It is funny the things you remember in life and the things
that sit in the background. Some things are fuzzy and other things are crystal
clear as if there is a photograph somewhere in your brain to remember what
things looked like at the moment something happened. They don’t always seem to
fit into what you think the priorities should be.
It was forty years ago that I received the call from my Dad
that I needed to come to Dayton from Columbus because my Mother was nearing the
end. I know I received the call but I remember nothing about it. Yet, the scene
in the hospital will be forever etched into my mind. After we arrived at Good
Samaritan Hospital, we were met there by our neighbor and friend Dr. George
Markus. He spoke to us briefly and
insisted that we not enter the room. It would be better if we didn’t see her
this way before her death. This moment
is the photograph in my mind. Sitting
there in the waiting room waiting for the final notification. After being at my Dad’s side in his last
moments, I understand why it was suggested that we not be in the room, but in
retrospect, I wish I had been more insistent that I wanted to be with her.
You may have noticed that I referred to my parents and
Mother and Dad. I was never to call her
mom. That is what I called my grandmother, my Mother’s mother. In her mind,
being called Mom would make her feel old.
She always looked older than she was because of her early gray hair,
actually being asked several times if I were her grandchild. As a result, she
was always “Mother.”
She did not have an easy life. She only attended 10 years of
school because she needed to work. She
had more health issues than you could count. She always joked that she was the
fifth child and was made with left over parts. In addition, she suffered a
nervous breakdown and went to Florida for some time with my Aunt Edna to get
her life back together. She went through times where she considered
suicide. Yet through it all she had a
love for me that was never ending.
My parents were married for 18 ½ years when I was born. It
was always “18 ½” as if the ½ made it more officially a long time. They had tried for years to have children
with my Mother having three operations in the 1940’s to help her conceive. Finally in 1944, they gave up when the doctor
told her she would never have children.
They had thought of adopting but my grandfather had forbidden them from
adopting. Not sure about all of the details, but it was made clear that he
would not accept the child as his grandchild. They were a couple that loved
children, having a hand in helping raising my two cousins, Nancy and Jeannie
when their parents divorced and my Aunt Ethel and the two girls moved in. They
just would never have their own.
Then the miracle happened. My Mother was pregnant. It wasn’t
that she had miscarriages in the past, she had never been pregnant. It was late
spring 1952 and their world changed. He would soon be 40 and she would be 38.
They were finally going to be parents. Six months into the pregnancy, my Mother
started bleeding. She was immediately told to go to bed and stay there for the
next three months. One thing my Mother was not, was someone that liked to stay
inactive. She always had to be doing something. That had to be one of the most
difficult times in her life.
There was always the hope that there would be additional
children but that just was not to be. In
my Mother’s eyes, I was perfect and I was enough. Little Johnnie did no wrong.
I actually was a pretty good kid, but in my Mother’s eyes I could have been a
juvenile delinquent and she wouldn’t have believed it was my fault. Because I
was this special gift, she was extremely conservative with everything about me.
I have no memory of having a baby sitter that wasn’t a relative. I would stay
at the neighbor’s house after school or with my parent’s partners in business
but that was as close as it got.
I was going to receive a bicycle from my aunt and uncle when
I was 12 but they were told to take it back.
We lived in a park like area with very little traffic but the thought
was I was sure to die if I actually wondered out in the street. Finally, at
Christmas when I was in the eighth grade I actually received that bicycle. Do
you know how hard it is to learn how to ride a bike when you are 13? And it is
a lot farther to drop when you are taller than four feet.
When I entered high school, my mother decided that they
would sell their portion of the grocery store they shared ownership in. Since she never felt comfortable driving, we
only had one car and she was home every day when I came home and a snack was
always ready. For breakfast, I would
have whatever I wanted. Since she only
slept about 2-3 hours every night, she was always awake when I got up. When I started working in the summers, she
would make me two hamburgers and French fries for breakfast. (Please keep your spoiled only child brat comments
to yourself.)
I have a standing comment that I have with people that meet
my wife, Julia (not sure how that happened name wise), that everyone loves her.
She can walk into a room of strangers and an hour later walk out with 10 new
Facebook friends. That is the way my Mother was. Everyone loved her. She could
not do enough for you. If you needed something, she would do it. If she could
help in any way, she was first in line. My Julia is the same way. They say you
marry your Mother, maybe I did.
It has been 40 years since I have heard her voice. I miss her and who she was. I think I was a
pretty good son, but I wish I could have been there with her more as she was
fighting her losing battle against cancer.
I have a million questions for God when it is my time, but before I see
Him, I want to see her and ask her how I did.
