Читать книгу I Tried Not To Cry - Michael Beattie - Страница 7

Chapter 1

The Promise

Upon my retirement from operating a small security business for forty-two years in the eastern Connecticut town of Willimantic, and at the age of sixty-five, I purchase a used camper and made a decision to travel across and around the USA for a year. This had been a dream of mine that I thought would never come true, as my ten years prior to retirement were filled with poor health and numerous surgeries, including three major spinal surgeries. The stress of operating my business in a then poor economic environment, coupled with my declining health during this period, lead up to my decision to retire.

As many people know, dealing with chronic pain, especially back pain, can put one on edge and miserable to the point of me being called Mr. Grumpy by both friends and relatives. “Watch out for mean old Uncle Mike,” my niece would say to her children, although mostly in fun. It hurt to think this was what others thought of me. My dealing with pain was relaying a message to others that I wasn’t a friendly or happy person. Sure, I was miserable at times, but didn’t think I was that bad, or was I? Yet, I refused to take any type of painkillers from my fear of becoming addicted to them, so I just suffer. I lost my two younger brothers at an early age to addictions, both alcohol and drugs, so I was worried about falling into the same trap. I was sort of skeptical of doctor’s advice and tried to avoid them. My philosophy was that my body would signal to me any problems, and a more holistic approach was then my option. Sometimes I was accused of being a health nut by my wife, but doctors were my last resort. When I thought of doctors, my mind immediately aligned them to drugs. My miserableness was starting to have an effect on my wife, who always had a bubbly personality. Soon after twenty-eight years, I found myself going through a divorce, which I didn’t want, from the love of my life and mother of my only son. Now I’m nearly devastated, as I found myself temporarily living in my parents’ mobile home, which is located in an over-fifty-five age community. Both of my parents winter in Florida, so I had use of their home until I could try to find another location to live that would be in close proximity to my business.

While at their home one morning, I wake with a sharp pain in my shoulder blade area that wouldn’t go away, no matter what I tried. At first, I thought I was just knotted up in that area as I occasionally would get when I was very active as a marathon canoe racer. Usually a good hard rubdown would eliminate the knot, and I’ll be fine afterward. This is approximately a week or so before my divorce will be final, and I think my soon-to-be ex-wife thought I was looking for attention or sympathy, as she still worked alongside me in our business. I went to see my chiropractor who had become a good friend of mine over the years, and he seemed to think that I had a pinched nerve in the C-7 area of the spine. He gave me an over-the-door traction-type device to use to try and relieve the pressure. I gave it a try, only to find that it seemed to make the pain increase. I returned to see him, and he immediately sent me to see a neurosurgeon in Hartford, Connecticut, who sent me first for an MRI. His first impression was the same as the chiropractor, a pinched nerve in the C-7 area of my neck. Upon returning to the neurosurgeon to have him read the MRI results, I was at the point where I was shaking uncontrollably. After examining the MRI images along with me in the exam room, he said, “Hmmm,” then stated that he wanted to go look at it under a better light in another room, and that he’d be right back. I didn’t like the sound of that, as I waited on edge for him to return. All kinds of thoughts crossed my mind as the short moments seemed like hours in the loneliness of that confined cold exam room. When the doctor returned to the exam room where I sat shaking, he again hung the photo over the wall chart light and tried to explain to me what he was seeing in that photo. Without any compassion or easing his way into a soft approach, he pointed to a huge mass that was very clear to see along my spine. “I’m pretty sure this is a tumor,” he stated, “and I don’t like the location it’s in, and if it’s cancerous, it could lead to a serious outcome. We need to act immediately.” I think my complexion turned white at this point, as I explained to him that I had just gone through a divorce the days prior. He recommended that I take care of any personal affairs prior to surgery. He made a call and has me booked for early Monday surgery, with this being a Friday. He told me he would take care of all the arrangements and I would be called with a surgery time, but to plan on being there early in the morning. I’m a mess! This meant I needed to get a will as well as a living will so that my only son would have both power of attorney and the rights to whatever I had left at this point.

The ride home in my service vehicle seemed nonexistent, a blur! I had just finished buying a home in the nearby town of Coventry that needed much renovation to make truly livable, yet, it was all I could afford and I was happy to find it. I was sort of all alone as my son is serving in the Navy for a four-year hitch. Thoughts of ending everything ran through my mind as I stopped to get some beer on my way home. I guess what saved me was talking to my son on the phone later that evening. My ex-wife ran the retail portion of our business, so I let her know of the situation. I told her I would not return Monday, and asked her to try and hold things down as best she could till I knew the outcome. I think she now felt bad for me, as she offered her couch for my recovery time. Nice of her, but somehow, I couldn’t see me doing that. The trouble was now it’s a weekend and I needed to find someone to handle my legal affairs. I worked so hard over the years to build my business from nothing to that of a thriving one, and now I feared it might all have been for naught. Over the years, I frequented a small coffee shop where I made small talk with an attorney that became a good friend. I called John and explained to him my situation. He said to come right over to his house and he would help me out. When I knocked at his door, he quickly escorted me to his kitchen table and expressed to me that he thought I looked like hell, as my shaking was out of my control. John quickly drew up all the legal paperwork needed and at a reasonable cost. I will always be in debt to Attorney John Ritchings. As I drove home, I was thinking nothing but the worst thoughts of how this could possibly be the beginning of the end. I was able to contact my son by phone that evening and told him of my situation as well as where to find my paperwork if need be. He felt helpless as I could tell by his voice, as we said our goodbyes to each other. “I love you, bud,” I said as he responded, “I love you, too, Dad. I wish I could be home with you, Dad.”

