My Father's Voice

This guest post is by pharmacist, author of murder mysteries, and friend, Don Weiss. 

My father died on August 8^th, 1982.  I was 30 years old.  The day of his funeral dawned hot and sunny. I was amazed at the number of people who showed up at the cemetery. People whom I knew and people who were perfect strangers. The common denominator, my father had touched these people’s lives in some way. Enough so that they wanted to honor the man they knew in life.

My dad was a member of Tom Brokaw’s “greatest generation.” He served honorably in World War II as a combat field medic, earning a purple heart and a bronze star at the age of 24. 

What I remember about my dad was his sense of humor, his humility, and how he had the ability to make you feel safe when he was around. He was completely dedicated to his sons and his wife, and worked twelve hours a day for as long as I can remember. I can still remember the sound of his car pulling into the driveway and how good that felt.

Going with dad to see the Phillies play at old Connie Mack Stadium and going with him to watch the Eagles play, and the day he took my brother and me to the zoo (to give my mother a break). Trips to the Franklin Institute and the Academy of Natural Sciences and never protesting when my mother would plan a family outing on my dad’s only day off.

When I was a rebellious fifteen year-old, I mouthed off to my father. He smacked me across the face at something faster than the speed of light. It wasn’t a hard slap; it was more for the shock value, but boy did it get my attention. It was the first and last time it happened and with the exception of a brief spanking when I was little, it was the only other time that my father laid a hand on me.

My dad would never come to the table unless he was showered, shaved and dressed and I never saw him get something from the kitchen without asking my mother if he could get her anything.

When I was seventeen and still rebellious, my dad suffered his first of three heart attacks. Two years earlier he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Both began to rob dad of his vitality and I had to grow up fast to help my mother care for him.

He recovered well enough to go back to work, but he wasn’t the same guy. On the eve of his second heart attack, I was home when it happened. With dad in the backseat, I drove the car to the hospital. Again dad recovered enough to go back to work but three years later at the age of 60, he retired on disability. He cooked meals and did other work around the house as much as his physical condition would allow. On rainy days, he would wait at the bus stop for my mom holding an umbrella. Three years later he succumbed to his third heart attack. Parkinson’s had taken a huge toll on him as well, and he was only a shell of the man that I knew.

My huge regret in life is not spending more time with my dad during those last years. I had moved away seven years earlier and only got to see my folks two or three times a year. I wish that I could have talked with him more. The last words I spoke to him were “Hi dad, how are you?” All he said was “I’m fine; I’ll put your mother on.”

Now that I’m going through my own period of self doubt, I can only guess at what advice father would give me.  All I can hope for is that I’m as good a man.

Video of a Losing Coach's Inspiring Words

As former residents of Cumberland, Rhode Island, for twenty-three years, it is with pride I share this link.  The Cumberland Little League  team, ages nine through twelve, won the New England Regionals this year but lost in the Little League World Series last night in double-elimination.

My husband, Charley, coached one of the Little League teams in Cumberland between 1979 and 1983. Both our sons played on his team and won the town championship.

Fast forward thirty-one years, as we watched our sons' assistant hockey coach, Dave Belisle, on television at the helm of the Cumberland Little Leaguers!

Please click on the link below to watch and hear Dave's words for the team last night after their loss. They serve as a reminder how to motivate and encourage children, while underscoring the benefits of team sports.

www.providencejournal.com/sports/content/20140818-donaldson-dave-belisles-wonderful-words-to-his-cumberland-little-leaguers.ece

Game Three Fallout

                                  Red Sox vs Cardinals                                   

Game Three, World Series

October 26, 2013

   

      From the bathroom I heard, "Holy S___! Obstruction??  What was Middlebrooks supposed to do...roll over so the runner could sashay home?  He was sprawled in the dirt.  Are they serious?"

     The T.V. room went dark.  Stomping his way to the bedroom, Charley reached around the corner and switched off the bathroom light, where I'd just popped two vitamins into my mouth that could have fed a horse.

     I had to make an instant decision:  grope my way to the end of the room for the switch or grope my way along the counter for my cup of water.

     The water won.  Till it landed on the floor and I started choking on one of the horse pills lodged in my throat.

