The Long Way Home

So I'm guessing by now that some people are wondering what the update is with PinF since I so abruptly arrived into my old state of Pennsylvania. For starters, my father has slowly crept back from the great abyss of the here after and made a stunning reversal of his medical decline. Having spent almost 80 hours in 9 days in a hospital, I have developed such respect for those who are called to nursing. The nurses that surrounded my father must have known that his own mother was a nurse for 57 years, as I watched the dedication, respect, and care they gave to what appeared to resemble very little the man I know. Especially poignant and appreciated were the two sister's who worked side by side in nursing. These two nurses took special interest and care in my father; safeguarding his dignity daily with the devotion and love with which they gave so willingly and sincerely. These two young women I would come to find out, were both graduates of my mother's alma mater, Little Flower Catholic High School for Girls. It was just two months ago that I was at their school giving a speech of introduction for my mother's induction into the LFHS Hall of Fame. The irony of this was not lost on me, and I suspect their care spoke as much to their family values and how they were raised as it did the values instilled at such a fine school. Neither words nor deeds can truly express gratitude for those who would care for your family member as you yourself would. These young women along with many others are the personification of what "nursing" really is, and I supect their care is as much responsible for my father's recovery as was his will to live.

As with all major events in our lives, my father's health has allowed me to see many facets of my own life from both different and hopefully wiser perspectives. Receiving a call informing you that any family member is dying least of all a parent-- is at best like a kick in the stomach, even though it's a fear all children will one day have to face. My parent's faced it, their parent's faced it, and so on. So now it's my turn. Having said this, these events often allow us all to "go home" in a sense. Facing your parents mortality forces you to look back upon your own life and the path you have lead that eventually leads you back to whence you have come from. This and the fact that you must communciate with your siblings the wishes and desires of your parents almost force you to confront your shared past's.

This fact was particularly illustrated in my case by the virtue of the hospital my father wound up in; Delaware County Memorial Hospital. Three of my brothers and I were born here, I also had my kidney removed here as a sick child. I remember quite vividly also being here when my father's mother died, we were at her bedside as she a woman of profound faith announced she was "leaving". This made my initial visit all the more poignant not to mention painful as I now looked down at my parent in what at the time appeared to be his death bed. This was not to be, not now anyway.

After almost ten days of back and forth from Media to my father's bedside I was reconciling my past with my present, as each day I drove through my childhood memories on the streets I was raised in Drexel Hill. Each morning I would ride past my elementary school where some of my fondest and dearest memories as a child have been stored for 32 years since I left in 3th grade. I decided after a particulary hard day of emotions to ride down my old street and see the house we grew up in. As I sat parked across from 4009 Lasher memories of days long sinced past flashed before me, in all of them my parents are youthful and strong. I gazed upon the steps that my brother's and I would play "stepball" on for hours, and where for some reason the entire street always seemed to congregate. It was both cathartic and sad as I knew that time does indeed march on, just as it was now with my father's health.

The one true desire aside from actually being allowed to walk through my childhood home was the imposing three story, stone elementary school where so many of my memories remained stored. I drove up remembering how my mother and I would walk to the adjacent street in the summer time to the Bookmobile to check out books. Prominent still were ball fields where my dad would hit pop-flys for his four older boys or play football. I decided then that this would be the day I would reenter the true essence of all I had left behind of my childhood before moving to Wallingford. In reality what dramatic or instilled memory does any child have of childhood other than their school and friends? I had longed wished I could walk the halls as an adult to see what it was that had permeated my memory for so long, today was the day.

I approached the massive building, and in doing so was transported back in time to a simpler, happier, and carefree time when innocence was bliss. Much to my surprise very little if anything had changed. I walked into the main office and was greeted by a nice secretary who I told I was considering locating nearby and enrolling my daughter. I prefaced this with the fact that I too had once been enrolled and was equally curious to again walk the halls. The woman was immediately warm and accomodating as she explained the achievements and advantages of attending Garettford Elementary. So often your past is jarred by a familar smell and this day was no exception, as I could smell the old wooden doors, cabinets, and teacher's desks. She encouraged me to walk anywhere I wanted and told me she was available for any questions. I felt the same lump in my thgroat as I did on the first day of Mrs. West's kindergarten class when my mom walked me in crying not to go.

I logically started at the beginning. I went into Mrs. West's classroom, still looming as large as I remembered were the room-width blackboards; somewhat of a throwback I thought since so many "modern classrooms now use dry erase boards. I could remeber milk and graham crackers here. I then went to the first library I had ever been in; it seemed small by comparison to my childhood memory yet still it had the familiar and deliciously musty odor of old books. After this I walked downstairs to Mrs. Garret's first grade class remembering my schoolboy crush on her as I sat in the now empty and sweltering classroom. I remember her teaching us about the Apollo space program and watching the launches huddled around an old 19" black and white with rabbit ears. Across the hall was Mrs. Scott's 2nd grade class, it was here I learned about tracing one's family roots and made my first family tree.

I ambled down the hall to the cafeteria; still the largest assemby area of the school, it's two sets of double fire doors leading to the massive playgrounds where kickball was king. After here I went up to the second floor to Ms. Johnson's third grade class, this too was very clear to me as I remembered how young and beautiful she was. She taught us about the bigger world that lay outside of our own protective neighborhoods. It was in her class that I made a passport and drew a picture of Buckingham Palace, this memory would come back to me when I would eventually stand before the real palace 16 years later on my first of many visits to London. Next I would go to my favorite class-- the artroom. This was a place I loved, and just like the library it too held magical memories in the smell of the paint, the kiln, and the myriad of art supplies. It's relevance further heighten by the fact that my first art teacher, Mina Segal is to this day a wonderfully close and loved friend of my family; one whose art hangs in my house in Florida.

The unlocking of these any so many other childhood memories have better prepared myself for the inevitability of change. Change comes in many forms; location, job, marriage, divorce, and sadly death. For now that's something that seems to be on hold, though I know it's there waiting, not just for my father but all of us. If nothing my trip back home to see my father through this time whatever the outcome, allowed me time that I hadn't been able to afford during past visits. The time for reflection is often times one that is a luxury that we don't allow ourselves for whatever reasons. Sometimes the terrain is too painful, or maybe we just get so caught up in our busy lives, whatver the reason I'm glad I took the time to remember the many good times long since past as I pondered my father's fate. Equally important are the friends and family that line our paths in life, and in this department I have been blessed. It's been a tough two weeks, one full of crying, laughing and wondering. The only constant has been my many friends who have either supported my by email, the phone or in person. For them I am grateful and humbled, and wish them all well. It would seem that often the best way home, is the long way home.