“Pick up the pace Shawn,” I yelled, as we were paddling quicker than we ever had before in all the training we did prior to this moment. He in the bow and me in the stern, we were in a fast-moving battle to keep ahead of our much older and experienced competition. Shawn was only twelve years old but had grown so quickly that year into a strong and mature paddler. Damn, he was strong and teachable. We trained so hard this year so that we could compete in our first ever National Championship Canoe Nationals being held on the Scioto River in Columbus, Ohio. It was the US Canoe Marathon and Sprint Championships in 1994. I had been racing canoes for many years since and before the time Shawn was born in 1982. He grew up in and around canoes and kayaks as I would take him in the boat with me whenever I trained, and he would usually fall asleep between my legs with his little life jacket on. I trained mostly on the Willimantic River in the Eagleville section of town where I grew up. I would paddle quietly around the corners so that he could see the deer drinking in the river as we tried to not startle them. There were beavers, mink, and muskrats swimming by and diving below the water surface as they approached our canoe. We always tried to be quiet, not knowing what lay around the next corner, a kind of game I played to keep his little mind from being bored as I got my workout in. Ducks, geese, white swans, ospreys, and birds of prey were our teammates. In the fall, the smell of wild grapes along the riverbank would often require a pit stop for harvesting. Although sweetly bitter to the taste buds, it was an adventure. My only child was growing up to love the outdoors, something he would carry on into his adulthood and bestow onto his own children.

The competition that day in Ohio included several past junior champions as we hoped to finish in the top ten of the sprint championship junior-senior division. My eyes fixated to my left where the majority of the canoes were lined up that morning as we were in a far-right position, where we hoped to avoid the major wash back of the other boats. Shawn looked so small compared to these other teens, big and muscular with a cocky look of experience about them. I’m not sure who was more nervous, Shawn or I, as we held the bow of the canoe steady on the starting line waiting for the horn to sound. Our canoe was a lightweight model, which was what everyone else used that day. Shawn and I had already talked about just trying to do our best and not being disappointed. I told him I was already proud of him, but deep down inside, I wanted a boost of confidence for him. Being a light team, as we were, was a plus in sprint racing. The horn blew, and it was a mad sprint for the finish line some five hundred meters away. We were a bit slower than the others off the line when I yelled to pick up the pace, and did he ever. The bow person sets the pace and is followed by the stern person who calls the “hut” for a switch from left to right or right to left at a pace so fast, it’s hard to see one’s paddle moving. Shawn was going so fast that I was having a hard time breathing to call the switch huts, yet, we were pulling away from the line of boats and pulling away fast! Holy moly, we were cranking faster than I ever knew possible, and I don’t think the competition could believe it. We crossed the finish line at least two boat lengths ahead of the nearest competition, which is a wide margin in sprint races. We did the “smack the paddles together” congratulations thing, knowing that we just smoked our way to a gold medal in our first ever national competition. The first ever gold medal, but not the last! It was hard to not show my happiness during the moments that followed, as we congratulated the next-in-line boats as they passed. I wanted to scream! I was a proud father!

Having no ride to the hospital that early morning, I was forced to ask another coffee shop friend named Albert Samuels if he would be able to take me to Hartford Hospital early before he went off to work. Thankfully, he was gracious enough to do that favor for me. It was a jarring ride to Hartford that morning in his older jacked-up pickup truck, as each bump sent daggers to my spine while I shook so, yet, I was so thankful for the ride. As I arrived at the huge hospital complex I was shaking like a lone steer waiting to be butchered. Lying on the bed, waiting in the prep-op room for my turn, a couple of different anesthesiologists kept asking me my name, date of birth, and what area was to be operated on. You mean, you don’t know? I thought, Oh dear God! This process continued over and over again by many other nurses and personnel to the point I wanted to just get a marker and make a sign that I could hold up to show my information to them. I surely prayed they would cut me open in the right area!

One nurse said, “You look nervous, honey,” to which I replied, “I didn’t really care what happens!” I just went through a divorce, which I didn’t want, then the same week, I was told I might have a cancerous tumor in a bad place on my spine and to get all my personal things lined up just in case. Not to mention I was struggling to keep my business going through all this mess. No, I really hoped I didn’t wake up at this point. Let someone else deal with it all. I felt bad for my son at this point. That’s about it.

