On New Year's Day, 1977 Dad got very sick, complications from his lifelong battle with diabetes. He stayed in bed over the holiday, thinking maybe it was the flu, but he wasn't getting any better. He was so ill he could'nt get out of bed to go the emergency room. I watched as the ambulance carried Dad in a stretcher down the stairs. It was the last time I would ever see him.
Three weeks later he died in Philadelphia. It was always serious when they couldn't do much at the local hospital and needed to transfer you to the city, either by ambulance or helicopter.
We got a call around 3:00 a.m. Mom thought he was getting better, the infection that had started in his foot was healing. But it turned out that he took a sudden turn for the worst, the infection spreading to other areas of his body, his major organs shutting down. Diabetes was finally winning after a long battle.
I heard the phone ring that morning, heard Mom answer and say "He died?"She had just come from the hospital hours before, planning to return soon. I heard her sobbing, then saw her at my bedroom door, checking if I was awake. I was, and asked what was going on.
"Daddy died," she said softly.
The words left me numb. I knew he was sick but..he was going to get better, wasn't he? Like all the times before. I couldn't cry. I just lay awake the rest of the night. Before I thought of what his death would mean to the future I relived all the memories.It was less painful to dream than to face reality.
We went to ballgames together. The Sunday night bowling matches. How he worked so damn hard for all those years. What a great guy he is. Hard to believe everything would stop. Death is so permanent.
How would we cope? Poor Mom was taking care of me and now had to look after everyone on her own. Two of my siblings were married and out of the house. Two more were in high school. But there was still me and my youngest brother.
It didn't seem fair. Dad was only 55. We needed him. Now what?
The day he was buried was a day never to be forgotten. On January 22, the day before the funeral, the snow had piled up to nearly a foot from a blizzard a few days earlier. Someone had shoveled a path for my wheelchair to get outside to the car. The cemetery was windy and cold, the sky a steel gray color, the trees bare and lifeless. They struggled pushing my wheelchair threw the enormous drifts of snow, at times needing to carry the chair, just to reach the grave site. A taste of the harsh reality to come.
I still couldn't cry. People thought I was putting up a brave face. Well-wishers stopped by the quiet house after the funeral. Late at night we were alone again. Dad wasn't coming back. His favorite brown recliner in the living room sat empty. He was all around us but just wasn't there. And in my room alone I finally cried.
On special occasions in the future I would feel his presence in my life. Like the day I graduated from college. Or the night the Phillies finally won the World Series. The day I was hired for my first real job. During those times he was there.
The holidays were over, the funeral was over and now it was time to return to school. I told myself I would give it another shot- for Dad. He always wanted to see me make it. I went back for him.
In February I was still failing and depressed. Without consulting anyone, even Mom, I decided to quit. Damn, I hated that word. I was not a quitter. Yet here I was, throwing away this opportunity. Would anyone understand?
Down at Penn I told Alvin and the people from Vocational Rehabilitation that I couldn't go on. I got a stern lecture from some lady on the staff, probably a guidance counselor, who took me into a back room and laid it out, how I was throwing away a great job, independence, the chance to be somebody. Did I want to go back to being labeled as "disabled?" I had much more to give.
She was right. I wish I had a back-up plan to fall back on but I didn't. I would return to a do-nothing life and an empty future.
She asked me to stick it out another few weeks. I said no. Vocational Rehab was disgusted with me.. An all-expenses paid education, which would lead to a good job, down the drain. Did I realize how many other guys in my situation would die for this chance? They reluctantly kept my case open, but I didn't hear from them for a while.
At least Mom understood. She knew how hard things were at home. Of course, she always worried about me anyway, out there in the wicked weather, alone and by myself for the very first time. To hell with the future.
In my heart I felt like I did give up. I felt like a failure and a loser, like I had let down so many people who had faith in me, especially Dad. I wondered if he understood my feelings and reasons for quitiing school. All this time, trying to please others and do the right things yet torn up inside.
A little voice inside reassured me that somehow, someway, everything would be OK. I just didn't know how.
Funny how things turn out. God and Dad had to be on my side. Even though most of my family and Vocational Rehab were disappointed in me (some silently and some outwardly), Mom always remained loyal and believed in me. Still,I was easing back into that old, comfortable role of being "disabled."
Little did I know those failures early in 1977 only served to make me stronger and more determined in time. They weren't failures after all, but triumphs. I couldn't see it then but everything happens for a reason. Like one big jigsaw puzzle, every piece would fit down the road. As always, the hardships in my life would make me stronger down the road.
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