Transitions

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When I was much younger, my father said when his mother died that it was his turn next. That was years and years ago, and now I find myself somewhat in that position. My dad passed away 5 years ago. My mother isn’t dead, but she has been diagnosed with a number of very serious problems which means, at the age of 89, she can no longer live alone. She has resisted admitting to herself that it is time to go to an extended care facility, but deep down she knows. This week she moved there from the hospital.

I was born into a family with lots of relatives. Both my mother and father each had 5 brothers and sisters. That meant lots of aunts and uncles and cousins. It took a big table on both sides of the family to seat all of us. In my family, there is just me and my brother, making all of those cousins in the extended family something special. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, most of my cousins were older than me and my brother, some by as much 20 plus years. The result has been a steady progression of deaths, especially over the last several years. What made life lots of fun when I was younger has turned painful as one after another of my family cross into heaven.

What has made it even more difficult was the intensity of my family. When I look at the old 8mm movie films my father took with his Bell and Howell, it was evident that these folks knew how to live. On my mother’s side, there was wealth beyond all imagination, a world of private jets, opening parties, celebrities, and professional sports. It was a world of grace and thank you notes, with emphasis on form as much as on substance. The oldest aunt would say that they worked hard to rise above their ethnic, working class roots. Italian was forbidden to be spoken in their house as they grew up. English only, please. Things had to be done right.

On my Dad’s side, they just liked to party. At family picnics at my uncle’s farm, there was an old time swimming hole with a tire swing attached to tree branch overhanging the lake. After a dinner of ribs and spaghetti (we are Italian, you know) the uncles would put pots on their heads and parade around the farm while my father and Uncle Louie would play on their accordions. My grandmother would follow banging her washboard with a wooden spoon. Then my uncles would dance with each other. English was punctuated with various Italian words and expressions, pronounced badly, and whose translation I was better off not knowing. I still use many of those words today as the English equivilent somehow misses the nuance of the Italian words.

I still see some of my cousins from time to time, but not as often as I would like or should. My Dad’s sister’s farm is gone, wiped out by the Memorial Day tornado. It also took my aunt. My uncle didn’t care for his daughters in law, and said he would bury them both, and he did. He died shortly after the death of both of my cousins' wives. Then his son died. My oldest aunt is 101, but is non-responsive with advance Alzheimer’s. My other aunt is in a nursing home in Michigan. We buried her daughter, my cousin, several weeks ago. All of my uncles are now gone.

We had the chance to go to a family wedding several weeks ago. What used to take 10 tables to seat the family now takes two. My Dad's two remaining sisters and his sister-in-law are all past or pushing 90. We had a good time, but it was bittersweet. The cookie table was fabulous, but there weren't a whole lot of us left to fight over who got to take the left over cookies home. I didn't even know the bride. She was my cousin's granddaughter. How sad is that?

As my mother moves into the next stage of her life, my father’s words about whose next are ringing in my head. At the same time, my son is moving to Columbus to do his graduate work. Transitions are tough. I only wonder why there has to be so many at the same time.