After five hours of a very extensive surgery, all I remembered was the neurosurgeon leaning over me in recovery to say he has good news. “It was not a tumor.” That’s all I remember before I went out again! It was a long and awful night as the anesthesia they used during the surgery made me very nauseous. The next day the surgeon came to my room to try and explain what he thought had happened to me. He stated he’d never quite seen anything like this before and asked if I had been involved in an accident or some kind of blunt trauma, to which I replied none that I was aware of, although I did physically abuse my body by lifting and moving heavy safes and vault doors at my business all those years. It seems that my C-7 and parts of the surrounding vertebrae had shattered into many small pieces which had encapsulated basically into a sack formation, which was pushing against the spinal canal. He said I was lucky! I wasn’t so sure if I was lucky or not at that moment, but later on in my life I came to realize just how lucky I was, indeed.

Aside from the follow-up appointments, it was two years before I saw that neurosurgeon again. I was healed and was back to work sooner than I should have been, but being self-employed, I had no other option except work or go broke. I don’t think my neck ever healed properly as I always had a tough time keeping my head up straight after that. Life moved on for me as I worked hard long hours to keep my business operating by myself, as my now ex-wife took a job with the state of Connecticut. I was happy for her, but she was greatly missed, as she is half the driving force behind our success for those twenty-eight years of business, and she was missed by my customers. After all, I was the grumpy guy and she the pleasant, attractive personality. Finding good help was almost impossible as I went through one employee after another. Twelve-to-fourteen-hour days were a norm for me as I juggled operating my shop as well as doing the service work required on the road. After work and on my day off when not called out for service emergencies, I worked on that house I purchased which needed complete renovation. It turned into a nine-year project between my work and my bad back, which became a nightmare for me, as I couldn’t afford to hire anyone to help.

My back pain grew considerably worse each day as I was forced to sit on a stool every time a customer entered my shop, as it helped relieve the pain somewhat. I’m not sure if my customers really understood how much discomfort I was in as I tried to not mention anything to anyone, but I’m sure my miserableness showed. Yet, I still refused pain medications. For two years, I tried every alternative type of therapy, including spinal injections, which did very little to ease the pain. My legs were going numb, and physically I was turning my once athletic body into a medical disaster. I drank more beer than ever as I tried to self-medicate the pain some, still mourning the loss of my wife and having self-pity, yet, nothing seemed to work. It became a real chore to go to work each day. So once again, I was forced to go see my neurosurgeon after suffering for two years.

Now this neurosurgeon had no patient bedside manner, but when he saw me, he quickly smiled and told me that there wasn’t many a day that passed that he didn’t talk with his colleagues about my neck case, making me think that maybe I was lucky. He seemed to warm up to me some, as he studied my most recent MRI. He clearly stated that aside from the scoliosis that I already knew I had that I had a severe case of spinal stenosis in my mid to lower back area which was cutting into the nerves. He suggested an open decompression surgery of a four-disc area and offered no healing time frame for me and no warranties. We set a date right there for another surgery at Hartford Hospital. I made plans with my apprentice at the shop to somehow make it through yet another difficult period of time.

Once again, I had to ask my friends for transportation to and from the hospital. The surgery was a success, and I found immediate pain relief, making me wonder why I waited for so many years of suffering. But because I waited too long to seek medical help, I did have major nerve damage, which left me unable to walk without the assistance of a walker. As I attempted to walk, my legs would be drawn away from me, almost as though a magnet was attracting them. I wasn’t sure how long this would last, and the surgeon could not make me any promises. This went on for a long time, and I wondered if I would ever be able to walk again, and there was a possibility that I wouldn’t.

One night as I lay in bed, still living alone with self-pity, I had a one-way conversation with God, and yes, it had been a long time since I had spoken to God, ever since my return from the military. I know it was selfish of me at my time of need, but I made an offer that if I could walk again that I would do something good for mankind. I knew this was a long shot even though I had no idea what I was going to do, but I was at a bad juncture in my life and needed guidance.

Delivering the Sunday morning newspapers required me to start early as the number of papers delivered would double in volume as many customers only ordered the Sunday edition, which was always a much larger paper. This would require many return trips to the general store to refill the side baskets on my bike before I headed out to complete another section of my route. I always had to start early in order to be back in time for the 8:00 a.m. mass at the small stone Catholic church, St. Joseph’s, which sat up high, overlooking the village below with its beautiful stained glass windows and pointed bell steeple. Each window of the church depicted a station of the cross in an elaborate yet beautifully done art form of mixed colors. There was no way I could miss mass, as my folks were devout Catholics, and missing a mass was out of the question. Not to mention I was an altar boy in that church for years, and the priest always relied on me being there, sick or not. The mass was said in Latin, and much effort went into learning another language for the responses. There were only a few altar boys among the two churches in our parish, so we were relied upon for our services.

