A Son’s Easter Sunday
Me, with natty tie and brother Doug, circa 1967.
Monday, April 5, 2010
The north wing of Edward Hospital in Naperville featues a cul-de-sac a bit smaller than the loop-de-loop I grew up on a couple miles away. On Easter Sunday I visited my Mom in the hospital. Basking in the sun of a promised summer, two families wheeled out new borns in spiffy carriages tied up with congratulatory balloons. A proud father smiled and said ‘Good morning.’
My Mom, 88, was having her blood clots dissolved.
Such is the circle of life.
My Mom is a strong minded coal miner’s daughter from downstate Taylorville, Illinois. My Dad, which you may have read in previous blogs, came up through the Chicago stockyards. They are tough customers. They celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary in February, just before my Mom got sick.
Mom and Dad are physically diminished by the curtains of time, but their spirit remains strong. My Dad, 89, cannot hear and wears a hearing aid with bad reception. Sometimes the hearing aid makes the sound of a young whippoorwill in an old Hank Williams song.
On Sunday he leaned over in his wheel chair to listen to my Mom in her hospital bed.
He could not hear, but he could understand.
He nodded his head and Mom smiled as she held the orange shawl around her shoulders.
They are quite a couple. Mom and Dad no longer drive a car, but before my Mom’s recent episodes they worked out a buddy system. My Dad would drive because he could see. My Mom, who has macular degeneration, would try to help navigate. I was out of town for a couple days before having to come back to attend to my Mom’s recent needs. When I left we had a firm and steady caretaker from Hungary named Agatha. By the time I returned my Dad was cheerfully calling her “Aggie” while raving about the hearty breakfasts she cooked up.
My Dad became computer literate at age 80. After a long day at the hospital he stays up until midnight researching my mother’s ailments or trying to find her an online deal for a Kindle with large size type. A couple of times during long hospital visits, I removed myself from the room and watched their slow dance from a shaded corner. They are beautiful, a timeless nod that follows the wink.
These are my parents.
If you are lucky maybe they are yours, too.
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