I Am An Orphan

My last visit with Dad was Easter Sunday. Something told me I needed to go. I drove the 2 1/2 hours down to South Bend just to be with him. Perhaps it was selfish of me but, I was happy that none of my brothers or sisters were there. I wanted to be alone with him. I had wanted to be alone with him for a very long time. I spent the day by his bedside, holding his hand and we talked in between his frequent naps. He seemed in good spirits for a man in his condition. We did not speak of anything of importance. For me it was enough to just be there with him.

His liver was failing rapidly, the yellow palor of his skin a tell-tale sign. Though he was in great pain, I think he tried to not show it as best he could even though it was evident. I always though my daddy was courageous and strong and he remained so on this last visit.

Towards the evening he asked for morphine and got it after some time. Earlier he had asked to not have it because he wanted to keep his mind as clear as possible. By then it was evident that we needed to call the family together, which we did.

We all gathered to say goodbye to him while he could still comprehend our good wishes. Everyone took a turn telling him how he was loved and would be missed and that it was alright to go. He said time and again that he wanted to see Mom and Jesus and he was sure they were waiting for him. We also reminded him of others including his own mother whom he had not seen since he was a child, that had gone on before him and would be waiting also.

I left that evening knowing it would be the last time I saw him alive. I gave him a last kiss goodbye and I said, "I love you, daddy." He said, "I love you too." There could be no better last words to a daughter.

So, now I am an oprhan and the last thing that stood between me and my own mortality is gone.

In Loving Memory of Jerry Wayne Wise

Update on Dad

Dad has been in the hospital for three weeks now. He had surgery on Tuesday, March 14 to remove a blockage from his small bowel. The blockage turned out to be mostly scar tissue from the numerous surgeries he has had. To complicate matters he had developed a case of pnuemonia. He has been in ICU with a breathing tube since coming out of surgery. He is very weak and my daughter, Liz informed me that he was frustrated and crying off and on yesterday. Yesterday was his and Mom's anniversary and today is her birthday. I'm sure he is missing her and in light of the chronic pain he has suffered he is more than ready to go and see her. My brothers and sisters seem to be doing what they can to care for him and he is sledom alone. I wish I were closer so I could be there too. I did get to go down last Monday and stayed until he had made it safely out of surgery. He still has the nephrostomy tubes in also, that resulted from the tests in January. If Dad makes it to May he will be 76. I hope he makes it, but at the same time I hope that soon he will be painfree.