     Charley returned to the bathroom and flicked the switch.  I was bent like a pretzel, coughing and gasping.  

     "I'll get some water," he said.  

     I shook my head, but he'd already poured a cup.

     He walked toward the wet spot on the floor. I put up my palms to stop him.  "I'll dislodge it with the Heimlich," he said, putting the cup down and stepping into the water.

     As he raised one knee onto the rim of the tub to get me into position, he slipped.

     "Damn!" he said as his elbow hit the floor.  I imagined a night in the emergency room after the Red Sox had been robbed of a World Series game.  It wouldn't be pleasant!

     He lay beneath me, one leg still hooked on the edge of the tub.  I lay on top of him.

     The pills dislodged down my throat.  "You OK?" I rasped.
     "Yeah.  My elbow got it."
     "It isn't swelling, but I'll get some ice.  I take it they lost?"
    

     Sox fans, please...keep calm and believe!

     Full disclosure:  we're New Englanders and our two sons played in the Red Sox farm system during the '90's.  One of them will be in attendance with his wife for Game Six at Fenway.

     

Sustaining an Injury

On April 22nd at 6:30 p.m. I will participate in a panel discussion in Cambridge, Mass., with our son Todd and Tom Brady's (the Patriot quarterback's) dad and, hopefully, his mom. Our son Todd, along with his older brother, were the subjects of my book published last April entitled, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS (on Amazon). The subject of the panel discussion will be, "Parenting Elite Athletes."

I'm sure that somewhere in the discussion the topic of injuries will arise, particularly injuries in the pros, where jobs are at stake. Although I am not in that category, I would like to relate my recent experience with a back injury.

I am a grandmother who works fairly hard to stay in shape. I have played on a tennis team at a rather high level for twenty years. We compete all around South Palm Beach County, Florida, from September till the middle of May. I have worked out at a fitness center twice a week for the same number of years, and I play golf twice a week. Sevven days a week I am running off to compete or exercise, including four-mile walks with my husband. I live to play sports, which are a huge component of my life, along with my family, and writing/marketing my book. Many of our current friendships today were made on the courts.

When my mother was in her eighties, she suffered from osteoporosis, then dislocated and herniated discs. Her will power enabled her to exercise faithfully for three months in a pool. This was a godsend, which kept her free of surgery till she was ninety. At that time, she cracked a vertebra, and the angioplasty (gluing procedure) which had worked for my father, unfortunately, had unforeseen consequences for my mother. After a piece of vertebra fractured off into the spinal column during angioplasty, she sustained two emergency surgeries and could not regain her strength. Ninety-two days after entering the hospital for the first operation, she passed away.

I have just experienced my first back problem, and it is purely a result of my mother's genes. Fortunately, I don't have osteoporosis, but I have a herniated and dislocated disc which has put me out of action for five weeks already.

When people say they experience back pain from stenosis or sciatica, I now know what they are suffering. The back is so fragile, and yet we put so much pressure on it with gigantic purses, books, cartons, groceries, even children and grandchildren that are too heavy for us. We do not lift with our legs, but instead with our backs. Women's heels put the back at an unnatural angle. I have learned that any treatment for the back is a matter of TIME and exercise, and the mending cannot be rushed.

I refused cortisone shots (a stopgap measure, in my view, and dangerous if too many) and stopped all activity. I entered five weeks of physical therapy; I wore a brace; I used a heating pad and always wore (and still do) sneakers for support. In order to sleep with the pain going down my leg, I bought a hard, contoured foam pillow to put between my legs to keep my spine straight. I swam laps five-six days/week. And I succumbed to taking an anti-inflammatory pill for one week, before I discontinued it because of warnings about stroke, cardio-vascular disease, and bleeding ulcerations.

Did I have withdrawal symptoms while I couldn't play team tennis? NO! I was too busy swimming laps in the pool; reading books I had piled up for months; and starting to organize the writing of my second manuscript. I actually loved the time off from the treadmill! Of course, I'm counting down the days till I step back on the court, but it will be a friendly social tennis game, not a competitive match. The matches might return eventually. One thing I've learned: you can't rush the mending of your body. Oh yes, I learned another thing: to get off the treadmill and do some things that are on your "bucket list."

