One Childs Tragedy

“How beautiful is youth, that is always slipping away! Whoever wants to be happy, let him be so; of tomorrow there’s no knowing.”- Lorenzo De’ Medici

At nine-years-old my world was shattered by tragedy. I felt as if I was standing in the mist of giant mountains shaped like adults. Their words echoing around me, “no child should have to endure this”.

“Who is going to care for him now”?

“I’m sorry for your loss”.

This is my story of tragedy and triumph. In life, there are no happy endings but joy…you can find that even in tragedy.

Eddie was a good man and while he was alive, many people would say so. He entered the Navy during World War II but rarely ever talked about it. He frequented the local Legion. He liked to drink. He would drink a little too much a little too often. When drinking, he was never a violent man. He was more of a comedian. He would imitate slapstick comedians from 50’s sitcoms. Ones who liked to contort their faces and sing their jokes. Anyone who watched it, couldn’t help but laugh. He was loved by many, especially by me. He was my dad.

When he was not drinking, he would take time to do things with me-like our summer’s walks. We would walk along a path picking cattails that grew from the side of semi-muddy embankments. Though those moments were few, they were some of my first real memories of joy.

I grew up in a small mill town just outside of Pittsburgh. Eddie worked in “the Mill'' for decades before I was born. Towns and life were getting bigger but still small enough that you could get away with saying I work in the mill, without anyone questioning which one, when someone asked your place of employment. On our summer walks Eddie would stop where the trail met the mill. He would tell me of the work he did. He would talk about the large presses, the smoldering furnaces and the blue-collar men who worked there. Though I did not really understand all the work he did, I could tell he enjoyed talking to me about it. As a kid, I just enjoyed the adventure with my dad.

Juanita, Nita as her friends called her, was one of the bravest souls I have ever known. Her bravery was not like my fathers’ in war time. Her struggle was with diabetes. In 2021 diabetes is not as big of a deal as it was in the 80’s. To be fair, the 80’s was not as bad as the preceding 40 years before. The advancements in modern medicine from the 40’s to the 80’s was significant enough that Nita could manage her sugar with insulin and a strict diet. When I was still very young, she lost a portion of her leg. One day I left out a metal car and she stepped on it. This caused an infection and required amputation. I was of course very young, but I still feel guilty for what happened. Nita was my mother.

Nita had a tight knit group of friends who would visit the house. They would talk for hours, study the Bible, sing songs, and laugh about life. She would take me to church more than once a week some months. She did not drive so she had to rely on friends or dad to take her places. She never complained about any of it. The time with her made an impact on me. I still cherish those times to this day.

One evening I cherish most was the night we went to a “revival” at the Soldiers and Sailors Memorial. It was a true adventure for me and the farthest I had ever traveled. I remember on the way up the car was filled with singing, smiles and laughter. Some of the laughter was at me trying to sing whatever they were. I’m pretty sure I did not have a grasp on the English language yet, so it would have been entertaining.

When we arrived at the Memorial, I was awestruck at the size of it. I remember thinking it was a huge house and whoever lived there was very lucky. In the halls were lifelike recreations of the uniformed men and women along with military equipment used during all the previous wars. I was struck with awe once again at something I knew was important but did not understand. I scurried through the halls to a side room where the revival was going to take place. I don’t remember the whole service, but I do remember parts of it. The preacher was fervent, the people talked funny sometimes, and some people fell. As we went home, I watched sleepy eyed as the lights zipped by. The tall highway lights overhead reminded me of alien ships flying. I was not afraid. I knew I was safe with my mom and her friends, so I drifted off to sleep.

Things seemed in a real sense of the word so big, like the memorial, its statues, and the mill. In an abstract sense my life seemed small and compartmentalized. The categories were Mom, dad, adventures, family, swings, songs, friends, fun and a vivid imagination. Life was swinging in the summer, running through the clean sheets as they hung on the line outside, and bedtime stories. These joyful memories helped me to endure a coming tragedy.

“It is necessary to be strong in the face of death because death is intrinsic to life. It is for this reason that I tell my students: aim to be the person at your father’s funeral that everyone, in their grief and misery, can rely on. There’s a worthy and noble ambition: strength in the face of adversity.” -Jordan B. Peterson

Eddie died first. He suffered two strokes one paralyzed his right side the second was fatal. Eddie, unknown to myself or mom, had suffered mini-strokes months before the appointment with his doctor. This was on top of his failing liver which was likely a complication of his drinking. The last things I remember about him were the model airplane he put together for me, the Navy song he taught me, and a frail man too weak to speak struggling to put words together. The last night I saw him alive reminds me of the poem by Dylan Thomas, “Do not go gently into that goodnight”, and the line, “And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” The gravity of truth in those words’ weigh heavy on me even today.

