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.
Joanne Corey 