Today is celebrated as Father’s Day in the United States. My dad, known here at Top of JC’s Mind as Paco, passed away in 2021. My spouse B, father to our daughters E and T, is visiting with extended family in Maine; T is with him but I wasn’t able to make the trip.
Because of all that, I wasn’t really planning to observe Father’s Day today but I got an email from my younger sister, asking if I had a hard copy of the photo above. Nana and Paco had this portrait taken at Eastman Studios in Binghamton, New York, after they retired here. I don’t have an exact date, but I’m guessing it was taken in the late 1980s-early ’90s.
I went upstairs to look for it in the two large bags of photo albums and framed pictures that we had taken home from Paco’s last apartment. The first album I picked up was one that my sister had put together for one his last Father’s Days.
Of course, this photo was part of the album.
I spent some time going through it. It begins with photos from Nana and Paco’s youth and their wedding in 1954. There are photos of my sisters and me growing up, our home, extended family, and travels. Later, there are photos of them with their grandchildren and finally photos of their great-granddaughters.
So, I did get to spend time with my dad today and see his smile – multiple times.
I work up in the very early morning darkness today thinking about my father, known here and in real life for the last 33-ish years of his life as Paco, the name bestowed on him by my firstborn and his first grandchild E as she was learning to talk.
I suppose this is not surprising because this is the second anniversary of his death. You can read a tribute that I wrote to him a few weeks after his passing here.
What is unfortunate is that in the early morning darkness in which I am now writing this post I am remembering so much of his final years, when I was struggling to get proper support and medical care for him, exacerbated by the pandemic. Even though I was living locally, there were long stretches in which I could not visit in person at all or only for short amounts of time. Phone and video calls were often frustrating, as you can tell from this poem, which was first published in Rat’s Ass Review.
Video Chat with our 95-year-old Father
You said it was scary today that we were there
in your bedroom your three daughters in pulsating squares
on a screen You remembered where home
is for each of us but not where it is for you
confused that you could see us hear us
but we were not there with you
We talked about the snowy winter, so like our New England childhoods, when you would
wrangle your orange snowblower to clear our way out
We asked if the cut and bruise on your hand had finally healed
if you had finished all the Valentine goodies we’d sent
Distracted by a sound from the living room
you set the tablet aside left us
staring at the ceiling
What was most difficult was that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t secure correct diagnoses or treatments for Paco, illustrated by the fact that his death certificate states that he died from end-stage heart failure, but he was only diagnosed with heart failure about ten days before he died. I had been trying for months to tell the staff at his assisted living and then skilled nursing units of his continuing care community that he was having unexplained symptoms and had accompanied him to outside doctors and emergency room visits, when the pandemic protocols allowed me to stay with him, but it was never enough to get to the bottom of his health difficulties.
I thought I had worked my way out of most of the trauma of that but, in the early morning darkness of this anniversary day, apparently there is still some of that pain left. It’s not that I think I could have further prolonged his 96 years – something that would not have served any of us – but that his final months would have been so much easier for him if he could have received timely, proper diagnosis and medications.
One of the comforts of Paco’s death was the thought of his reuniting with my mom, known here as Nana, who died in May, 2019, also of heart failure and, gratefully, before the pandemic struck. I drafted this poem, which was first published by Wilderness House Literary Review, only a couple of weeks after Paco’s death.
We probably should have taken off
his wedding ring before
he died before
his hands cooled started
to claw
but we couldn’t remove
that symbol
of Elinor
of two years
three months
twenty-three days
left
without her
after
sixty-five years
one month
three days
married to her
the ring
of her
even in days of delirium
haze confusion
his ring not
sixty-seven years old
but twenty
her gift a remedy
for missing some thing
of his
to cling to during his three weeks
in the hospital
his chest cracked open
widow-maker averted
somehow
She inscribed his ring
ALL MY LOVE “ME”
the way she signed cards to him
birthday anniversary Christmas
St. Patrick’s Day
valentines
the words against his left
ring finger believed
to lead most directly to the heart
which finally failed
after ninety-six years
five months
nineteen days
as hers had
after eighty-seven years
six days
While I go to the sink
to fetch soap to ease
the ring off his finger
my sister works
it over his reluctant knuckle
I carry it home
to my daughter
Elinor’s and Leo’s rings
unite
on their granddaughter’s finger
[For those of you who might be new to Top of JC’s Mind, I will note that it is really unusual for me to fold poems into posts like this, but somehow, in the early morning darkness, it seemed appropriate.]
I’ll close this post by explaining the significance of the four-generations photo, taken a few weeks before Paco’s death, that begins this post. It shows Paco, me, eldest grandchild E who named Paco, and great-granddaughters, then 4-year-old ABC and just turned 1-year-old JG. This was the first and only meeting of Paco and JG, who had been born in London, UK, in the early months of the pandemic. ABC lived here in the States with us for her first two years and remembered Paco very well. The restrictions on international travel had kept E and her family from visiting but they were able to get special permission to travel together to come visit Paco one last time.
