One Last Chance

My father called me a “foreigner” for being my brother’s friend. That made me unwelcome in my father’s eyes because my brother was gay. Dad kicked Andy out of the house in 1968 when he was 18. He went to live with another family, finished high school and, while trying to please his parents, he married and had two children.

But he was off the list.

My father refused to talk to me for 14 years. In the fall of 1992, as my brother’s health was rapidly failing from complications of AIDS, I sent Dad an 11-page handwritten letter, with photos of my children and my brother’s children. He returned them to me, cut up like confetti, via certified mail. The only thing intact was a card from a funeral home, in Pottstown, Pa., where he had a pre-paid interment. That card was glued with strapping tape to the shreds of paper inside the box.

I, too, was off the list.

His list grew longer over the years, to include family members, friends and others who asked questions that my parents wanted to avoid. When my brother was dying, my parents wouldn’t take my calls. Only my sister could get through.

During the years after Andy’s passing, I occasionally sent a letter to my father. I mailed my last one in August 2003. Eight months later, it showed up in my mailbox, in the same envelope.

In December 2006, my sister called and said that my father was dying and that he relaay wanted to see me. I drove out the next day, fifteen hours, ready to make amends, tell good stories, and somehow find peace.

At the door of my parents’ home, a frail woman wearing a worn sweater greeted me. I barely recognized my mother. “You’re not coming in here,” she told me through the storm door. “Your father changed his mind.”

I could feel her pain as she slammed the door and clicked the deadbolts into place.

My sister called again, 40 days later, assuring me my father would see me this time. I caught a flight. February 5th, 2007.

He was much weaker this time, as he was on morphine.

We talked of the few good times. His eyes glistened as I remembered sitting on a mattress in the un-swept truck bed of the ’57 Ford pickup with my brother and some friends who kept us company on our way to ride roller coasters and Ferris Wheels at Dorney Park, near Allentown, Pennsylvania.

“I’ve always cared for you and that other one,” he told me and the weight on my shoulders just lifted. We stayed in touch, and spoke daily for the next two months. I promised him that I would take care of mom, no matter what.

When he passed, I returned again to take care of the funeral.

There were very few people in attendance. It seems that over the years, I wasn't the only person who was no longer on the list.

As we lowered my father into the ground, my phone vibrated. My new granddaughter, Lily, was born. April 20th 2007.

Another beginning.

And another journy that lies ahead.

Flash forward.

This "Banana Babushka" moved in with my sister within a week of my dad's passing. The situation was, to say the least, a disaster at best.

Within two weeks, my sister and mom had a fight that resulted in taking my mother back to the empty house in Pottstown where we were raised.

Needless to say, it was something we knew just wouldn't work. Mom never wrote a check. She never pushed the buttons on a push-button phone. Never used a microwave or had an air conditioner.

I tried.

We painted several rooms, had the carpets cleaned, re-introduced my mom to the neighbors whom have all but disappeared from her life due to the treatment she received from my father.

I was able to spend a week, taking her to see a brother that she hadn't seen in nearly thirty years. We took little day trips to reminisce about the times we never had in the places where we have always been.

It seemed like a good plan, our dear friend and neighbor, Anna Mae, even agreed to help her with the groceries and assist in paying the monthly expenses.

This would last two months.

And then, I decided that I would bring my mother to Iowa.

As I looked across at her as we were driving through western Pennsylvania, I remember telling her, "ma, we're gonna' get pulled over with you being dressed the way you are."

She asked, "why are you saying something like that, John?"

"Because you look like the Unibomber's Mom with that hat and glasses," I replied. "Oh, John, we're good people, they'll leave us alone," mom answered.

What a trip this was going to be.

In Iowa, mom would meet her grandchildren and great grandchildren. We would do things together and make every day better than the day before.

One Sunday, we went to meet up with my stepson and had time to kill so we even stopped at a casino where mom would win $1200. She was having the time of her life!

Sometimes it's too little too late.

In the early spring of 2008, mom was experiencing abdominal pain and I took her to see my doctor. She had an obsession with her single pill that she took for her cholesterol. So I knew this experience was going to be a challenge at best.

And it was.

Ovarian cancer.

Yep.

The worse of the worse.

Having a serious discussion about the end of life with my mom was like talking to a child. "Take it out of me!" she cried to the doctor. "I didn't do anything to get this," she sobbed.

So there we were. I asked her what she wanted to do and assured her that I would do anything for her that she wanted.

"Your dad would never take me to Minersville (PA) to see my parent's grave," she told me. Her condition was dire. A nine-hundred-fifty mile road trip was totally out of the question. Her belly was filling with fluid, and the discomfort alone would be too much for a road trip.

So, I booked the flight.

Taking care of my mother was the best thing that I have ever done in my life.

I'm just so sorry that our family's situation was such that she never got to appreciate my brothers sense of humor.

She never got to see him while he was sick and dying a terrible death.

She missed out on so much in her life that our time together after my father's passing was, as she would say, "the best time I ever had."

We lost mom on April 28th, 2008.

Caring for her made me a better person. I'd do it again in a heartbeat. The sad things in life help us appreciate the little bits of joy.

What I've learned from being a caretaker is that it finds its way deep into your soul and each new challenge is a new opportunity to make a difference.

I've gotten out of the rat race, I live a simple and humble life these days. I'll always be recovering, and I'll always give back.

And for that, I am so grateful.