It took time, but eventually I was able to rid myself of the walker and progressed to using a cane for stability, eventually walking independently again. I was left with two numb feet and partial leg numbness, but I didn’t really mind as it felt so good not having as much chronic back pain. I never thought I’d be happy to just walk again, as there was a time in my life when I considered myself a fairly good athlete. I competed in marathon canoe races, triathlons, and road running races. I loved to compete along with my wife and son, who were both good athletes. My love was to come home after a hard day of work, change into my shorts, and don my running shoes and take off running. I especially loved running the trails through the wooded areas near my home. I was enjoying nature as I got in a good workout, sort of trail running long before it became popular. For some reason, I also loved to compete, as I had a “push myself” type of competitive spirit that came from somewhere. But around the age of fifty, my degenerative back issues signaled an end to my running career, leaving me very depressed. I had been going to another chiropractor over the course of several years who had once taken an X-ray of my back after I started having issues. He then told me that I had a severe case of spinal scoliosis. I said, “What does that mean in layman terms?” as I had no clue what he meant. He said this to me, “You know those old people at the grocery store that are all bent over the shopping cart unable to lift their head up straight? Well, that will be you by the time you’re sixty-five years of age, if not sooner!” Imagine saying this to a guy that can run five minutes, thirty seconds to six minutes a mile in a road race. I was stunned. Actually, I was mad! I never went back to that guy ever again. I was knocked down so far, it made me angry. This was never going to happen to me if I had anything to do with it, never!

After I recovered from this second spinal surgery, I used the feel-goodness in helping my aging and failing parents with chores around their mobile home. So, between running my service business which had me on call twenty-four hours, seven days a week, trying to renovate my home, and helping take care of my parents’ needs, I had a full plate! My love for beer and food seemed to increase when I was stressed. No more running, no more sports. It wasn’t long before my health soon further deteriorated to the point my cholesterol, blood pressure, and sugar levels were out of control. Not to mention I was getting heavy! At my annual medical physical, my primary doctor wanted to put me on medications to combat all these issues. I refused them! She was stunned by my refusal. I told her that being a former athlete, I knew what I had to do in order to combat the problem, and she agreed to have me return to her office in one month for another blood draw to see if any improvements had been made. I knew at that time I had not been moving physically in a good eight years, and it was slowly killing me. I also knew if I started relying on all those drugs it would begin a slow cycle of my health deteriorating even further. That’s the easy way out for most people but not mine! The drugs may mask your problems, but won’t cure them, and that’s my take on the situation. I decided at that moment that I would eat better and start walking each day.

My first walk around the neighborhood circle was so difficult, I thought I’d die. I couldn’t believe that I had let myself get so terribly out of shape! My knees were killing me, and my breathing was off the charts. In spite of it all, I pushed myself to walk every evening after work, to the point the short walks turned easy. I returned to my active sports diet of food and drink that I follow while I used to train for competitions. Walking on the street seemed very boring to me, so I made a decision to start walking through the woods on trails. After purchasing a good pair of over-the-ankle hiking boots, which I kept in my work van, I would stop at a trail and walk every night after work, rain or shine. I also had to purchase a set of hiking poles to support and help balance me, as my balance was not good from the numb feet and legs. I moved faster and sucked wind harder each evening.

Well, my revisit to the doctor after just one month helped my numbers dramatically, but still needed more work. We made another appointment in a future three-month time period to once again check my numbers. I continued to hike, extending my distances slowly even though I had much back discomfort. I wore knee braces while I hiked, as my knees were giving me much discomfort. The more I hiked, the better I felt, and the stronger my legs and knees became. I moved faster and faster each day, timing myself to constantly push myself. My next doctor’s visit was good, and my hard work was paying off as the doctor had a hard time believing that I could overcome those bad numbers without the aid of drugs. This was great news as I had been doing more extreme hiking in an attempt to condition myself for an attempt to summit Mount Washington in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I had been hiking smaller mountains on weekend days off, trying to prepare myself for this difficult climb. Finally, after I thought I was ready for the challenge, I departed my home one early morning and drove the four hours to get to the trail head. I had researched and chosen the Tuckerman Ravine Trail, as it seemed like a popular and possibly easier trail than others (although there’s no easy way up or down).

