CONTEXT

Context: circumstances or events that form the environment within which something exists or takes place. There you have it - a tidy little definition of a word frequently used - and abused - in communication - verbal and non - as well as writing and informal discourse. I hate to be pesky (OK, I lied.  As you know, friends and readers, fatigue, illness, temperament, certain people and most content that seems to stream into my consciousness directly from the television, elicit peskiness of unwarranted and lofty proportions.  And you know this because I am also insensitive enough to ‘share’ my unattractive emotions at the drop of a hackneyed expression)

      Now before you lower that boom of a pointer on your upper right corner “x”, deserting this tab as though you’d seen a warning prompt: “Continue reading at the risk of erasing your hard drive”, know that I’ve not embarked on an instructive stroll down “Composition I” lane - and we all know there’s no strolling ‘up’ that rocky road - but simply wanted to orient everyone to this evening’s pithy, playful ruminations.  Lord knows, I stand first in the ‘orientation line’.  The past five or six days have been inordinately disorienting causing a fit of seeking-in-extremis for peace, order, direction and pleasant experience. Lest I fall prey to a full-blown case of pesky.

      Fortunately for all, persistence conquered pesky and I found my treasure trove – which, per Virginia law, I may keep if a ‘rightful owner’ has not left a claim.  Last-minute changes had us dining at b-day grandpeep’s fave watering hole to commemorate her eighth year among the VERY quick.  Molly is currently taking tennis lessons - and showing signs of greatness - but along with a tennis bracelet, we gave her a small, crystal catcher’s mitt and baseball which she literally ‘visits’ to admire every time she’s at our home.  It’s a paper weight, actually, and I’d always found her tender fascination endearing.  Especially in that the child shows no interest in the sport - save her Mets ball cap.  Thus we presented Molly with the coveted trinket cum framed poem.

      (Framing seems rampant in those heinous TV emissions of late.  Watching the evening news brings a spate of commercial interruptions clearly aimed at robbing the unsuspecting, average watcher of his old friends – peace-order-direction-pleasant experience – with whom news is normally endured.  They (we know of whom we speak) have some beastly attention-grabbers out there.  Who’s NOT going to listen up when the subject concerns health – in the context of its continuity.

        In that as a genre there seems to be no discernible distinction, we’ll have a gander at a common bladder issue, unpleasant but not life-threatening.  At least the lure is cast in that manner.  The captive audience takes the bait – and the Vesicare.  The scene begins in our mythical land of “Context” with bronze-hued PVC-pipe figures marching this way and that, singing with hearty voices reminiscent of the era of protesting. (Which will re-enter in present tense context when the nightly news resumes.)

        The message our marchers are conveying is that they’ve worked hard to get where they are (presumably ‘success-land’) and will not tolerate interruptions by ‘leaky-pipe-induced’ frequent trips to the ladies room.  Enter Vesicare.  By now you’ve gathered this is a pharmaceutical frame-up. The abject ‘bete-noire’ of over-active bladder syndrome, Vesicare renders this unsuspecting malady a thing of the past, a has been in the long line of similar would-be impede-rs of “so-if-you-go-to-Somewhere-on-your-way-from- Nowhere,-and-you-meet-anyone-you’ll-know-it’s-Me” bronzed marchers.)

        Molly sat rapt, caressing her crystal treasure while proudly reading her poem:

INSTRUCTIONS for safe use of Molly’s enclosed:

Catch a falling star

and put it in your pocket.

Never let it fade away.                                               

                                                             

                                                      Catch a falling star

                                                       

            and put it in your pocket   

save it for a rany day.

For love might come and tap you on the shoulder

some starless night.

And just to show you’ve grown a little bolder,

you’ll have a pocketful of starlight.

Pocketful of starlight.. . ..

Catch a falling star.

You’ve got your glove, just DO it.

(Others think that it’s ‘Their’ day.)                      

                                                     Catch a falling star,

 you’re faster getting to it.

No one gets in Molly’s Way.

Your glove and ball –

the day that you got older -

came for catching  light. Starlight’s best,

wants Molly’s glove to hold her.

Star-matching-Star made MAGIC all night,

Magic starlight all night.

Molly’s ball and glove

came when she reached her eighth year,

lighting up her sky with stars.

Molly’s ball and glove told all who came,

Now see here:

Stars’re hers now, they’re not ours.

Stars will never fade away. . .

Won’t be any rainy days. . .

Molly’s starlight’s here to stay. . .

Glove and ball are Molly’s way.

Love and Stars mark Eighth Birthday.

Candles out, but Starlight stays.

