Dad taught me how to die with dignity in a world without any
Mark Lowry
January 18, 2007
Dad Taught me to die with Dignity in A World with none.
My dad was born of poor circumstance and poor parents only from the perspective of finance. His life was rich with support and love of family and neighbors in a close knit Irish community of similar people who had pride, character and integrity. Character and integrity developed in the fire of war over generations of oppression first by the English over the Irish and then the English descendents in America over the Irish.
Time and years of collective battles brought some level of economic freedom to Irish people we know as kin. The only help ever needed was lack of abuse by oppressors of people with a natural desire to excel and succeed. The survival instincts must be genetically encoded in historically oppressed.
Dad lived a very tough life and worked to prevent his children from experiencing a similar fate. He started working at age 8 when his dad suddenly died and worked at something until his premature death at 84. His dad suffered a lot from fighting in France during WWI in the rainbow division. Granddad, lied about his age and went to war at 16.
Dad was a great teacher not so much by what he told us but by what he showed us. He like me was not much of a talker when it came to most subjects. What he did made more of lasting impression; than any thing that could have been communicated by any other means.
Memory of struggling attempts to tie my shoes as a child with dad standing by to show me how when I couldn’t make it are as fresh in my mind as the last word that just flittered though my mind. He was always encouraging and with plenty of patience to let us try it on our own with only a few short show me sessions.
Long work hours and lack of time off prevented him from coming to school functions and that was disappointing from the perspective of a spoiled child who didn’t comprehend inflexibility of a demanding job in the local meet packing plant. Plant managers showed about as much concern for employees as they did the processed animals. Dad came home with bloody hands and cuts many times but he was one of the fortunate ones. Others sustained disabling cuts and back injuries that prevented them from working. Several died.
The work place was always cold and wet. The cold was to keep animal carcasses from decaying; dampness came from continuous flows of water to wash carcasses as they were being processed. Animal blood and waste was always on the floor making it more dangerous for slips and falls as workers worked frantically with razor sharp knives flailing at the animals’ bodies cutting them into parts at a furious pace to keep up with the assembly line that was frequently accelerated by unscrupulous supervisors.
The assembly line began with the killing room and ended in the cooler, a large refrigerated room at the end of the processing line. A lot of carcasses were cut into halves and quarters for shipment by refrigerated truck or rail. The heavy slabs of meet were frequently transferred from one conveyor to another or to the final storage by the least qualified workers.
Dad never missed work because he was sick or late. His pride and devotion to family wouldn’t let him. After working over 30 years in that environment he got only a week vacation. For him that was a big job benefit. People before him didn’t get that.
In spite of all of the problems with this type of work he was dedicated to doing what he considered a good job to provide for his family. He felt if you got a day’s pay you should give your full measure of a day’s work to do less was a poor reflection on manhood. A bargain was a bargain and a honest man always kept his word.
We always had money to get new shoes and winter coats each year.
Vivid imagery still lingers in my mind of his treks to work in the winter. One year in particular haunts me still. Dad always got up early, about 4 am, to get ready to go to work. He was as quiet as possible to not wake up mom or me and my brothers. Mom left for work a lot later.
I somehow always knew when it was time for him to get up. I never interfered in his routine of making his coffee and sandwiches for his lunch at work. He drank some of it from his cup, always black with sugar and I could hear him pour the rest into his thermos bottle. He put his boots on, his worn and tattered winter coat and a stocking hat. Then he would cut the lights back off and sneak out the door quietly shutting it and walking out into the early morning dark. The squeak of the screen door spring was almost silent.
This particular winter was one of the worst. There was one snow storm after another and the snow was piled up high on the road. It was impossible to drive the old station wagon we had so dad walked to work. This day that sticks so in my mind was really like so many others I can’t remember and wasn’t really that special except for some reason I focused on this event at this time more than any other.
