The Gift of 30 Hours

This piece is comprised of heart-impressions of the last 30 hours of Dad's life and is dedicated to Pastor Tina Green and the loving caregivers of Holy Family Hospice in Parma, Ohio.  I have never had the honor of being at a loved one's side at the time of their passing. On the eve of Father's Day, the presence of all three of his kids was our final gift to our father--a send off full of love--into the arms of Jesus.  It is a verbally impressionistic piece--an auditory and tactile reflection.  I invite you to allow the words, the font, the spacing, to direct your reading from speaker to speaker, from moment to moment.

June 15-16, 2012

Talk to him.  Don’t stop. 

Always act as though he knows

exactly what is going on.

Dad, we’re all here with you. 

We won’t leave your side

We’ll hold your hand and won’t let go.

He seems to be holding on for some reason

Is he waiting for someone? 

Daddy, are you waiting for someone?

No, I don't think so...we’re all here, his three children,

But he knows the only woman he ever loved can’t come.

Dad, are you waiting for Mom? 

You know she can’t come,

but we promise you—we’ll take care of her.

His temperature is up again.

There's a peace I've come to know...
Hearing is the last thing to go.

Though my heart and flesh may fail...
Talk to him.  Sing to him. 

There's no anchor for my soul...
Heartbeat steady, his heart is so strong

His hands still warm, breath uncertain…

He has moved into Cheyne-Stokes breathing

What kind of breathing?

Cheyne-Stokes—abnormal respiration of active dying active

dying active dying active

dying active

dying

the letting go breath

Mr. Harris, I’m going to give you morphine by mouth

.I will rise when He calls my name
No more sorrow, no more pain I will rise on eagles' wings…

Heartbeat slower  s l ow I  y    s   l   o    w   i     n       g

S l i p p i n g   a w  a  y    daddy don’t go

sis go get brother hurry daddy we love you daddy no matter what

its ok to go don’t be afraid we will take care of mom we’ll be fine

i can’t hear his heart I can’t see it beat its ok to let go run

daddy run into the arms of Jesus daddy he’s waiting daddy

rise on eagle’s wings

we love you so much tell  ahhh    grandma we love her tell grandpa

too its  ok we’re here we love you can you hear we

ahh   l o v e    y o u  nothing else matters we

love you no matter what   ah    w  e   l  o   v   e     y   o   u    s o        

last breath synced with final beat

soul not to be trapped by pacemaker can’t even

keep the rhythm when its time

of death 9:03 PM Father’s Day Eve, June 16, 2012.

Don’t look back it’s not him

Victory disguised as void, dark, still

                          Silence

We three huddle at his feet in the dark hold tight sobbing tears falling

       F

         A

           L

           L

              I

                N

                   G

            S

              L

              I

            D

         I

   N

G

into one pool

Don’t look back

Do you want to stay with him for awhile?

No we don’t want to stay it’s not him he did not remain we

sent him off on eagle’s wings with 1000 kisses and

hugs and I love you’s across 30 hours

Free.      No more pain.      To Jesus

Nothing else matters...Lord, may we never forget this moment.

Nothing else matters but this bond…of family,

Nothing else matters the only thing Dad ever  

wanted was for us to come together—one heart, family,

Untethered by chains of

resentment

presumption

misunderstanding.

Two soldiers salute flag draped casket

13 folds

White gloved hands precision snap sweep the corners sharp

stars sewn not silkscreened

TAPS play on the hill by the Sergeant at arms

“On behalf of the President of the United States…”

the Lieutenant presents the flag to the eldest of the three

Final

Turn away, don’t look back

orphans walk, arms linked, under an

Infinite Blue sky

Mid-June sunshine

Gentle warm breeze

Peace



*Lyrics from "I Will Rise" by Chris Tomlin

Happy 200th Birthday, Edward Lear!

