them to submit the paperwork for insurance, to close accounts held in his name, to contact Social Security.  We drove over and she was telling me about how things were going over there.  Her children were taking Rick’s loss very hard.  They had known a lot of children who died and now it was their uncle.

I dropped Karen off and told her not to be a stranger and then went home.  My mom was putting dinner on when I arrived home.  The boys were out playing in the backyard.  I had brought in the mail with me.  There was a gigantic envelop for me from the Social Security Administration.  I had spoken to them a week before.  They just happened to call the day after Rick died.  When I got on the line, the woman was telling me that he was approved.  I told her that Rick had died.  She was pleased to tell me that since Rick had been approved, it would only be a case of changing out the form.  I still needed to send an additional thousand documents but at least the ball was rolling.

I was home and looking at getting things together.  I can do this.  None of this would be easy but I could get started on the mountain that was before me.

Dread

I don't remember death being scary to me when I was little.  I remember describing heaven to my parents when I was about four.  We were on their bed and I was telling them how God had wheelchairs and crutches for the people who had died and were in heaven.  They were all pleasant thoughts.  I could see my daddy there.


Sometime after that, Nanny, my father's mom, dragged me all over Yonkers and the Bronx to get to some Italian funeral home.  It was the summer and it was hot; she had me in a dress.  We walked up the steps into the building; I was getting a creepy feeling.  It was too quiet and there was an organ playing soft music.  She was talking to some men in black suits; there weren't that many people there.  They were old and wearing black.

Next thing I knew, I was kneeling on a kneel-er, staring at some old dead guy in a box.  He was waxy-looking and frightening.  Nanny blessed herself with her rosary beads, got me up and then walked out of the building.  She bought me a hot dog from a street vendor and I think we went to visit an older relative;  I don't remember it all but the face of that man was branded in my memory for life.


My family lived in Cortland, NY, population; 25,000.  We attended Catholic school.  With eight children in our family; we didn't go anywhere and we didn't do much of anything as a family outside of our house, our backyard, or the lake.  All of our relatives lived around New York City. We didn't get many invitations to visit.

We weren't related to anyone in town. My parents didn't know too many people beyond the few neighbors that surrounded our house.  Whenever anyone died in the family, my father would go down to the city for the services. When we were older, my parents would take the"little guys" (four youngest) and the "big guys" (four oldest) stayed home under my sister's supervision.  This worked for me because I had no desire to go see more dead people.

At school, there was a funeral home next to the building. My class had front row seats to the pain and suffering of almost every family in Cortland.  The limos and hearse would drive up just outside the windows of the classroom.  We'd watch them go in and we'd watch them go out, all in a day at school.  On special occasions when it was someone who was connected to the school in some way, several classes of students might walk over to the church for the funeral service.

When it was a student or a member of a student's immediate family that died, the whole class would go to the calling hours during school.  I prayed almost daily that no one in my class would die; I was avoiding dead people at all costs.

Two students in my eighth grade class had parents who died during the school year.  Our class was invited to attend the calling hours.  You can be assured those were two days of school I missed, no dead people for me!

I had friends who grew up in town, whose families had lived there for generations; they were all big funeral people.  Not only were they funeral people, they would have to go over to the rectory and get a mass card for the family.  My family didn't know anyone so it wasn't part of what we did but I was amazed to see how well-versed my young friends were in "death".

I managed to make it all the way to the age of 26 without ever laying eyes on another dead person.  My grandmother had really done a number on me.  One month before our wedding, Rick’s grandfather died suddenly at 96.  

I decided that an engaged, twenty-six year old should face her fear and go to the ceremony with Rick's family.  It was an interesting trip.  We arrived and stayed with Rick's, Aunt Mary.  The calling hours were that night at the local funeral home.  We all trudged over and I was doing fine.  Hurray! I could face a dead person and not totally freak out; this was progress for me.  However, I wasn't prepared for what happened next.

My brother in-law, Steve began saying the prayers to close the calling hours and then it was time to leave.  Rick's grandmother, Grammy Gagnon, literally, threw herself on top of her husband in the casket and yelled, "Don't take him from me.  I can't say goodbye to my best friend.  How can I say goodbye?  I don't want you to go," she begged and sobbed.

I was a wreck!  I hadn't bargained for this.  All of a sudden I could see clearly into my mother's pain of losing my father.  Now, I could see clearly into what would happen if Rick died.  I had never felt vulnerable to death. Being engaged, I had everything to lose.  I wasn't prepared for this. I was so focused on not seeing dead bodies; I didn’t see how the real loss of a loved one would affect me.  I couldn't stop crying.