My hike began at 8:00 a.m. from the parking area at the Pinkham Notch Visitors Center, which was already overflowing with parked cars of other hikers that had already arrived to begin their upward climb. I made a visit to the visitor’s center to double-check my map with theirs to ensure that mine would take me on the right trail all the way. After a quick visit to the outdoor privy, which was overcrowded, I extended my poles to proper uphill length and followed the signs that said, “Mt. Washington Observatory Summit.” Butterflies were in my stomach as I started walking immediately uphill on a rocky wide area, which seemed like an old road. The weather was beautiful and warm on this spring day as the trail was littered with people. All the planning I had done and gear I had packed in my large day pack was out of the fear of being stuck out there alone by myself on the side of a mountain. I was prepared to spend the night if weather forced me to, not to mention the extra food and drink I carried just in case. All the fear of being alone out there on the mountain ended quickly as it turned into a traffic jam of people. All types of people! Some prepared, and others thinking this would be a walk in the park, dressed in street clothes with sneakers on their feet. I’m not sure if any of these people realized, from what I had studied, how difficult this hike is. The trail climbed immediately up and never stopped. After a couple of miles, the road-like trail squeezed down to a more normal pathway. It was a constant flow of people both going up and down, as most had given up their attempt to finish. No surprise to me! The snow melt was flowing rapidly in the Nelson Brook, which was alongside the first part of the hike as it roared its way downhill alongside the trail. Many college-age youth were climbing with skis on their backs, indicating to me that there was still snow in the ravine, where I had heard they ski until late spring. After passing the Hermit Lake Shelter area, the climb uphill got progressively steeper as my knees were not happy. The now narrow path was slow going as I had to wait for the unprepared hikers that were moving at a snail’s pace with not many areas to pass them by. In the ravine bowl, the ice and snow were still deep as dozens of teens in bathing suits skied down the small area with helmets on their heads for protection from a fall and possible slide into the rocks. Many of them rested on the rocks, sunbathing in the warmth of the high angled sunrays. Wouldn’t it be nice to be that young again? I thought to myself. The 4.5-mile climb to the top was too much for many of the people who turned back downhill from the basin area. The remaining climb was steep along the ridge edge of the ravine before it became a free-for-all rock climb over giant rocks that seemed like they had just dropped out of the sky and dispersed at every possible angle. It was a most difficult summit to the top for me as my knees ached. I was not truly prepared for this type of hike. I applied an extra layer of clothing as I reached closer to the top of a mountain that bragged of having the world’s highest recorded wind speed at the time. What was a warm, hot climb soon turned into a cold one. I reached the summit four hours after my hike began, and what an incredible sight it was from the summit. I heard people talking about how fortunate we were to have a rare day of no clouds on the summit, which provided 360-degree views for as far as the eye could see. It was worth every second of effort that it took to climb! I could not believe the number of people at the top of the mountain having their picture taken in front of the wooden sign which announced, “Mt. Washington Summit 6,288 Feet.” I didn’t want to wait in line for a photo but opted to go to the snack bar to eat before I descended back down. While eating, I learned that there was a toll road where people could pay to drive to the top as well as a cog railway which took tourists to the summit. No wonder there were so many people. I knew they had not all hiked up by the way most of them were dressed. It was in the forty-degree range that day which some said was extremely mild. Thank God, I prepared well for the hike.

As I started my descent back down toward my car, I knew it would be a long painful trip, as my first few steps down the stone pounded my knees, even with the braces I was wearing. I had to stop often to regain my composure and take some ibuprofen. Damn! The constant pounding downward took me four and one-half hours before I finally saw the parking area where my car was located. I was totally exhausted and could barely walk through the parking lot to my car. A younger fellow mentioned to me that it never is easy, as he must hike it often. I replied, “I guess not,” as if I was a regular to the mountain. I took off all my gear and threw it into the back of my car, and as I sat in the front seat, I thought I would cry. I never thought sitting down could feel so wonderful! I closed my eyes briefly, trying to gain my composure.

“Now, Georgie, how are the linens at the church getting along?” Mrs. Champlion asked me. Darn, I didn’t like it when she called me Georgie, but I knew that my uncle George had worked for Mrs. Champlion in her general store years before me, and she kept confusing me with him as we were sort of similar in our appearance. Now I’m not sure of Mrs. Champlion’s age at this point, but in my mind, she surely must have been one hundred, but in reality, she was in her eighties, making it a chore for her to get around that little general store. “I think they look in good condition, Mrs. Champlion” was my answer. Susie took care of all the priest and altar boy garments as well as the alter linens, washing and pressing them weekly. She relied on my judgment as she was aware that I was an altar boy, and it was almost impossible for her to get to the church as her store was open seven days a week and she didn’t drive a car. Her husband Edward had died at a fairly early age, leaving her with the duty of running the store alone. Both of them were transplants from New York City where they once operated a pub before relocating to the village of Eagleville to operate the small general store named Champlions. It was once a bustling hub of the village which acted as the post office, as well as butcher shop and kerosene heating oil stop. Not only did Susie know I was an altar boy at the church, but also, she seemed to know just about everything about everyone who lived in this poor village setting. Even though she never left that small store, the daily gossip exchanged by each customer seemed to keep her well-informed, and she had a way of politely interrogating each customer for more information.