As soon as dad shut the door, I jumped out the bed and ran to the window to watch him leave. His personage was highlighted in the dim light of the old incandescent street light across from our house. Dad was taking giant steps as he had to raise his foot to the height of his other knee each time he took a step. The snow was over his knees. He was breathing heavily as witnessed by the cloud of cooled breath that was coming out of his lungs like one of the old freight trains. I watched dad until he disappeared behind the warehouses still trudging with every step he took and frequently holding his lunch box above his head to get through snow drifts.
I stood there for some time afterwards, staring at his footprints. I can’t remember how long but I was still there when mom’s old alarm clock started clanging. I jumped back into bed then but felt guilty for being there warm and dry while dad was still out in the snow.
Dad never mentioned those times he had to walk to work in the snow and neither did I. That is I never did until the year he was to die.
Dad was real depressed over Mom’s health and her separation from him. She had to be admitted to a nursing home after congestive heart failure, complications from renal failure and finally a broken hip. It seemed like dad was always dad, the man in charge, the provider and never really a close confidant for some reason. He always had my respect and love and I guess I thought he somehow telepathically knew that. I was stupid.
I had never really understood what it was like to live Dad’s life, just to provide for his family. He didn’t complain about his station, he was proud to be able to give us a better life. Its akin to saying I know what its like to have a baby by reading a book, it just ain’t the same. His perspective of me and the rest of the family was uniquely different than ours of him and the rest of us. He loved us more than any words could express and we didn’t really know.
One day while taking dad home after going to see mom he seemed to be a little more upset than usual and did not have much to say. And for him a moment without talking was like a moment without air. I started talking to him and asking what the problem was. He felt like he was a failure and wanted to know if I thought he was a good dad.
I was surprised that he would even ask such a thing. He was 84 years old and wondering if I thought he was a good father. I don’t think anything he ever said made me feel worse than knowing he even questioned whether I thought he was a good father.
It was at that moment the image of dad walking to work in the snow came rushing back into my mind. I started telling dad as we pulled up into his yard, our old home place where we were raised. I pointed at the front window and told dad how I watched him going to work that day and how bad I felt because I got to stay inside. I told him how much I loved him and appreciated what he did for us.
Dad cried. That is the only time I ever remember him doing that in my life. He was raised to never show emotion much like we were. Tough guys just didn’t do it. You were raised to be humble, honest, and hard.
It was only a few months after that day dad was hospitalized to begin a stay he would not survive in an environment that treats the elderly as disposable and not worthy of effort to extend their lives. It is called thinning the heard. I spent every moment I could with him during the three months in the hospital before his death.
We talked more during that time than we did our entire lives. It was a great opportunity for both of us but at the same time pretty sad we didn’t have time to get to do that earlier. I like him devoted a tremendous amount of time to work and have similar feelings of wondering if I failed my children because of lack of involvement in their lives while I like Dad worked to make things better for them. Dad said I owed him nothing. He said I owed my children, that is what fathers do, pass the legacy on.
Dad spent his last days on this earth giving me the last lesson he had for me. He taught me how to die with dignity in a world where no dignity is afforded elderly in that situation. He was a man of tremendous emotional and physical strength but his greatest attribute had to be his integrity and dogged determination to do what was expected of him by God. He never left me without saying he will see me the next time “God willing.”
He became very ill. We were able to get an ambulance to deliver Mom to his bedside for one day. They sat holding hands and talking like teenage lovers. They couldn’t kiss, being hooked up to so many tubes. When I arrived there wasn’t a dry eye at the nurses’ station. Mom and Dad were always polite and appreciative of what ever the nurses did for them.
The last visit I had with dad was no different than any of the others. He was asleep when I arrived in the intensive care unit; so I just sat in the chair by his bed and in a few minutes fell I too fell asleep. When I woke up he was awake and looking at me with a little smile, barely noticeable. He wanted to know how long I had been there and I like always told him I just got there. We had talked so much there was little left for us to say. I am usually at a loss for words when I have to say something in those types of situations anyway. Somehow, I just can’t think of anything to say. I think dad knew that and we had limited conversation about his medical condition and how he was improving.