So today, Mother's Day, May 13, 2012, I learned that I completely missed Limerick Day, which I discovered is on May 12 every year in honor of the birthday of the poet Edward Lear.  When it comes to crafting poetry, however, it is never too late.  So here is my tribute to the creator of the form which seems to naturally evoke a certain silliness out of the holder of the pen and which has tickled our funny bones for the past couple of centuries.  Thank you, Edward, for all the giggles and Happy 200th Birthday!

There once was a poet in England
Who everyone thought was from Ireland
Edward Lear was his name
The limerick brought him fame
And Shakespeare really hails from Greenland.

Now it's your turn to give it a try...
Haven't written one since grade school?  Don't lie--
If you don't you'll be cursed
A leprechaun will whisper a verse
That'll be stuck in your brain till you die.


Now try your hand, and post it here....  :)

Traveling Man

by Katherine L. Szerdy

My father told me

He drove to California

Today,

All the way there and back

From his hospital bed

In one day.

He is eighty-two and

Said it rained only a little

in Nevada.

I asked him how the food was

He said, “It was just

all right.”

On the way back he stopped

at Fort Benning to see

his buddies.

He is eighty-two and said

he drove to California and back

In one day

And that he almost didn’t

Make it back

In time

To see the forsythias bloom 

and to get the garden 

planted.




What makes "Traveling Man" a poem is the 3-line gradated (in length) form and phrasing.  Also, the repetition and the chronology wrapping in on itself mirroring the way the mind affected by dementia loops a story over and over again.

Justaminute: A Mother's Mantra

by Katherine Harris Szerdy

Mommy, can I show you

Justaminute, Honey

The picture I made in school

                        Justaminute, please

Got an A on my math test

                        One more minute, Honey

Mommy, did I tell you …

                        Sweetheart, PLEASE!

How many times did  

  justaminute

        Interrupt

            Interject

mindlessly intrude upon

Mom Mom Mom!

Small eyes searching

for eyes aimed elsewhere

Tiny hands tugging…

     Justaminute, Honey

     Just-one-more

A rapidfire phrase --

Extinguishes the spark

     In sweet expectant eyes

 Kills the moment,

     Never to return

Sends the message:

    “That” is more important than Y*O*U

Right now…in this moment

    And this…and this.

 Justaminute, Honey

       Can’t you wait?

A few more seconds, please?

       Can’t you wait?

Just another minute

       Can’t you wait?

One more moment—PROMISE!

Gotta leave for the car pool…

Wait’ll I finish grading this test…

After we get home from school…

Then you can show me your best!

Almost done with the dishes, Honey…

Wait—need to check my email…

Let’s go to the bank to get some money…

Need to make cookies for the bake sale.

How about after I get back from class…

Let me pack this lunch for Thomas…

Need to remind Dad to mow the grass…

Only take me a sec—Promise!

The show’s over in five more minutes

Just let me close my eyes for one more…

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Justaminute--three little words,

spoken rapidfire,

close the door, heavy-laden, on

fleeting ephemeral moments

singed lightning fast

Opportunities never to return

to say I love you

the best way of all--

at his eye level

knee to knee

toe to toe

Justaminutes string together

a garland of regrets

winding through the years

like chains on Jacob Marley.

Wish I had a nickel.

for every justaminute

In my collection of

Lost invitations

For loving

My child

Now grown and gone.

Wake up!  Focus!

Be in the moment!

Breathe,

Ease back into your skin,

And gift  t h I s  moment.

Day 21 ICU (March 2, 2012)

Day 21 ICU

(March 2, 2012)

by Katherine L. Szerdy

Once again, I gown up, gloves, a lovely shade of blue.

You’re still with us, Pops.

Recovering from tracheostomy

Rousing from anesthesia

Eyes half open

Pessimists say “Eyes half shut.”

Do you know me, Dad?

Can you see me?

Accordion blue plastic tendrils

     Winding

          Looping

               Crossing

                    Spiraling

                          Reaching

Not Medusa’s snakes

More like Elohim breathing life into Adam

In—2—3—4—Out—2—3—4—Rest—2—3—4—

With Darth Vader-like regularity.