“Well, maybe we should take a walk uphill and check on them after we have some nice tea,” she said. “Okay, Mrs. Champlion,” I answered. Are you kidding me? She’s going to walk with me all the way up to the church and back? I’d never seen her leave the store before, not to mention it’s a struggle for her to walk, as she had a sort of gimp when walking, which looked uncomfortable as I watched her struggle to get around. I think Susie took a liking to me when I asked her if she had any chores I could do around the store years before. She enjoyed taking a tea break and chatting with me as she sometimes reached out her cold hands to meet mine as we sat in the rear parlor of the store where the large enameled kitchen stove stood, keeping the parlor and us warm. I dreaded the tea breaks, which she seemed to cherish. Not only did I not like tea, but also, she would pour so much milk into my tea that it was mostly milk with a bit of tea flavor. This almost made me gag as I tried to hide my disapproval. “Eat this up,” she said as she cut a large chunk of cinnamon-crumble-topped coffee cake from the Drakes bakery container. This was one of her favorite items that she sold in the store, as she seemed to have a sweet tooth. Thank God for the cake, as it made the tea go down so much easier. “Finish up now. You need the energy.” “Yes, Mrs. Champlion.” I struggled to clean my plate.

“Now finish up so we can get a move on,” said Susie. “I’m ready anytime, Mrs. Champlion.” Oh my God, I can’t believe this is really happening, I thought. She’s really going to walk uphill with me to get the linens? “Now you hold these fresh linens I pressed and starched this week so I can lock up the store.” “Yes, I have them,” I said, as she pulled the front door tightly, securing the rim night lock that kept the door latched. “Watch your step, Mrs. Champlion, on these steps.” She slowly navigated down the few front entry porch steps unsteady on her feet. “Grab a hold of the broom and mind your pace,” she said as we slowly made our way off the stoop and headed toward the roadway. “’Tis a beautiful sunny day,” she said as if she planned this walk to church on the perfect day. “It sure is nice,” I claimed even though I wished I was down by the railroad tracks hitting stones into the water with a baseball bat instead of escorting an elder up the road. In all the years I’ve been an altar boy, I’ve never seen Susie at a mass, never ever, I thought. Mr. Rada and his wife Pearl were outside in their yard just across the way from the store looking at us in an inquisitive way. “Up the church we’re going to tidy up a bit,” she exclaimed before they could ask. I detected a tone of pride in the way she spoke to them. “Have a nice walk, Susie,” Mr. Rada said, as he stood there in his short stature almost in a sort of disbelief as he gave me a nod and a smile. “Have a nice day,” I piped in, as we slowly made the long climb uphill past the millhouses. I could see curtains being pulled back slowly as many looked out in the disbelief of seeing Mrs. Champlion escorting me. A couple of residents opened their door to say, “Good morning, Susie.” Susie waved back to them in a sort of acknowledgment that she had heard them. “Might be a bit better if they minded to their own,” she softly said to me. My grandmother was outside tending to her small garden when she noticed us approaching. She walked over to give Mrs. Champlion a big hug and a greeting. She tried to tell Susie how good she looked, but I had to interpret that to her, as she couldn’t understand my grandmother. Both my grandmother and grandfather were what people called deaf and dumb, having both lost their ability to hear and speak at a young age due to medical complications. Although they were both far from dumb, this was the stigma assigned to them. I understood them both very well as they strained their vocal chords to talk, but most people found it difficult to understand what they were trying to relate. “Going to the church,” Susie stated as she pointed to the linens. My grandmother nodded in approval as she smiled and held Susie’s hands. Susie always took a liking toward my grandparents, partially because I think she felt bad for their inability to speak or hear. In a time when the man of the house always seemed to do the errands, my grandmother never got to visit the store. “So good to see you, Caroline,” Susie stated as they still held each other’s hands. “Georgie is a good worker,” Susie claimed as my grandmother nodded, not really able to read her lips, yet still smiling and nodding as if in approval.

Mrs. Champlion was sort of respected graciously as an elder in the village by most, especially as she continued to operate the store without her husband. She was a large tough lady, yet, she had her soft moments. We continued to move slowly upward as the climb became steeper for Susie. Mrs. Lyman was on her front porch and, in disbelief, asked me, “Mikee, where are you going?” “To clean the church,” I answered, as she greeted Susie. I sort of felt a sense of importance by this time as if I was responsible for getting Mrs. Champlion out of her store. It was especially difficult for Susie to walk that distance, a sight many found hard to believe. This day may go down in the history book for Eagleville! The day that Mikee walked Mrs. Champlion to the church!