Pockets full, colorful

light from Stars all Molly’s days.

Light from stars that’s hers not ours.

But sharing, loving, bright Birthdays!

Balls in gloves

Showered loves. On her way -

EIGHT today.

Never, ever fade away. . .

All her starlit bright Birthdays

Always Starlit, bright Birthdays.

And a star she shall be, wherever her talents take her.

      (Would that the same could be said of our marchers.  Seconds after their song of determination and praise loses its volume, Mr. Friendly Voiceover, totally aberrant contextually, booms in to remind us in tutorial tones that, as with all modern miracle drugs, there MAY be side effects – of which he is all too eager to warn us.  The litany – ranging from inconvenient to lethal – is prefaced by the what-has-become-typical advice, “Therefore, consult your doctor if you have any known conditions like heart arrhythmias, psychiatric disorders, respiratory ailments, glaucoma, G-I Tract Disorders or a significant history of allergies.)

        We had plans to see “The Swingtime Salute” Saturday evening.  This engaging musical production was rendered even more spectacular Saturday as it was “Op Sail” weekend, when those magnificent historic “Tall Ships” from eras long gone by sail majestically into Norfolk’s harbor and drop anchor adjacent to the retired USS Wisconsin – a resident attractiion of the city on which the musical was staged.

      A tribue to the generous and talented performers who entertained our troops in 1945 when the Wisconsin was commissioned, “Salute” was energetically put on with the backdrop of the setting sun on a glorious harbor evening - topped off with a pyrotechnical display to memorialize all things nautical and beautiful.  The entire evening gave new meaning to “gala” in its particularly festive context.

      (One would think, in the doctor-patient context, that had ANY of those successful marchers suffered from ANY of the aforementioned conditions, the ‘doctor’ would soon become ‘successive’ had he not been aware of them when he prescribed the Vesicare.  Really, folks, is ‘average patient’ now responsible for diagnostics and test result interpretation such that findings are to be shared with ‘average patient’s’ treating doctor so he doesn’t screw up and prescribe Vesicare to the hapless hyper-allergenic marcher whose dumb luck it was to now develop an overactive bladder which, as yet, she hadn’t had time to work up?)

        Sunday - warm and sunny - was just perfect for grandpeep Charlie’s second b-day.  He was just a bubble of dimples, giggles, and hugs and kisses all around.  The kids seemed to fly all over the swing set and jungle gym; tumble in the grass waiting a turn at driving the Jeep and beeping the horn; laugh and peak through their blindfolds when pinning the butterfly on Curious George’s tree. And after gallons of cold juice, Charlie’s Curious George cake was the perfect pause before tearing open presents with renewed life!

      (I watch and listen to this potentially lethal scenario, gleaned from this potentially award-winning sixty second ‘spot’:  successful bronze pipe’s march becomes a walk, then a fall, groping forward in a desperate, last lurch toward an unreachable phone that will never follow a “911-order”.  Marcher had ignored the heartburn, fiber-blasted the constipation, artificially teared her dry eyes, watered her dry mouth, squinted through her blurry vision.  The wheezing – well successful pipes can’t just STOP for a cold.  Of course she never forgot to take her anti-depressant but the confusion caused her to take two Vesicare that day.  And when her lips and face and throat started to swell – what was it she was supposed to do?

        She stopped marching and walked to think this through.  Tired, she sat, groped for her cell phone to call her buddy, Pattipipe, but decided to nap first.  But then she thought the grass must be getting to her because she was wheezing, call doc. . . ‘Reach out and touch some bo dy. . .’  Reaching, her crooning stopped, as did she.  At the service, doctor, in the context of both sympathy and helpfulness, explained to her grieving, successful friends, that “Nothing should ever get in the way of taking care of yourself.”  He left an ample pile of his cards next to the Guest Registry.  Ambling down the carpeted marble steps, he was heard singing softly, “I’ve worked very hard to get where I am; I’ll never allow a leaky pipe to get in my way. . .”

        In the context of ruminations, I think I’ll run with ‘playful’ tonight.  There’s something about TV commercials – in the context of ‘pith’ - that makes me feel pesky.  And we certainly don’t want to go THERE.

Later, Lorane. . . .