I told him we were looking forward to getting him out of the hospital and into Mom’s nursing home. I think dad’s desire to maintain his independence and live in his home of 50 years conflicted with his desire to be confined in a nursing home even if he could be with mom. He was always fiercely independent and liked to do things his way if he could and did not want others doing anything for him.
He mowed the grass and edged his front yard with an ax only a week before he was admitted to the hospital with an undiagnosed tumor in his throat that should have been visible to even the most incapable inturn..
Dad listened at me talk about his transfer to the nursing home without much comment. I think he did ask something about who would take care of the house if he wasn’t there and I told him I would until he and mom could move back in. From then until end of visiting hours we passed the time with small talk.
As I got up to leave, I told dad again it will be no time until he would be with mom, said I loved him and turned to go after letting him know I would be back the next day.
He called my name and told me to come to his bedside, his voice was barely audible. He held up his hand and grasped mime with a grip a lot weaker than I remembered but still very strong given the circumstances. That’s when he told me: “Son, you don’t have anything to say about what is going to happen, it’s in God’ hands now. You’ll see me tomorrow God willing.” I told him again I loved him he said he knew I did and that he loved me and I left. That was the last time I saw Dad alive. His heart stopped during a minor procedure to clear a bile duct blockage the next day, and I wasn’t there.
He never complained the entire three months he was in the hospital and always showed his appreciation and respect for the people who treated him. Mom died of grief only six months later. They had been separated for over two years.
The state governor sent a letter telling us to sell the home place to pay for mom’s nursing home stay. That was the final indignity in a long chain of indignities. They said they needed the money to pay for illegal alien benefits.
Dad’s last gift spoiled me even more. I now know how to die with dignity when there is none available. I hope your and our children don’t have to learn that lesson.
Thanks again Dad, and Mom I love you still.
My dad was born of poor circumstance and poor parents only from the perspective of finance. His life was rich with support and love of family and neighbors in a close knit Irish community of similar people who had pride, character and integrity. Character and integrity developed in the fire of war over generations of oppression first by the English over the Irish and then the English descendents in America over the Irish.
Time and years of collective battles brought some level of economic freedom to Irish people we know as kin. The only help ever needed was lack of abuse by oppressors of people with a natural desire to excel and succeed. The survival instincts must be genetically encoded in historically oppressed.
Dad lived a very tough life and worked to prevent his children from experiencing a similar fate. He started working at age 8 when his dad suddenly died and worked at something until his premature death at 84. His dad suffered a lot from fighting in France during WWI in the rainbow division. Granddad, lied about his age and went to war at 16.
Dad was a great teacher not so much by what he told us but by what he showed us. He like me was not much of a talker when it came to most subjects. What he did made more of lasting impression; than any thing that could have been communicated by any other means.
Memory of struggling attempts to tie my shoes as a child with dad standing by to show me how when I couldn’t make it are as fresh in my mind as the last word that just flittered though my mind. He was always encouraging and with plenty of patience to let us try it on our own with only a few short show me sessions.
Long work hours and lack of time off prevented him from coming to school functions and that was disappointing from the perspective of a spoiled child who didn’t comprehend inflexibility of a demanding job in the local meet packing plant. Plant managers showed about as much concern for employees as they did the processed animals. Dad came home with bloody hands and cuts many times but he was one of the fortunate ones. Others sustained disabling cuts and back injuries that prevented them from working. Several died.
The work place was always cold and wet. The cold was to keep animal carcasses from decaying; dampness came from continuous flows of water to wash carcasses as they were being processed. Animal blood and waste was always on the floor making it more dangerous for slips and falls as workers worked frantically with razor sharp knives flailing at the animals’ bodies cutting them into parts at a furious pace to keep up with the assembly line that was frequently accelerated by unscrupulous supervisors.