As we entered the front door to the vestibule of the small stone church, I could tell Susie was becoming short-winded as she quickly took a seat in the closest wooden pew seat available. “Put that broom to use, Georgie,” she said. “This place is a mess.” It looks okay to me, I thought silently. Sometimes I wish she would just call me by my real name! I started sweeping the entry vestibule with the corncob broom as she said, “Open the doors and get some air in here. Mercy, mercy.” After a bit, Susie got up slowly and made her way to the front altar, looking around as if she had never seen the insides of this beautiful little stone church with its stained glass windows. “Open up these windows and get some air in here,” she yelled to me. “Yes, Mrs. Champlion.” I tugged hard at the metal transom handles in a downward motion in order to facilitate the unlatching of the sectional windows, being careful not to harm the wonderful stained glass. Susie walked into the rear vestibule where the garments were hung in a small closet next to the confessional where we robed each Sunday morning and holidays. She never genuflected as she walked past the alter and looked sort of funny at me when I did. “Mind you, open the rear door.” “Yes, Mrs. Champlion.” She opened the linen drawer to inspect the linens. “Just as I thought, all wrinkled and need a good cleaning,” she exclaimed in a tone of disgust. She acted like this place would never be normal without her help. After a good cleaning of the church, she told me to close the windows and doors back up, so I did just that. “Take hold of these garments,” she said, “and mind you don’t let them touch the ground.” “Yes, Mrs. Champlion, I have a good hold on them.” We exited down the few front steps and onto the short cement sidewalk that led to the parking lot. “I want to walk around the side to look a bit,” she said as I helped her along. As we slowly made our way alongside the stone church, Susie kept looking upward in an almost serene way, as though she might be talking to someone in a silent prayer. I had a feeling that passed through me that this may be the last time Susie would get to visit this church. “Let’s get a move on. Customers probably waiting at the store,” she said in a gruff tone. I highly doubted that, as her business was slowly eroding away due to the larger chain grocery stores that had opened up in the nearby town. Although a hard lady on the exterior, I felt a sad loneliness for her as I noticed a tear make its way down her cheek. “Mind the garments!”

Susie never made that trip with me to the church ever again, although I made the weekly journey alone many times after that. She would always direct the same orders at me before I made that walk uphill, “Open the doors up and air it out good, and mind the dust. Give her a good dusting and be careful not to wrinkle the linens.” She spoke as if the church was a living object, her living object. I was the last person to ever walk Mrs. Champlion to and from that little stone church, the very place where my folks were married and I eventually got married, as did so many others in the small village. This hub of the village was where I was baptized, confirmed, and where I addressed the congregation with a eulogy for my parents’ burial service.

It was a long, tiring drive back home after that incredible day of hiking. Stopping at a McDonald’s to load up on several large iced teas to hydrate me and to help keep me awake, I drove the four hours in darkness back to my home in Connecticut. I slept like a baby after arriving home, and it took several days before I could walk normally again, but I did it. From almost down and out to being able to conquer something again! I finally felt like all the hard work I had put in was beginning to pay off. It would’ve been so easy to give in and walk with a cane, taking prescription drugs the rest of my limping days, as I’ve seen so many of my friends do through the years, most of whom are long gone because of it. I wasn’t sure how things would play out for me down the road, but I’d never give in, and yes, the surgeon was right. I’m a lucky person!

What came next turned into a most difficult period of my life, as my mother had developed Alzheimer’s, which began a slow decline of her health as did my father’s. He had many medical issues that complicated his ability to care for my mother, who at that point in time could not be left alone. I helped them move to a condo in Florida as caring for their home in Connecticut became too much for my dad. It was a slow degenerative seven-year process, watching my mother slowly fade away into another world. Toward the end of that period, my dad made my sister and I promise to not put Mom in a nursing home, as his ability to care for her slowly diminished. I’m not sure how he had the relentless courage to care for her like he did. His true love for her shone through on a daily basis as it became a constant explaining of each issue over and over again from morning till night, and then through the night again, as she would get up and wander. I installed an inside door lock which prevented her from walking outside as she had done many times prior, luckily being stopped by a neighbor, as they were all aware of her condition. My sister and I, along with my niece Shari, would rotate and fly to Florida to help care for them both as Dad was in and out of hospitals. In addition, I hired an aide to do wellness checks on them as well as light housekeeping. It was a most difficult time for us all, and I’ll always be grateful to my sister Kathy who was able to take time from work to stay with them till first my father passed, followed by my mother three weeks later. Luckily, she was able to take the time from work with no penalty, but also no pay, as she kept a watchful eye on them both. Keeping my business going and juggling these other issues was really taking a toll on my health again.

“Mom, where are you going?” I asked, as she got up out of the bed we were both trying to sleep in. “I’m going to get the mail,” she said, walking toward the door in her diapers which we had to use because of her inability to control her bowels any longer. “Mom, come back to bed. It’s midnight, and it’s time to sleep.” Her cancerous tumors were spreading throughout her body, causing so many complications in addition to the Alzheimer’s. I put her back in the bed and held her hand. “Are you okay?” she asked me. “Yes, I’m okay, Mom, are you okay?” “When will it end?” she asked. “Soon, Mom, soon.” “Okay,” she said. I could tell she’s suffering, and I wished I had the courage to end her pain. It’s killing me to watch this happen to her, and I felt so helpless. Five minutes later, she’s up and headed toward the door again. “Mom, where are you going?” “To get the mail,” she answered. “It’s not here yet, Mom. Let’s get back in bed.” I helped her back into bed and held her hand. Over and over again, all night long. I’m not sure how my poor Dad was able to deal with this while ailing himself. His diabetes required the removal of a toe on his foot prior to this, which never seemed to heal very well. They wanted to cut more of his foot off to prevent it from spreading. His response was “No, they’re done cutting on me. I’m done.” “But you must promise to not put Mom in a home,” he insisted. He just wanted to live long enough to care for Mom. My sister and I made that promise and slowly watched him die a painful death from the gangrene, which eventually took him, as they tried to keep him comfortable with morphine-type drugs. Finally, in hospice he lasted three days.