“With my mother's death all settled happiness . . . disappeared from my life. There was to be much fun, many pleasures, many stabs of joy; but no more of the old security…”- C.S. Lewis

The time after my father’s death was sort of a blur. One thing I do remember was going to counseling in school. I was in elementary school and death became less of an abstract thought. Between games of Candyland, I recalled some things. I recalled Nita standing for a long time at the casket, which was hard for her because of her leg loss. I recalled Nita had thrown herself on the casket before they lowered Eddie's body at the funeral. I stood silent, most likely in shock. I only cried when I realized there would be no more times like our summer walks.

After the funeral, mom went on a bit of a shopping spree since dad controlled the money. Their parents were from “the old world”, so that was common practice then and what was passed on. She seemed happy but I had caught her crying once. To console her I told her that dad was not suffering anymore. He was in Heaven. I knew she missed him dearly.

Sometime within six months after my father’s death, my mom was admitted to a hospital. She went in for acute kidney failure and high blood sugar. She never made it home. I cannot ever forget the night she went into the hospital. I was sleeping in my room, which shared a wall with hers. I woke up out of a dead sleep but no noise woke me, or light shined on me. I walked into her room and saw her small bed lamp on. It was late at night. Something was wrong.

Nita had a hard time getting in and out of bed, calling the emergency services would have been difficult. Her condition at the time would have made it harder, except she had a life alert button. I had worked hard during a fundraiser at school trying to get it for her. I don’t think I was able to make all I needed but the school pitched in, knowing Nita’s’ situation. The principal presented me with a life alert and a commendation for my thoughtfulness. I remember rushing home to tell her about it and how she cried with joy and pride. I have never forgotten the joy I felt because of the kindness shown to my mother.

After the death of my parents, I had to face something I was told when I was five. I never really considered who my mom was because I knew. It was Nita. I never considered who my dad was because it was Eddie. Eddie and Nita were not my birth parents. They were my grandparents. I was adopted after Lori, my birth mother, birthed me at 16. Lori, after I turned five, was not around. She had disappeared by choice. My birth fathers name was Dan. They, along with Eddie and Juanita all decided I should be adopted. I don’t know a lot of the specifics, but I know it was hard for everyone involved. I was willed by my mother to Judy a family friend. Judy searched for Lori, but she could not be found. I found out years later it was because Lori was in rehab for drug abuse. She was in isolation and not able to contact anyone. My father was in jail and could not take care of me.

Judy volunteered to be my guardian and took me in. Prior to my parents dying I would spend weekends over at her house. I often played and went places with Jim and Jeanna, who are older than me by 10 and 8 years respectively. I was a real part of their family even before my parents’ death. They had a nickname for me, Bopper. Despite our history the transition was not easy. I was a difficult child after my parents’ death. The abrupt loss created a great sense of abandonment in me.

Abandonment is something children, with loss like mine, go through. I knew it was not Eddie and Juanita’s fault for leaving. I was grateful my birth parents did what they did for me. The feeling of abandonment never manifested in me before Eddie and Juanita's death. Like the bee sting I suffered on my 5th birthday, I knew the pain of loss and abandonment the day I left my first childhood home. A revolutionary thought came to me one day. I remember thinking I am on my own, that day and for many after I felt like the “other”. It was not for a lack of everyone making me feel like one of them. This was my own shortcoming. This is still a struggle in my life.

Life directly after was filled with good times. I found joy and laughter in them. Despite all the ups and downs life dealt me, it is good even now. I’ve achieved graduating college with a degree, something no one in my family had done. I married a woman I love dearly and have close personal relationships with guys I regard as brothers. I’ve beaten the average outcome for someone who loses their family at an early age, grows up in a lower middle-class town, struggled with establishing an identity and lacked a steady male role model in their formative years. I’m just an average guy from an average place. I’ve learned some extraordinary life lessons and navigated through some tough times. Movies like, “Real Steel”, still gets me in the feels every time I watch them.

I hope what I have shared here today has made an impact on you. The impact I most want to make is for my words to uncover some meaning. Not just a sense of utility, like learning a new tool. A sense of something that emerges and quiets your soul. I’ve found meaning, when uncovered, brings a sense of joy. C.S. Lewis once said, “All joy reminds. It is never a possession, always a desire for something longer ago or further away or still ‘about to be’ and it is a by-product. Its very existence presupposes that you desire not it but something other and outer.” I hope you can uncover some meaning from my words, and it can bring you a sense of joy. In my perspective there is no greater achievement in life than to really mean something to someone.