Paco’s health declined quickly after that visit and I’m so grateful that we all had that brief, sweet time together.
Remembering that final farewell through a few tears in the still-before-dawn darkness of this anniversary morning.
Today is the eighteenth anniversary of my father-in-law’s death. He was the first of B’s and my parents to pass away. I wasn’t blogging or writing poetry then; it took years for me to process enough to write about his death. This poem was first published by Eunoia Reviewhere in 2016. As it happened, he was the only one of our four parents that we were able to be with at the moment of death.
The Last Night ~ ~ ~ by Joanne Corey
Hospice told my husband what to expect as his father’s death approached, skin mottled, eyes open but unseeing.
Crush the morphine, mix with water, spoon into his gaping mouth every two hours.
The death rattle started, unmistakable, though we had never heard it before.
We did what we could, smoothing his hair, holding his hand, another dose of morphine.
I prayed the rosary silently, lacking beads, counting the decades with my fingers.
When he quieted, breath slow, gentle, we woke his wife of fifty-one years.
She lay beside him that last hour.
Breaths shallower, with pauses between, longer – longer still – until, near dawn, no next breath comes.
We switch off the oxygen concentrator. Silence heralds his absence.
When we were visiting in London last Christmas, daughter E gave us a calendar featuring photos of granddaughters ABC and JG. Most often, the photos were taken in that month the prior year, so turning the page for August brought a four generation photo with Paco from their visit last year.
The timing of that visit was a blessing, existing in the tiny window of their being able to get travel permission from the US and UK and before Paco’s final steep decline that led to his death in September.
I’ve been struggling this summer with the memories from last year, many of which have been difficult.
It’s good to have this photo with smiles that I can feel in my heart, even if my eyes fill with tears.
Because I announced my father’s death in this One-Liner Wednesday post, I’m linking the promised tribute to him with thanks to him and to all my friends and readers who have been sending out prayers and good thoughts on our behalf over the years.
My 96-year-old father, known here as Paco, died in mid-September, but I have been struggling to write about him. A good share of that is that the writing/analytical/organizational part of my brain has been too busy with all the phone calling and notes and paperwork that follow a death, which are by turns taxing and emotional and fraught. I’ve also been trying to find peace after so many months of complex medical and care situations which I found both exhausting and traumatic. I’ve also taken a week to attend a reunion residency with the Boiler House Poets Collective at MASS MoCA, which has been helpful both in reconnecting with family history as we are from the North Adams MA area and reconnecting with myself as a poet after so many months of sneaking in poetry time only intermittently.
But in this post, I will try to tell you more about Paco and our family.
People have asked me how my Irish-American father came to be known as Paco, which sounds more Spanish. My firstborn daughter E was the first grandchild on both sides of the family. As she was learning to talk, she couldn’t manage to say “Grandpa” and – after a few instances of calling him “Bucco” – settled on Paco as his name. This became his name with all the other grandchildren and often for other family members. It was natural for me to use it here on the blog.
It was a revelation for me seeing Paco interact with his grandchildren. Because my younger sister and I are only two years apart, I didn’t remember my father as a dad to young children. Unlike so many men of his generation, he reveled in playing with very young children and singing to them. One of the great blessings of our family life is that Nana and Paco retired near us when E was three and before T was born. Having them be so close by all those years was wonderful with walks and outings and school events and concerts, theater, and dance recitals, games and carousel rides and countless volleys of ping pong in the basement. Nana and Paco gave us so much love, care, and support for so many years; it was natural that we would provide the same to them as they grew older and developed health problems.
Paco had served in the US Navy as a SeaBee in World War II and Korea. The SeaBees were the Construction Battalion – CBs, get it? – and Paco was drafted before he could finish high school. Most of the SeaBees were older men, already established in various trades, who took Paco under their wing and taught him what they knew. The skills he developed there in electrical work set the stage for his career. Paco didn’t talk much about his service when we were growing up but, in his later years, he got some SeaBee caps which he would wear out in public. I was always amazed at how many people would comment, thank him for his service, and share their own stories of service by themselves or family members. Those tributes continued into his last days. One of the first things Hospice did after admitting him was to bring a certificate and a memorial quilt square to him. We are also applying for a service medallion to be added to his memorial in the mausoleum.
Paco worked for 43 years for New England Power Company, the last 23 as Superintendent of the Upper Deerfield River in southern Vermont/western Massachusetts. I wrote the poem “Hydro Superintendent” about him for his 90th birthday. We lived in a house that was owned by the company and often visited the powerplants and reservoirs. One of his biggest accomplishments as superintendent was overseeing the construction of Bear Swamp, a pumped storage plant built inside a mountain. Paco knew every detail of that project, which brought in contractors from as far away as Japan and Switzerland. It was so much fun walking through a giant tunnel to get to the huge powerhouse with its two turbines that could generate electricity and then reverse to pump water back to the upper reservoir. I started my interest in renewable electricity and energy storage technology young, thanks to Paco.