“Where is he?” Mom asked. “Who, Mom?” She pointed to the chair that my Dad sat in for so many years in the living room across from her. “He’s in the hospital, Mom.” “Oh,” she said. I’m not sure if telling her that Dad passed away would register or not. “Where’s that guy that sits in the chair?” “He’s in the hospital, Mom.” “Oh,” she said. All day long, day after day, night after night. I blended ice cream and a nutrition drink in a blender for her food, as the tumors were cutting into her ability to swallow. She readily accepted that through a straw. “God, please take her,” I begged each night as we lay in bed. “You okay?” she asked me. “Yes, I’m okay, Mom.” Always a caring person who went out of her way to care for others, here she was worried about me, as she suffered through her final days. “You okay?” she asked. I think she thought I was her husband lying next to her. I guess I’ll never know.

My poor sister had to watch her gasp for her last breath of air, as the suffering finally came to an end while in her care. The tumors had basically shut off her airway. “No, I’m not okay, Mom.”

Shortly after we had a combined service for my parents in the stone church in Eagleville where they were married, my homeless brother Scott came to live with me. I set up a bed in my living room area and did my best to take care of him while he waited to die of liver failure. It was a slow, horrible way to die, and a most unpleasant sight to observe. A few months later, my other brother Edward also died of liver failure. Both of them died from years of drug and alcohol addiction. It was a tough year by any standards. After taking care of all the post-death affairs I had placed on me, my back was slowly starting to deteriorate once again. Continuing to hike as a stress relief mechanism, I endured the pain and tried to enjoy the hikes. It wasn’t long before I was back to the “sitting down as much as possible” game; my damn back was bad again!

This time I didn’t wait. I made an appointment to see my neurosurgeon in hopes that it might be a simple micro touch-up surgery, or something not as complicated as my last bout. My first idea was the pain was possibly coming from my hips, due to over-hiking, as the pain seemed to radiate out from that area. Well, after another MRI, I was floored once again when the neurosurgeon told me I had a condition called spondylolisthesis of the lower spinal vertebrate. He began to explain to me what needed to be done to try and correct it, and I couldn’t believe he was talking to me. This can’t be me! Inserting steel rods and screws into my vertebrate and lifting them apart so a bone fusion could be done to repair what was left of the nearly deteriorated discs. What are you talking about? I’m still feeling pretty good after all I’ve been through, and now this? I was in a state of disbelief, shocked!

My neurosurgeon stated that he didn’t perform this type of procedure but only assists in them, and refered me to a Dr. Krompinger of the Hartford Orthopedic Department. He stated that in his opinion he was the best man for the job. I was in total disbelief of this whole story! Being in shock, I don’t remember driving home that afternoon. I didn’t think I could make it through another major surgery by myself. At my visit to Dr. Krompinger’s office, I brought along my MRI results. He agreed with my neurosurgeon that a multiple-level fusion of my L4-L5-S1 was badly needed and continued on to explain the procedure. I had just recovered from a major shoulder operation where three screws had to be used to reattach severed tendons. And just prior to that, I had repairs done to my other shoulder as well, not to mention that both of my bicep tendons were detached and had to be severed. I was still going through physical therapy for all that, and now this? I made plans for yet another surgery with my apprentice at the shop, as my business was slowly deteriorating. So, it was yet another ride by my apprentice to the hospital!

The surgery went as planned, and the surgeon said he was successful in installing four rods and six screws in my lower back. Dr. Krompinger took bone from my hip to create a fusion in place of my deteriorated discs, which he thinks went well. I felt like I had been run over by a bus when I came out of recovery. This was a painful recovery. After three days in the hospital, and after I could walk again with the aid of a walker, I was sent home to basically care for myself, although I lied and told them I had someone to care for me. It turned out to be a tough recovery as I had to try and get my full back brace on and off by myself. There was no physical therapy prescribed, as the doctor told me to just walk as much as I could. I had to wear the back brace for three months, which I gladly did as the pain was so much lesser. Being very cautious, I started working my way back into hiking again. Shortly after the brace was shed and with Dr. Krompinger’s okay, my son Shawn (now out of the Navy) and I hiked to the summit of Mount Washington once again with a full backpack. This old man was back in action again, and it was good to have my son home. Dr. Krompinger, I love you!