I feel myself standing on the shoulders of giants—

Those great minds who invented all this stuff

In ICU room #1 where you lay silently waging

the fight of your life for three weeks now, Dad. 

Pneumonia---C-Diff----Colonostomy---Pneumonia

A surreal scene like from a futuristic sci fi 1950s flick.

Gives me a whole new respect for plastics…

Tubes, hoses, bags putting stuff in, suctioning stuff out,

pick lines, monitors flashing multi-colored numbers,

your body communicating what planet you're on

“Vitals are stable,” they tell us each day.

Heroic efforts have brought you this far, Pops—

Your nurses MayLin, Megan, Char, Jen…

Dr. Gulati, Dr. Rasmi, Dr. Elkari, Dr. Flores, Dr. Cinti.

Some days you give us a glimmer of hope—

Eyes open a little wider, eyebrows raise, blink twice.

Dad, can you squeeze my hand?

You slightly shift your arm instead.

Will he be able to enjoy another walk on Fairport Harbor Beach?

To buy another lottery ticket—“If I win, I’ll buy each of you kids

    Your dream house!”

Will I receive another carefully chosen birthday card

     With sentiment giving words to feelings he could not easily convey?

Will we ever get to banter back and forth over politics again?
Might he make one more trip to Kraynak’s in Sharon to enjoy

      the Christmas displays and add to his Santa collection?

Will he ever again be able to tool around town in his car with Korean War veteran

     license plate and sporting bumper stickers bragging about grandkids in the

     military?
Might he ever be able to cook another of his tasty meals, spices added?
Will you enjoy a small sliver of your 83rd birthday cake from Happy Cakes?
Will you ever hold your first great granddaughter, Emma Marie?
Will I ever again get to hear "Love you, Sweetheart," at the end of our visit
Or see you wave from the front stoop as we drive away? 

You wouldn’t have, couldn’t have survived this battle ten years ago,

Some of this technology, some of these best practices, weren’t in place.

Yet a decade ago this insidious C Diff wasn’t populating its presence

around the globe in epidemic proportions,

preying on the weak, the elderly, the young—the irony!

Resurrection Sunday, Pops! 

That’s the goal—Easter Sunday

Let’s work toward taking your first step out of here,

A leap of faith--You’re not in this alone.

Goals raise our hearts, lift our spirits, aim our gaze upward.

It’s up to you, Pops…and God’s will.

Hope, Dad.  Keep clinging.

Gown off,  gloves in trash, wash hands thoroughly.

See you tomorrow, Pops.  I love you. 

You know that, right?  You’re my hero—

always have been,

always will be.