Lemon-Haired Leavys

      There we were, chatting with old friends - about NOT commemorating birthdays - when they called.  Our youngest daughter, Jennie, and her mate, working parents, involved citizens, go, go, and then some, have a sacred pact.  It's called 'Sunday is ours - with the kids'.  Refreshing, really.  We always had pacts.  Still do.  They're in the 'we'll-get-to-it' room somewhere with all the other broken stuff.  The call - more of an announcement, really - was to share the 'Saturday plan' which involved visiting at our house, 'early-ish', to celebrate my birthday.  The one we preferred NOT to commemorate although, in truth, we'd had a lovely bash at their place last weekend.  B-Day weekend.  "Sounds great," I heard myself reply. BRAIN: Early-ish.  They're up at 5 AM every day. It's Wednesday.  If I go to sleep now, I can bank some deprivation.

     (Last weekend, their kids, Emma, 4 and Charlie, 19 months, had grandly presented me with their labor-of-love, a travel-photo.  Instant family: add one nail, any wall and, Ta-da! Hi Grams!                               

Charlie, Big Sis told



me, had worked very hard applying the stickers.  As she identified the settings in the selected pics with her still-damp paint brush, Emma subtly let me know who had done - and LOVED doing - the heavy lifting.  But Lord knows, it certainly warms your heart, especially when the years seem to be swiftly ebbing in the wrong direction.)

      Our son's call, following on the hot speed dial of Jen's, was not as surprising as the little Leavys had been still in heated process re: Grams' present when they'd called on my special day with wishes and song.  Philip was confirming a drop-by on Saturday, most likely apres la crosse engagements near our home.  That would put their ETA in the PM hours which provided a dandy dovetail to the 'Emma and Charlie Show'. 

      There simply is no other way to describe these strange bedfellows - Emma all about the tedium of acclimating Mommy and Daddy to her latest persona - gypsy/flower child - which 3-piece, Southern banker Daddy was not anticipating and usually amusing/theatrical Mommy was reacting to with an 'attitude'. As if Emma didn't have enough on her little Dresden plate already.

      Charlie, her polar opposite, is all about throwing - anything - hard - at anyone.  In that his brand at the moment, headful of spun-yellow curls capping an always-at-the-ready-grin which comes with an array of dimples totally denying - ostensibly - any plans of derring-do, has his sitters all a-whisper about 'what-to-do-about-Charlie',  can focus on his main agenda - eating.  The continuity of this passion  is impressive, but he toddles at mach speed so re-fueling needs are met in kind.

      Philip's three - Declan, Molly and Patrick - are no less ebullient and active but they are older and, Mercury is beginning to surrender to Mars and - sometimes - Earth, as they evolve into the activities of the more mature, taller, dervish.  I was told they were most excited about their 'creation' and particularly anxious to make their presentation.

      It was therefore understandable, albeit no less daunting, when the call came shortly after ten AM announcing a final approach as the game had ended early.  One-time fleet-of-foot Poppy, or The Recliner as you may recall him, had barely enough time to scoot to the bakery and snag the richest of decorated cup cakes for the festivities.  This contribution, in his world, is called 'the preparation' for the kids' visit. What else might there be to do?

      (The loud music and louder footfalls announced their arrival as Daddy tried to maneuver their eight passenger 'Sherman Tank' into a strategically-parked position - one that would allow for the elaborately-festooned creation to be extracted from the vehicle and carefully 'Philip-lifted' to our front door, truly an oxymoronic type of performance.

      Joining the already full-swing, madcap, utterly delightful vision of five towheads in impish 'glee-mode', he successfully circumvented tumbling, spinning, giggling, oblivious bodies and made it to the table at the end of our sun room, where I sat smiling in greeting while mentally biting brain cells - the ole handy artificial face-with-grin at the ready.  The final landing was a bit turbulent but I'd donned my seat belt under my clothing at six AM so I was good.  With the near-misses and Charlie missiles, I mean. 

      Having alerted me to the fact that even the card was breakable, he requested the children gather 'round so Grams could open their gift - already in need of first aid from a loading mishap, named Patrick, I believe.  Billed a 'travel-fam' as

 well, words fail me in any attempt at the emotions that overcome a 'Grams' gazing at a framed collage of three of her peeps, artfully and poignantly graced with  super-glued icons representative of her and the stars of this masterpiece.

      The pencil - I write - the die with its face showing the number six, as I have six peeps, a golf tee, Declan's passion, lovely shells and an amorphous sea creature, Molly's obsession - and a gerbera daisy - also compliments of Molly and Mommy because I love these flowers - and when I finally pointed to two race cars, tearing across the bottom of the frame,  Patrick and his arm literally 'lifted off' the floor in a proud display of attribution.  Please note, McQueen's car has a black-and-white, sirens blaring, on his tail.) 

Mia, upper L; middle, lower R

      I do apologize for this shameful breach of taste and form.  The narcotic as yet does not exist that can compete with the effect a bragging grandmother has on her listeners' minds.  But, like these kids - their insistence on including Mia - #6  traveling and could not join us - I have to believe that  there is at least an element of universal appeal to this recounting. 