A Tale of Two Moms

Both of them had a few things in common, but it was their differences that set them far apart. They were born only six years apart, one in the Midwest, and the other in New England. They could have been countries apart when you consider how different they were.
The Midwest mom grew up on a farm in southern Indiana with her four brothers and sisters. She told stories of running through the corn and how she hated snakes. Her own mom would can mounds of fruits and vegetables and play games like Perquacky and Yahtzee with the grandkids. This mom learned worked hard. She held onto the kind of work ethic that only motivated-minded people have. She was proud that she graduated from high school and was able to work her way up in the cleaning service industry from plain ole housekeeper to, district manager and then an administrative position. She was a quiet mom and fiercely protective of her children.
The New England mom grew up in small towns in Massachusetts. She was an only child. She told stories of playing neighborhood games of hide and seek and how she did hate frogs. Her mom was self-absorbed and took great pride in keeping a neat home that could have made the pages of Better Homes and Gardens. Her mom didn’t care much for playing with grandkids. This mom lost her motivation early in life, dropped out of high school and floundered. This mom pretty much stayed home. She tried holding jobs on occasion but never lasted long due to her dependency on alcohol.
The Midwest mom looked at you and touched you when she spoke. She made her requests with a please and a thank you. She was never afraid to tell you straight out what needed changing and she taught you things like how to can, make a garden and clean a wall without leaving streaks. She was home at night and would sometimes rub lotion on your back and brush your hair.
The New England mom started out like many new moms. She colored in coloring books, she sewed doll clothes and a red corduroy rabbit. But something happened and that all changed. She yelled a lot. She didn’t hug or say I love you. She slapped your legs with wire coat hangers when you didn’t clean your room. Mostly she yelled or just didn’t talk to you at all. She drank everyday then.
Both moms had one man in common, my dad. The New England mom was his first wife, my biological mom. They were together for about seven years when she left with a suitcase and one of my little brothers. The Midwestern mom was Dad’s second wife, my stepmother. They were together for over forty years.
Both moms had another thing in common. Me. They both taught me things. The Midwest mom taught me responsibility and kindness. She taught me to work hard and to take time to touch the ones you love. The New England mom taught me what I didn’t want to be.
The final thing they had in common was one bad habit. They both smoked cigarettes and in the end it killed them both. Both women became afflicted with lung cancer and they both died. The most telling thing about these women was how they handled their illnesses and how they handled their imminent deaths.
New England mom had a horrid cough and eventually began to spit up blood but she didn’t want to go to the doctor for fear of what he might say. By the time she did go see the doctor, there was little they could do. She lasted about a year. Midwest mom found out by accident that she had the disease. She went in for her annual chest x-ray because as a child she had been exposed to Tuberculosis. One particular x-ray showed a spot on her lung. She had a portion of the lung removed and received chemotherapy. She went into remission but it came back. She had a second operation to remove more of the lung and then had more chemo. When it came back again there could be no surgery and so began numerous rounds of chemo, radiation and an assortment of drugs. Sometimes the tumor would shrink, sometimes it would do nothing, and sometimes it would come back with a vengeance. Then another tumor and another. Eventually it took over and we knew it was winning.
The remarkable thing about the moms is how they conducted the end phase of their lives. New England mom was afraid. Her fear caused her much confusion, pain and eventually panic. She denied what was happening to her up until very near the end. She fought against it with denial and cried out in despair, “Why?”
Midwest mom was never heard to ask why. She was never heard to blame or condemn, though she did like to think it really wasn’t the cigarettes. She made peace with those around her and made preparations. When she knew death was imminent she asked to be baptized; something she had thought about since she was a child. In her last years she had grown in her spirituality and could often be found in her Lazy-Boy reading her Bible or daily devotional. Whereas New England mom’s death was panicked, Midwest mom’s was peaceful. She never cried out. She was full of grace and dignity. She went to sleep and drew her last breath and we almost didn’t notice.
Midwest mom’s birthday is coming up and so I have though of her and what she did for me and how I miss her emails and how I haven’t been able to remove her name from my online address book.

In Memory of Virginia K. "Ginny" Wise

March 18, 1939- October 15, 2005

It's My Little Brother's Birthday Today

I remember when Dad came home from the hospital in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. It was 1961. He said "Guess what Mommy had?" I said, "Another boy" and walked away. Michael Benjamin was my third brother. I wanted a sister. I wanted a sister so bad that I would have nothing to do with this screaming, cholicy brat of a boy. I disliked this kid so much that I had a nightmare. In the nightmare I carried Michael, wrapped in his baby blanket, to the street, where I threw him in and a truck ran over him. The nightmare must have been enough for me to cry out because the next thing I knew, Daddy was there comforting me.

Shortly after Michael's birth, we moved to Charleston, South Carolina. Dad had been promoted and we got to live in new Navy housing. I distinctly remember Mike sitting in his highchair, throwing his food around and dumping his bowl on his head. I also remember him falling off the sofa and breaking his arm. That was just the beginning of what were a series of unforunate events for him. At some point, I began to soften and as a way of offering peace, I offered Mike my well worn Raggedy Ann to play with. He was standing in his crib as I held the doll out for him. He took it and sat down, holding the red and white striped legs, one in each hand. The next part was so horrible that I shugger to this day to think of it. Michael lifted Raggedy by the legs and pulled. He pulled so hard that Raggedy was split right down her middle, exposing all of her soft innards. I screamed! I cried! Raggedy Ann, my life-long companion, was dead! It was along time before I would have anything to do with kid again.

To make matters worse, Mike's birthday is only two days after mine which meant I now had to share my day. No longer did a get my own special day. I had to share with this dirty little, screaming brat that killed, no, murdered my Raggedy and had temper tantrums on a regular basis. You know the kind you see in T.V. shows and movies where the kid throws himself on the floor kicking and screamimg? Well, those are the kind of temper tantrums I'm talking about. He had those well into pre-adolescene.