One of the things I admired about Paco was his work ethic. He always worked hard to get the job done right but he was also part of the team, even when he was the leader. He would help the crews do emergency work rather than just ordering them to come in. He hired the first Black and the first woman into his stations which had previously been staffed entirely by white males. (Point of information: Rural New England was not very racially diverse at the time. Some areas still are not diverse now, decades later.) He was always compassionate and understanding when employees encountered personal or family difficulties. He was also not one to “toot his own horn.” I found out how well-regarded he was by his staff through others, not from him.
We admired Paco even more when we discovered he had accomplished so much with undiagnosed dyslexia. When his youngest granddaughter S was diagnosed with an inherited form of dyslexia, Paco discovered at age 80 why he had always secretly struggled with reading and writing. S and her family launched the Paco Project to raise funds for Learning Ally to help others with print or visual disabilities access the world of books. We are proud to direct donations to Learning Ally in memory of Paco.
Paco was also proud to finally become a high school graduate. I applied for his diploma through Operation Recognition, a program which awards diplomas to veterans who left school before completing their course of study. In 2008, the same year that eldest granddaughter E graduated from high school, Paco received his diploma from Drury High School in North Adams, Massachusetts, the school that he and Nana, as well as I and my sisters, had attended.
Paco’s ancestors came to the United States from Ireland but he had never visited. Nana was too claustrophobic to consider flying, but after her death in spring 2019, my two sisters took Paco to Ireland to visit.
Paco and an Irish rainbow
We were blest that all four of his grandchildren got to see Paco over the summer. We were especially grateful that granddaughter E with spouse L and great-granddaughters ABC and JG were able to visit from London UK. Because of the pandemic, we had not been able to see each other, but in August, just before the final and more precipitous portion of Paco’s decline, they were able to make the trip.
four generations with Paco, Joanne, granddaughter E, and great-grands JG and ABC
There were a few days during Paco’s last week where he was very agitated but we were fortunate to have some calmer moments. T was the only one of the grandchildren nearby enough for one final visit, which wound up being the day before he died. It was one of the most heartbreakingly tender encounters I have ever seen. T sang Irish songs to Paco and held his hands, which were still a bit restless from a medication side effect. She talked to him and I know that he could hear her because he was able to respond a bit. I admit that I couldn’t help but cry and that I am crying now as I try – and fail – to find the words to convey how special that last hour between them was.
It also happened that all three of Paco’s daughters got to spend time with him, both alone and in various pairings, on the day of his death. It was not clear that this would be his final day, so it was not that it had been planned, but I’m grateful that it turned out that way. I’m also grateful that in his last few days, I was finally able to sing to my father, something that my sisters had been doing but that I struggled to do. I sang both verses of “Over the River and through the Woods” to get to Paco’s favorite lines, “Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!” (Paco loved all kinds of pie.) I sang the Shaker hymn “Simple Gifts” because it is comforting to me and several beautiful Irish hymn tunes. Occasionally, I would get too choked up to continue singing but I usually managed to get through. On that last day, Paco could not respond but Hospice told us that the sense of hearing tends to remain and can even sharpen as the other senses are shutting down. My younger sister was alone with Paco when he died but I arrived soon after for my very last good-bye.
I have been so moved by the many people who have reached out to me during Paco’s decline and since his death. There have been so many kind words, both written and spoken – remembrances, prayers, thoughts, stories, expressions of gratitude for a long life well-lived. I was very touched when a friend that I made through Facebook but whom I have never met in person added my father to her Kaddish prayer on Yom Kippur. It has been the love I first learned from my parents but now experience through so many family and friends that has kept me going through all of this, even during the most difficult times. I thank all of you.
Last week, I went to the hair salon for a haircut with Diane, who has been my stylist since 1983. I told her about Paco’s death and she gave me a hug and told me that she had something to show me. It was her new puppy, who was sweetly asleep in his crate. She told me his name was Leo.
Sharing the news that my father, known here as Paco, passed away yesterday. I will share more in the coming days and appreciate all the support of my readers as we have been dealing with Paco’s decline. ***** To join in with Linda’s One-Liner Wednesday, visit here: https://lindaghill.com/2021/09/15/one-liner-wednesday-words-to-live-by-2/
Last week was rough as I wrote about for Stream of Consciousness Saturday yesterday.
Today is Father’s Day in the United States. I was able to speak briefly with my dad this morning, but he was pretty confused about handling the phone and they were about to change one of his dressings. There aren’t visiting hours until Tuesday evening, so there is no chance to see him. We did drop off a card yesterday and he has gifts and cards already from my sisters.
He can’t really remember that it’s Father’s Day anyway…
Meanwhile, it is also Father’s Day for B here at our house but I’m having trouble focusing enough to plan dinner or much of anything else. It’s taking effort just to make my eyes focus to write this.
I did sleep quite a bit last night after very little sleep the night before.
Somewhere in the midst of all of this, we went out to dinner for our 39th wedding anniversary and opened some cards. Originally, we were going to go away for a couple of days. We still might, once I get through the initial care conference for Paco on Tuesday. I need to write notes and questions to prepare for that. Oh, and also get ready to deal with all the insurance folks.
Joanne Corey 