The assembly line began with the killing room and ended in the cooler, a large refrigerated room at the end of the processing line. A lot of carcasses were cut into halves and quarters for shipment by refrigerated truck or rail. The heavy slabs of meet were frequently transferred from one conveyor to another or to the final storage by the least qualified workers.
Dad never missed work because he was sick or late. His pride and devotion to family wouldn’t let him. After working over 30 years in that environment he got only a week vacation. For him that was a big job benefit. People before him didn’t get that.
In spite of all of the problems with this type of work he was dedicated to doing what he considered a good job to provide for his family. He felt if you got a day’s pay you should give your full measure of a day’s work to do less was a poor reflection on manhood. A bargain was a bargain and a honest man always kept his word.
We always had money to get new shoes and winter coats each year.
Vivid imagery still lingers in my mind of his treks to work in the winter. One year in particular haunts me still. Dad always got up early, about 4 am, to get ready to go to work. He was as quiet as possible to not wake up mom or me and my brothers. Mom left for work a lot later.
I somehow always knew when it was time for him to get up. I never interfered in his routine of making his coffee and sandwiches for his lunch at work. He drank some of it from his cup, always black with sugar and I could hear him pour the rest into his thermos bottle. He put his boots on, his worn and tattered winter coat and a stocking hat. Then he would cut the lights back off and sneak out the door quietly shutting it and walking out into the early morning dark. The squeak of the screen door spring was almost silent.
This particular winter was one of the worst. There was one snow storm after another and the snow was piled up high on the road. It was impossible to drive the old station wagon we had so dad walked to work. This day that sticks so in my mind was really like so many others I can’t remember and wasn’t really that special except for some reason I focused on this event at this time more than any other.
As soon as dad shut the door, I jumped out the bed and ran to the window to watch him leave. His personage was highlighted in the dim light of the old incandescent street light across from our house. Dad was taking giant steps as he had to raise his foot to the height of his other knee each time he took a step. The snow was over his knees. He was breathing heavily as witnessed by the cloud of cooled breath that was coming out of his lungs like one of the old freight trains. I watched dad until he disappeared behind the warehouses still trudging with every step he took and frequently holding his lunch box above his head to get through snow drifts.
I stood there for some time afterwards, staring at his footprints. I can’t remember how long but I was still there when mom’s old alarm clock started clanging. I jumped back into bed then but felt guilty for being there warm and dry while dad was still out in the snow.
Dad never mentioned those times he had to walk to work in the snow and neither did I. That is I never did until the year he was to die.
Dad was real depressed over Mom’s health and her separation from him. She had to be admitted to a nursing home after congestive heart failure, complications from renal failure and finally a broken hip. It seemed like dad was always dad, the man in charge, the provider and never really a close confidant for some reason. He always had my respect and love and I guess I thought he somehow telepathically knew that. I was stupid.
I had never really understood what it was like to live Dad’s life, just to provide for his family. He didn’t complain about his station, he was proud to be able to give us a better life. Its akin to saying I know what its like to have a baby by reading a book, it just ain’t the same. His perspective of me and the rest of the family was uniquely different than ours of him and the rest of us. He loved us more than any words could express and we didn’t really know.
One day while taking dad home after going to see mom he seemed to be a little more upset than usual and did not have much to say. And for him a moment without talking was like a moment without air. I started talking to him and asking what the problem was. He felt like he was a failure and wanted to know if I thought he was a good dad.
I was surprised that he would even ask such a thing. He was 84 years old and wondering if I thought he was a good father. I don’t think anything he ever said made me feel worse than knowing he even questioned whether I thought he was a good father.
It was at that moment the image of dad walking to work in the snow came rushing back into my mind. I started telling dad as we pulled up into his yard, our old home place where we were raised. I pointed at the front window and told dad how I watched him going to work that day and how bad I felt because I got to stay inside. I told him how much I loved him and appreciated what he did for us.