Mike seemed to just have a harder time of living than the rest of us kids. He was always getting into things like the time he drank Pine-Sol (twice in one day) and had to have his stomach pumped. He was always getting stitches, but the worst thing, I think was when he was five and in a car accident.
He was the only one of us kids to stay in Indiana with my Dad and step-mother when we were returned to my mother. It seems that My Aunt Helen and Uncle Dick decided to pack up the station wagon and head for the lake. What was suppose to be a wonderful fun filled day turned tragic when Aunt Helen ran a stop sign. As I said the car was packed. Along with my aunt, uncle, and Mike where my twin cousins and their sister and brother and my Uncle Charley, a dear man but rather dim witted. Well Mike and Uncle Dick were in the far back seat of the station wagon. Remember the ones that had the seat that faced backwards? Anyway, upon impact, Mike and Uncle Dick went flying out the back window. Uncle Dick and Uncle Charley died of their injuries shortly after getting to the hospital. Mike, by the grace of God and the body of Uncle Dick, was not killed. He was however, seriously hurt. He had a concussion and his head was a mass of stitches, which always remained tender. His body was broken in so many places that he spent a good deal of time in a body cast. When the cast came off, he had to learn to walk again.

Yes, Mike had a lot of problems and the cards always seemed to be stacked against him. Maybe some people are just meant to have little clouds hanging over them like Joe Btfspic, that charter from Lil' Abner. By the time he was 16, Mike dropped out of school. I'm not too sure about this part of his life because I had moved to Indiana. I would hear bits an pieces about him. He worked for a carnival for awhile, stole a car and wound up in jail in Georgia. Since he was young and it was a first offense, he wasn't in long. But then he met a woman that was old enough to be his mother and had a bunch of kids. He married her, but that didn't last long. Eventually he came to Indiana and was trying to get his life together. He was working steady and living nearby in a new mobile home park. He was even going to church and had professed his faith. But as fate, the cards or Joe Btfspic would have it, it didn't last long.

In January of 1988, our mother was not doing very well. She was in the end stages of lung cancer. I went to Massachusetts to be with her and Mike followed. After six weeks, she was gone. Mike took it real hard. He drank so much that if he didn't have alchohol poisoning, he was pretty darned close. I had to get back to my own family so left Mike and my other siblings to sort themselves out. When Mike returned, he brought a woman with him that he had met in a bar and had know only 2 weeks. She seemed pleasant enough, but something wasn't quite right about the whole thing.

We started seeing less and less of Mike. He didn't go to church anymore and we did not feel welcome at his home. Mom (step) though something was very wrong but could not put a finger on it. Then came the call. You know the one in the middle of the night that jolts you out of a sound sleep? It was Dad. He was calling from the hospital. Mike had been shot. He didn't make it.

There was no sense going to the hospital, Dad and Mom were on their way home. I dressed and went to tell my youngest sister who had moved to Indiana too. Then I went to Dad and Mom's. I had to be near them. It was all so confusing and terrifying. Who did this? Why? Would they try to shoot the rest of the family too?

The police detectives did an excellant job in collecting information. They found the murder weapon, a shot gun, in the river where it had been thrown. They began to round up suspects. They found out that four men had been involved. They knew that Mike knew his killer. Before he died, he told the paramedics that "John" did it.

As it turned out, Mike had made some very bad choices and this one cost him his life. Evidently, the woman that he brought back from Massachusets and later married, had be in trouble with the law. She had lost custody of her children because of dealing drugs. She brought this activity with her and Mike went along for the dealiest ride of his short life.

The nigh he was killed. He was sitting in his kitchen working on a plastic model car, a long time hobby of his. He heard noises outside and went to investigate. When he did he was confronted by four men. They had come to rob him of drugs and money. Remember the temper he had? He wasn't having any of that and chased them until at one point, one of them turned and shot him in the chest at close range with a shot gun.

Eventually all of the men were found. They all stood trial for conspiracy to commit robbery and were sentenced to not more than 6 or 7 years in jail. Not one was charged with Mike's murder, which to me will remain an injustice. The four are all free now. Mike is a pile of ashes burried in Immaculet Conception Cemetary in Marlborough, Massachsetts.

Today, I wish he was here to share my birthday. He would have been 45.