Never Leave it in the Inkwell

    Fathers of the 1960’s and ‘70’s—the generation after the “Greatest Generation”--had very large shoes to fill. Having grown up during and after the Depression, many were veterans of the “forgotten” war in Korea. After the war, most of these men did not have the opportunity of a college education and went to work in factories. These men became the fathers of the "Baby Boomer" generation.
    Growing up was no less difficult for my father, Stanley Harris, who, at the age of fourteen months, lost his father, Sheldon Harris, during a tragic accident. 
    According to the local paper, “Sheldon Harris, 26, of Perry, was dead today, a martyr of his own heroism in attempting to rescue Kenneth Carter, 22, of Painesville, whom he attempted to release from a high tension electric line.” (The Cleveland Press, Aug. 22, 1930). 
    My grandmother, Katherine Helen Werner Harris, was expecting their second child, my Aunt Pauline Harris Dickey at the time of Grandpa’s untimely death.
    The young widow invited her parents to move into their home in order to help run their small farm and raise her young family. Helen, as most of her family and friends called her, remarried years later after her parents had both passed away. 
    Her new husband had no patience for his young teenage stepson and kicked him out of the house, forcing him to move in with the families of friends and get a job to help earn his keep while continuing to attend school. Stanley managed to earn good grades and enjoyed learning from teachers whom he respected. Mr. McKenna, later my junior high school principal, was one of Stanley’s favorites.
    Upon graduation from high school in 1947, Dad entered the Army where his intelligence and leadership abilities opened up opportunities for quick promotions up to the rank of 1st Sergeant.
    After four years in the service, my father got hired back to the Diamond Alkali, a chemical manufacturing plant near Cleveland, making sure that his family had food on their plates and a Ford in the driveway. In this factory where many employees died an early death due to exposure to toxic chemicals, my Dad, a loyal plant man, stuck it out for 29 years until the plant shut down. 
    After completing his four years in the service, Dad fell hard for young, pretty, Mary Lou Marshall of Fairport. He met my mother in January, 1953, and they set a date to tie the knot for later that summer. Mom insisted, however, that they move the date and Dad agreed, so they were married on May 2, 1953.
    The young couple had their first child, me, nearly two years later. Our family outgrew the post-War era bungalow after the birth of my little sister Linda five years later, so we moved to a three-bedroom ranch on the other side of the tracks, literally. Dad worked more hours than most, perhaps avoiding having to deal with my mother, whose addiction issues caused a palpable strain between them. Working his regular eight-hour shift at the factory, putting in frequent overtime hours, and another four hours in the evening as a custodian at our church, he didn’t have much time to spend with us kids. Back in the ‘50s and ‘60s, however, the role of fatherhood was more traditional, with the bread-winner coming home from work too tired to devote much time to the children. 
    Yet, somehow we always knew that Dad loved us very much. Weekly trips to the library or the neighborhood ice cream store or MacDonald’s for a Friday night hamburger, back in the early days of the “Golden Arches,” was Dad’s way of demonstrating a father’s love. 
    I've always been a morning person I think because I knew that the only way I would get breakfast in the morning was if I got up with Dad. I enjoyed munching on my breakfast cereal, simply listening to the morning news while he read the paper. Sometimes we would talk about a news story, but most of the time I just enjoyed sitting at the kitchen table silently sipping my juice, watching him pack my lunch and his.
    One of the reasons my sister and I loved going to church on Sundays was knowing that our whole family could be together. Dad always made sure his kids were in Sunday School every week. Weekly worship added a consistent rhythm to our week and helped to instill a faith in God. There is no greater legacy to a child than that of the faith of our fathers...and mothers. 
    Soon after the plant shut down, Dad decided that he could no longer deal with my mother's addiction issues and filed for divorce, receiving full custody of my brother, the only one of us still left at home. Yet faith in God somehow sustained Dad and served as a testimony to me of the strength that only God could give. 
    Dad served in the Army as a Sergeant, but to hear him talk, sometimes you might think he had achieved the rank of Colonel. Not that his tales steer too terribly far from the truth—after all, during his four years, he had experience with nearly every type of artillery, driving a variety of transports, and getting into exciting predicaments while training his men.
    My son, a commissioned military officer, often gets perturbed with his Grandfather who loves steering conversations around to where he can interject an old, slightly exaggerated “war story” or two. But like I privately remind my son, "Let Grampy have his stories, Honey--he doesn't have much else." We smile as Dad proudly tools around town in his American-made car sporting a “Korean War Veteran” vanity license plate, although, as a training sergeant, his boots never left American soil. 
    Today, July 8, 2009,* Dad celebrates his eightieth birthday. Yet, despite all that he and my mother have been through, Dad still feels a sense of responsibility toward her, choosing to continue to provide for her financially what he can out of his fixed income and making frequent trips to visit with her when he feels up to it. Dad never remarried and still loves her in his own way. Like those of his generation, Dad believes responsibility to loved ones is a core American value.
    Dad has become rather cranky and belligerent in his old age. Even though he is not always a joy to be around, his health problems shrink wrapping his world around himself, I cling to six words which a friend once shared with me as she dealt with her own aging parents--"Never leave it in the inkwell."
    And so, nearly every day, I make a special point of calling him or popping in to remind him, "I love you, Dad." 
    "I love you, too, Sweetheart," he always replies. 
    Despite all of his foibles and imperfections, I wouldn't trade this Daddy whom God has given me for anyone in the world.