      Of course, if you, my friends, do not share my belief, I trust you've moved on to real literature and please know, I completely understand.  To be sure, it is unlikely that Mia - all about perpetual motion, rushing into life with a 'try me' affect and a 'you love me' smile - does not.  What could possibly be more interesting and engaging that this 'lemon-haired brood' adoring their "Gigi", huh?

"Beats me," she'd no doubt stoutly put forth.  Whether she'd be correct in her assessment is yours to decide.  I'll just linger a bit and mentally enjoy the future with-the- peeps-ere-in-tow wherever I travel. I am all about sharing (you noticed) so feel free to print 'n take 'em with you as well.  Or not.  Hoping to see you again soon, Later, Lorane. . . .

 

    

DECLAN: A Story of Capabilities and Limitations

Been a spate of silent days. That blank tape syndrome, you'll recall. Well, actually I was all set - after trapsing through some of my "on air" haps and misses,

to introduce you to a 'pro' I'd profiled back in the day. A guy who did his work well, with flair and devoted following. But what with getting Valentine goodies for the grandpeeps, wandering down the Valentine Memory Lane and then - quite serendipitously, HONEST! - getting an email from a very dear, close, old friend in which she ASKED about one of our children, I am moved to switch gears and profiles and intros and answer her query here by introducing you to Declan.

Recently another dear friend sent me a PDF version of his story which I am told I can deftly place right here. No problem. Of course, no CLUE either as to how this prestidigitation is to be effected (& even if I succeed, I shall probably ALSO "place" every iota of extraneous text/imagery as well) so I will just give it ONE shot & if, after I yell "PULL" & shoot nothing happens, I'll just peck it out for you.

On the evening of February 17,1984, our 16 month-old son, Declan, aspirated a piece of browniie containing fragments of walnut. He'd been laughing. On March 15 - a Thursday afternoon, he died. At Christmas we'd had 4 beautiful, healthy children. I was finally able to write this at Easter. We then had three.
As with all tragedies, much of the experience is personal, unique. But Declan was also a member of a community, a neighborhood, a region. He - and we - were fortunate that he lived in Hampton Roads. If you are fellow residents, you deserve to know why.since we trust ourselves to each other everyday. Today, in 2011, as Americans, you are equally deserving, for the same reason. Declan's story has to do with capabilities and limitations. It is a point of reference from which we can all hope to see progress but with which we must live in "the now". That Declan had to die is, we believe, a fulfillment of God's far greater "story". But we don't ask that you share our metaphysics, just the experience of the way he left; a sharing that is secular and intended to evoke pride and hope.
Phil, my husband, had been a practiicng Emergency Medicine doc for 12 years. I had been a coronary care nurse. Ours, then, was a privileged perspective. Words like 'emergency', 'stable', 'critical'. have poignant, scientific meaning for us. "Baby', 'fear', 'protect' have equally charged meaning. Our professional qualifications allowed us to reconstruct events with clinical observations. Our credentials as parents were the same as yours.
We gathered late for a special dinner that night. It had been a good week for the family Phil and I, 14 yr-old Philip, 7 yr-old Julie, 3 yr-old Jennie, Declan and Poppy, my Dad who lived with us. By 7 that evening, Declan was bored, antsy, cranky. He toyed withe his brownie - mashed it up, spread it around (probably curious as, when I think about it now, he'd never had one before (I don't "do" desserts) and we've not had one since). And he took a bite. He was giggling when he finally stood up, wanting to get down from his chair. "O.K., Helen (often referred to him as 'Helen Keller' who also - initially - had that nasty little habit of cruising around the table, scarfing tidbits from siblings' plates), "it's time for that bath", I'd said, picking him up. Suddenly, I felt him jerk but there was no sound. Movements continued, his face turning red.
I handed him to Phil. He opened his mouth to clear it of food. There was nothing in his mouth. Still no sound — no coughing, no choking. I dialed 911.
An alarm shrieked silently through all of us. This was bad. Experience and exposure notwithstanding, there was terror in the air. My hands shook as I dialed. Yours might too, but you'd dial. Reciting our name, address and the nature of the problem sounded hysterical inside my head and yet I was coherent. The children and my father stood frozen— "Oh my God." "Daddy do something." "Mommy, Mommy." I told them to stand still.

