Put some Vaseline on it

My father spent no small amount of time teaching us as he had been taught. Treat everyone with respect, especially women; do the best you could no matter what the subject was. Respect and love your mother, and above all if you get hurt "don't cry". My brother, Chris, and I became intimately acquainted with Papa's many remedies: "Rub it up", "put some dirt on it", "big boys don't cry", "they're tough". Phrases like these along with "put some Vaseline on it" or "it'll make an American out of you", each meant to discourage us from crying, but usually had the opposite effect.

It got colder with each step up and out of the Charles/MGH Redline "T" station. I remember thinking to myself, damn, wish I'd worn boots, as cold water from the sidewalk seeped then gushed into of my Saucony sneakers, damn. As I turned the corner to get to the front door of Massachusetts General Hospital, the water was suddenly all ice and forced me into looking like an out of season and out of place surfer, trying to stay upright heading into the Banzai Pipeline. The elevator was slow but gave me some moments to warm a little. At the nurse’s station, I let them know I was there to see my dad, and a gray-haired nurse gave me some hospital booty's to don, for my entrance into the ICU. This would be the last time I would see my father alive.

ICU is a quiet place, and I sat next to Papa, our name for our dad. I held his hand, it did not hold back or squeeze or show any signs of knowing I, his oldest son and child, was there for him. I knew the time for a life-saving liver transplant had passed, and it was just a matter of time; even the tubes and compressors and flashing red and green lights would not save him for us. I whispered I love you and tried to reassure him that soon, he would be united with Mama. I couldn't control the feeling that I was there, but he had left already.

I said goodbye to his medical team, and went home; thinking how wonderful all these nurses and doctors had been for his time there; diligent and so respectful for this strong man who slipped in and out of MGH inside of a couple of weeks. I quietly road the "T", back to Quincy and then into my car, turning the heat on high, to try and dry my wet feet. The ride back to West Bridgewater, was a regular fun filled Winston Cup like trip on the southeast expressway, with snow.

It was December 29,1989, and the sun was down, Christmas was over, and as I drove, I remembered, for some reason, the many reasons Papa had given us not to cry. As a kid, I never saw him cry, for any reason, so it seemed necessary to attempt not to cry. It did finally happen, when I was barely a teenager. Papa's father, had, at 75, gotten Leukemia, and died on Good Friday of 1960. My brother and I tried to be quiet and follow Mama's lead, as the wake, at Conley's Funeral Home on Belmont and Fuller Streets in Brockton, brought many relatives together. My dad was the youngest of nine and believe me, there were many aunts and uncles and cousins to navigate through on this occasion. I knew the expectation was for us to be solemn.

All previous Holy Weeks were always hard on my brother Chris and I, because being Catholic it was a time for quiet reflection and sorrow for the sins we had committed and to be reminded that Jesus Christ died, that we might live. I was 13, it was difficult to concentrate or reflect on sins I had not yet committed, I get that I shouldn't whack my brother or lie or steal, but other than hitting my brother, I hadn't had enough time on earth to do anything damnable. There were signs though, a stirring if you will, that this little boy, was beginning to see girls a bit differently, but not enough, to get into trouble, yet.

The second day of grampa Sheehan’s wake, as it neared its conclusion, the immediate family rose and I saw my mother, holding Papa up, like he was going to faint or possibly fall, so I instinctively went to his right side and did my best to support his weight. I looked up to see what was happening and there it was, overcome with the grief of losing his father, my dad, Papa, the rock, unable to hold back his tears any longer, let the rivers flow. His anguished face, at that moment, is still frozen in my mind. As if by some push of a hidden button, my own tears came, at his pain and emotion, at seeing my own father assume mortal status.

It’s only now that I wonder why Papa was so distraught. I knew grampa Sheehan as the white haired, soft spoken grandfather behind the counter of Sheehan’s Ice Cream Parlor on Main Street in Brockton, MA. He would make Chris and I whatever ice cream concoction we asked for, or dispense a coke, the old fashion way, pressing the pump twice for some coke syrup and pulling the black handled soda water thingy into one of those old fashion paper coned cups by Lily. He spoke of the old days and making bets with customers as to what color the next car that passed by would be; which from the 20’s to 40’s would mostly be black. The store was very dim, in the late fifties, the ceilings and walls were tin and printed, and after many years had just given themselves over to that nasty cigarette stain color of a sickly looking off a yellow whitish phlegm mixture. A pair of wooden night sticks hung at the rear of the store. Grampa had been a part time Brockton Policeman (he was Irish what else), he needed a second job to help keep a family of nine fed and educated. Maybe it was the total of his father’s seemingly mundane daily actions that flooded Papa’s thoughts, that caused him to interrupt his normal very calculated way of living each day, and let down his guard to cry.

Pulling into the driveway, now it was time to update my brothers and sisters, prepare them for the call we knew would come. The phone rang about 2:00 AM, and Dr. Richter, gently broke the news that Papa had passed. He said that Hemochromatosis, a build-up of iron in the organs of the body, was responsible for the damaged liver and Papa's death. His words were kind, and he promised to write a letter for our entire clan, that would give, in layman's terms what Hemochromatosis was and how to reduce the risk of any harm.

Rest did not come easily that night. Little drops of tears, came in mini waves, as with each breath, I would say silently to myself, "rub it up boy', big breath "big boys don't cry", "put some Vaseline on it, it'll make an American out of you".

There are few things that can console the hurt of losing a parent. For me, I chose (still do) to believe that the father who guided my brother and I toward manhood, was now forever reunited with his beloved wife and best friend, our mother, and we carry on, with the memories.