Two Octobers: A 2-Voice Narrative

A two-voice poem or narrative can take many different forms:  a discourse of two different voices, an expression of the outer voice vs. inner voice--a "what he said, what he thinks" approach; or the same voice at two different times in life, i.e. before and after an event, the childhood voice and the adult voice, etc.  This piece is an autobiographical reflection which needed to be written in the latter format.  

October 29, 1961                                                         October 29, 2011

"Five little pumpkins sitting on a gate,"                        “Sometimes healing comes through the rain,” 

we sing the song we learned yesterday                         the song lyrics loop over and over

in music class as we walk to school                              through my mind pushed through my 

sounding like naughty little angels.                               subconscious by the Holy Spirit,    

My neighbor Skippy and I                                            knowing I need them right now, this moment.  

cross the tracks after looking both ways,                      Trudging through wet gold and brown leaves 

continue past D'Abates' corner store                             while walking around Hudson Springs Park, 

where I go to buy Necco wafers when                         the sweet smell of autumn intoxicates me, 

I have a nickel.                                                              reminding me that life has its rewards 

Wearing rubbers over our shoes                                    if we slow down long enough to pay attention.

we slide two more blocks to                                          We had no choice, my sister Linda and I. 

South State Street School                                              Mom was found wandering the streets in 

through yellow and brown leaves wet                          Painesville at midnight last Thursday.  

from last night's rain.                                                    This time we couldn’t intervene.  

I love school even though                                            We had to allow her to experience 

my first grade teacher, Mrs. Bender,                            the consequences of her illness 

doesn't smile very much.                                              with no cushion of last minute enabling. 

I don't think she likes me,                                            “Your mother suffers from 

But I love being here, safe and warm,                         histrionic personality disorder, 

We sit in reading circles where                                    borderline personality disorder, and 

I wait eagerly for my turn to read                                obsessive compulsive disorder 

out loud the happy story about                                    which explains her extreme hoarding issues,” 

Dick and Jane and little Sister Sally and                      the social worker explained last summer 

the dog "See Spot run" across soft                              when her mental illness spiraled out of control—

picture pages.                                                               the prevarications,

They don't get yelled at like I do at home                    her involvement with strangers,

and Mother and Father in the story                              the daily abuse of loved ones and

don't yell and hit each other.                                        the social service systems

Wish my Mommy and Daddy were                            set up to assist seniors with valid needs.

more like them and that our house                              Lord,

had a white picket fence.                                             help me to separate the sin from the sinner—

My Mom is always busy                                             whom do we blame--our mother or her illness—

in the other room.                                                        when she files a lawsuit against a loved one 

She doesn't talk much except                                      for trivial matters

on the phone.                                                              or calls the police as a way of intimidating 

My baby sister Linda isn't old enough                        a friend for not returning her phone calls

to play with me yet.                                                    or fraudulently misuses funds assigned to her 

Mom doesn't pick her up much                                  for housing and transportation

when she cries.                                                           or asks a doctor to tell her daughter that if 

She cries a lot.                                                            she doesn’t get invited, she will commit suicide?

I wish I could pick her up, but I'm not                        How do we find a way to keep her safe

Allowed and I'm not tall enough to                            and preserve our sanity?

reach over the bars of the playpen                              Today, ironically, she herself showed us how
anyway.                                                                      October 29 by spinning such a tight web of 

So I practice my reading                                             deceptions on a cold and rainy autumn 

and I practice my letters,                                             night, she entangled herself and this time, 

legs outstretched under the coffee table,                     just this once, was unable to slip out

And I walk down to the playground                           from the slippery gossamer of sin and 

To meet up with Skippy.                                            deception and dementia.