The next day at the funeral, Rick and his brothers were pall bearers.  I drove in the limo with my mother in-law and sister in-law, Suzy.  When we were going into the pew during the procession, I somehow ended up sitting in between my mother in-law and her grieving mother.  I was a basket-case.  I was so overwrought with my emotions;  I was a blubbering idiot.  I couldn't catch my breath and I didn't have enough tissues for the occasion. The fear continued to build in me all the way up to our wedding day and after.

Four months after we were married, Rick had a blocked sinus.  He had numerous sinus infections and a deviated septum; the doctor had decided to operate.  Rick went into surgery and after about three hours the doctor came out to speak to me.  He was doing fine.  They would call me when they were ready to have me bring the car around.

I waited at least three more hours and then the nurse called my name at the desk and asked me to come speak to the nurse on the phone.  She told me that Rick was having a hard time waking up and asked me to come help him get dressed.

I went to the post-op area and they brought me to Rick. There, he lay on the gurney looking like a corpse.  I was totally freaked out.  I started to cry. The nurse said I needed to dress him to get him ready to go home.  Now, the wise woman would have told that nurse she was crazy that he was not going home and needed to be admitted but I was out of my league.   This was my first dealing with someone having surgery.  I didn't know this was wrong.

I managed to get him dressed.  Somehow, they put him in a wheelchair and got him to the car; it was a rough ride.  All the way home, I could see what I couldn't get out of my head;. Rick would be like that when he died.  I was already dreading the day and I didn't want that day to ever come.

Death

My dad died when I was 18 months old.  I have no memory of him.  We called him "Daddy up in Heaven" and still do to this day to distinguish him from my father, Jack.  My mother worked for the New York Telephone Company in New York City; she was an operator in the Chrysler Building.  Her family lived in Cliffside Park, NJ a short journey over the George Washington Bridge.  My dad's family was from Manhattan, actually Harlem. All four of my grandparents were Irish immigrants who came to the United States around the 20's.


My mother heard at work about a party at someone's apartment on Friday night and that there would be a bunch of Irish guys there.  She went with a few friends and sure enough, Irish guys.  One of them walked up to her.  He was tall, thin with brownish red hair, green eyes and a beautiful smile.  He started talking to her and finally asked her if she was free the next night.  My mom said, "No I'm not free. I'm going out with that guy over there."  She pointed to a really handsome guy across the room;  he had that Tyrone Power's look to him with dark eyebrows, dark eyes, dark eyelashes and the cutest dimple in his cheek. "Ah, that's my kid brother, Jimmy." he said.


Peggy and Jimmy were married not long after in 1951.  They moved to the Bronx, 282 Gunhill Rd,. not far from Jimmy's brother, Tommy and wife, Rose.  Jimmy's parents and two other brother's lived in the next building over. My parents had a three bedroom, fifth floor walk-up apartment and with four kids, they were busting at the seams. My crib was even set up in the hall way.


It was 1960; my dad, Jimmy worked for New York Central Railroad.  He had just received a promotion and was being transferred to Syracuse, New York.  He took the train up with a friend and then rented a car to try to locate a house to buy.  With four small children just under six, my mom was happy to stay home.


My mom told me she knew the minute she opened the door.  There were two police officers standing there to tell her the news.  She was blindsided.  "Not Jimmy, not my Jimmy!" He and his friend were going to a company party the night before.  They were on Thompson Rd. in Syracuse; it was dark, rainy and the road had a bad curve..  Jimmy lost control of the vehicle and  hit a tree.  He was killed instantly; his friend had a broken nose.

My grandfather took care of everything, the funeral, grave, gravestone and the burial.  He wanted to take care of us too.  My mom didn't want him to do that but what choice did she have?  My Uncle Jack was a bachelor of 30 when Jimmy died.  He had a good job and a car in New York City which was rare.  He was so overcome with grief; he wanted to help in any way he could.  My mom said that he came over to take us down to the park to play and on the weekends took us for drives in his car.

On a drive to the country one day, in Thornwood, NY, Jack's proposal came.  "You wouldn't want to marry me would you?"  "Yes," was my mother's reply.  They were married a few months later.  My grandparents wouldn't go to the wedding; they thought it was disgraceful.  My mom later told me, it was the most natural thing in the world.  They grieved together and helped each other emotionally and it blossomed into something more.

My mom always said she was the luckiest woman; she had two wonderful husbands.  She would sometimes joke with my friend, Mary Burnham about finding a man.  She'd say, "Mary, pray to to St. Anne; she got me two good husbands and she can get you a good one too.

I am the fourth of eight.  Three of my siblings are biologically-related and my other four brothers are my half brother/cousins; we are all Mulherns. This was the story we grew up with, a story of death and loss.  It could have happened to anyone, but it didn't, it happened to us.