Reconnecting after 17 Years

The phone rang and my husband answered. "Yes," he said, "I am the husband of Pam Carey. Who is this?"

(Pause.) "Sorry, I don't recognize the name."

We were getting used to that kind of call, since the publication of my book, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS. Community events people called to book a signing/presentation; publicists called to enlist me as a client.

"Just a minute," Charley said, "I'll give her the phone."

"Hello?" I inquired.

"Hi! This is Becky Kaczman, and you don't know me, but I have just read your book and have a boy playing Little League on Hillsboro Boulevard. I wanted to connect with you because my son's team is coached by Marty Durkin, and he is mentioned in your book!"

Here's what happened next: Charley and I made a trip to the baseball fields down Hillsboro Boulevard, in Florida, about thirty minutes from where we live. We wanted to see the coach of a kid we didn't even know. Why? Because of our fond memories of the years our two sons played pro baseball with Marty Durkin during Red Sox spring training and Fla. State games; because of the many hours we spent in the stands with his parents, huge baseball nuts and supportive parents; because of the memory of one huge spread, complete with Honeybaked Ham and all the fixinigs, his mom put out at their house in Ft. Lauderdale for our Red Sox team; and because of this mom, Becky, who was now living my life and trying to surprise her son's coach by our appearance.

Marty's team got clobbered, but we didn't care. Our surprise visit was special - seeing his wife again, meeting his middle son, talking about minor league days and where everyone was now. We threw names of former players around that we've seen or kept in touch with. We talked about Marty's three sons, who all play baseball, and about his parents, who still live in the same house and are allowing Marty's oldest son to live with them so he can attend Cardinal Gibbons High School, to play on the same team as his dad.

If anyone were to ask me the benefits of our kids' participation on a sports team, I would probably not list reunions high on the list. But for several hours last weekend, it was right up there at the top. And Marty had even purchased his own copy of the book! Thanks, Becky!

HOMEWORK: Reading, 'Rithmetic, Then 'Riting

Like any other project, I cannot just dive right into it. It's the same with studying Italian or building a shed or learning to drive. There's homework that comes first to build up my skills and to learn how to structure the project.

My new project is writing another book. It will be about my parents, who lived into their nineties with healthy minds and bodies. The focus will be the funny, idiosyncratic things they did that made us laugh and remember them, before the caregiving started. That last part will have to be in there too, since the point of the book will be that I had a memory bank to draw from when the tables reversed themselves and things got rough.

I thought I was ready to begin writing. I have all the notes and journals I kept for those last years of their lives, right up until they passed away almost exactly one year apart. But I wasn't ready. I hadn't done all my homework.

I had not READ some of the books published about caring for elderly parents. Naturally, I don't intend to read them all, but at least some, that deal with the same subject about making difficult decisions with two remaining parents, then one. So I ordered a couple of them to see how they were structured and whether I had anything new to say. So far, my story and my viewpoint will be unique, as it should be. I am different, and so were my parents, from any of the other characters whose stories I have read. A publisher wants a new twist, even if it is an old story.

I had also not done the 'RITHMETIC necessary before starting this project. I had records from my previous publisher about the sales and expenses of my first book(MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS, published by Barking Cat Books, a division of New River Press). I knew I had to sell virtually the entire first printing of that book before we broke even. We are well on the way.

But the preparation for writing involved creating a data base ('RITHMETIC) for the next book. I have now spent a month and a half putting lists together: names, addresses, emails of people who bought the book; names, addresses, emails of group members I have had the opportunity to speak before; contacts for bookstores, libraries, clubs, colleges, where I have appeared and where I hope to appear; invitation lists for book signings, etc., etc. There are over 1,000 listings so far.

Finally, when these homework steps are complete, I will begin 'RITING. 'RITING the first draft from the journals I kept will be fun. I anticipate that the storytelling will flow easily. After all, I knew the subjects intimately, since it will be a memoir. Revisions and redrafts will follow.

When the manuscript is complete, that's when the hard work really begins. Finding a publisher interested in the story is like finding a needle in a haystack. Only perseverance and luck will make it happen. And then comes the marketing, after I sign on the dotted line. That's when all the homework will pay off.