Dad cried. That is the only time I ever remember him doing that in my life. He was raised to never show emotion much like we were. Tough guys just didn’t do it. You were raised to be humble, honest, and hard.
It was only a few months after that day dad was hospitalized to begin a stay he would not survive in an environment that treats the elderly as disposable and not worthy of effort to extend their lives. It is called thinning the heard. I spent every moment I could with him during the three months in the hospital before his death.
We talked more during that time than we did our entire lives. It was a great opportunity for both of us but at the same time pretty sad we didn’t have time to get to do that earlier. I like him devoted a tremendous amount of time to work and have similar feelings of wondering if I failed my children because of lack of involvement in their lives while I like Dad worked to make things better for them. Dad said I owed him nothing. He said I owed my children, that is what fathers do, pass the legacy on.
Dad spent his last days on this earth giving me the last lesson he had for me. He taught me how to die with dignity in a world where no dignity is afforded elderly in that situation. He was a man of tremendous emotional and physical strength but his greatest attribute had to be his integrity and dogged determination to do what was expected of him by God. He never left me without saying he will see me the next time “God willing.”
He became very ill. We were able to get an ambulance to deliver Mom to his bedside for one day. They sat holding hands and talking like teenage lovers. They couldn’t kiss, being hooked up to so many tubes. When I arrived there wasn’t a dry eye at the nurses’ station. Mom and Dad were always polite and appreciative of what ever the nurses did for them.
The last visit I had with dad was no different than any of the others. He was asleep when I arrived in the intensive care unit; so I just sat in the chair by his bed and in a few minutes fell I too fell asleep. When I woke up he was awake and looking at me with a little smile, barely noticeable. He wanted to know how long I had been there and I like always told him I just got there. We had talked so much there was little left for us to say. I am usually at a loss for words when I have to say something in those types of situations anyway. Somehow, I just can’t think of anything to say. I think dad knew that and we had limited conversation about his medical condition and how he was improving.
I told him we were looking forward to getting him out of the hospital and into Mom’s nursing home. I think dad’s desire to maintain his independence and live in his home of 50 years conflicted with his desire to be confined in a nursing home even if he could be with mom. He was always fiercely independent and liked to do things his way if he could and did not want others doing anything for him.
He mowed the grass and edged his front yard with an ax only a week before he was admitted to the hospital with an undiagnosed tumor in his throat that should have been visible to even the most incapable inturn..
Dad listened at me talk about his transfer to the nursing home without much comment. I think he did ask something about who would take care of the house if he wasn’t there and I told him I would until he and mom could move back in. From then until end of visiting hours we passed the time with small talk.
As I got up to leave, I told dad again it will be no time until he would be with mom, said I loved him and turned to go after letting him know I would be back the next day.
He called my name and told me to come to his bedside, his voice was barely audible. He held up his hand and grasped mime with a grip a lot weaker than I remembered but still very strong given the circumstances. That’s when he told me: “Son, you don’t have anything to say about what is going to happen, it’s in God’ hands now. You’ll see me tomorrow God willing.” I told him again I loved him he said he knew I did and that he loved me and I left. That was the last time I saw Dad alive. His heart stopped during a minor procedure to clear a bile duct blockage the next day, and I wasn’t there.
He never complained the entire three months he was in the hospital and always showed his appreciation and respect for the people who treated him. Mom died of grief only six months later. They had been separated for over two years.
The state governor sent a letter telling us to sell the home place to pay for mom’s nursing home stay. That was the final indignity in a long chain of indignities. They said they needed the money to pay for illegal alien benefits.
Dad’s last gift spoiled me even more. I now know how to die with dignity when there is none available. I hope your and our children don’t have to learn that lesson.
Thanks again Dad, and Mom I love you still.
Print
Email