Phil had by this time done numerous Hennlich maneuvers, applying sharp pressure to the abdomen to force air up and dislodge the obstruction from the windpipe. They didn't work. He alternated blows to Declan's back and chest. Nothing. The look of frustration and disbelief that I saw in my husband's eyes was undoubtedly mirrored in my own. We had to go beyond mother and father and son — and function. We brought him over to the counter by the kitchen sink and began cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR). When I tried to breathe into his nose and mouth I met with total resistance. Something was stuck in his airway. Phil quickly repeated all of the previous maneuvers to try to clear it.

I brought the girls and my father out to the front hall, turned on all the lights, and opened the front door wide. I told them to pray and direct the paramedics to the kitchen when they arrived. Phil was vigorously massaging the baby's chest and blowing into his mouth. Declan was gray and stiff; stomach contents were oozing out of his mouth and nose. We suctioned him with our mouths. The telephone rang. The paramedics. "MY GOD, haven't they left yet? Didn't they believe me?" In fact, they were en route. They questioned Philip, who stood next to us and relayed what was going on. Which was: "He's vomiting Phil." "No, he's dying Lorene." "Then you'll have to do a trach." "I can't." (Trach refers to tracheostomy cutting down into the windpipe so that a tube can be inserted to breathe a patient.) Philip, fighting for control, "They want to know if he is in respiratory or cardiac arrest?" "Both!" I handed Phil a kitchen knife as we hyperextended Declan's neck, his soft, blond, feathery hair fanning out
into the kitchen sink. "My dad is doing a trach, now." Phil somehow cut the skin. The blood was dark. No oxygen. The windpipe was so small. The drinking straw and the cut-off bail point pen were too big to use as temporary airways.
There was madness then, of a sort. "Don't die Declan," "BREATHE, baby!" "NO, God, no." Phil grabbed Declan's head and blew with all his strength into his mouth. We finally heard it — a wet, croaking gasp. Phil had blown the obstruction down and into the lung. The blood flowed freely and bright red now as we continued what became effective CPR. I checked his groin. He had strong, regular pukes. We all knew Daddy had brought Declan back. Phil and knew how much deadly acid and oil we had blown into his lungs. But maybe....
Suddenly — uniforms. The paramedics were in the kitchen getting out the equipment that would keep Declan breathing and beating so he could be moved to the hospital. They began four minutes from the time I had dialed 911. How hard it must have been for these young men. Phil
taught and trained the Emergency Medical Teams (EMTs). They are, in a sense, tested by him daily. With feelings of disbelief. trepidation and desperate urgency, they faced Dr. Leavy in his kitchen — a battlefield of blood, tears and vomit — for the most comprehensive of tests: to stabilize and transport his near-dead little boy. We had prayed for them to come and were so relieved to see them. But when we faced the fact that we had to relinquish control — stop doing things to and for Declan with our own hands — we felt the first blows of impotence which would continue to reign for the next 27 days.
They moved Declan to the breakfast- room table and began attaching the nuts and bolts of the life-support system that would allow safe transport. I checked on the other children, returning to find the paramedics and Phil still at it. Declan had gagged out the first breathing tube so they were putting in another. They were checking the position of this or that, and finally I couldn't stand it any more. "Can't we just get going?" "Well, M'am," he answered calmly, "we want to make sure he has a good I.V. running in case he needs any medicine on the way." I knew this. I had no right to say that. I apologized, and he understood. They seemed to be taking hours, but it was truly a matter of minutes. They do so much — tedious, complicated things — so quickly and so well that the helpless, terrified person standing by wants to say mercilessly, "Listen, hot shot. this is your job. Can't you step on it?" Well, it isn't — a job, that is. It is a series of highly skilled maneuvers performed under difficult conditions and aimed at saving a life. There can be no interference. It was agreed that Phil do the intubation, but beyond that we handed Declan over to them.
They were aware of our knowledge and our eyes. They executed their tasks flawlessly, speedily. They found time to comfort and reassure us. We ran blindly down the front steps. They remembered the blanket and to move with a coordinated effort as they carried Declan gently out into the chilly February night. We were grateful to and for our paramedics. Trust them with your lives.
And the police. A garden of squad cars outside. Police in every room. Now we adults know, don't we, that the police are there to help us. But there is still a vulnerable child that plays in the back room ofall our minds who says, "Police — must be trouble." There also is a vulnerable
grown-up standing on the front porch of our minds saying, "No problem — you all can go home now." So it is with a strange ambivalence that we seek and accept help. Part of me wanted to minding the rest of Norfolk?" But the crushing truth was that they had answered a call to 1125 Westover Ave.. a place where tragedy was in progress. And they were needed there — now sitting on the stairs holding Jennie, now kneeling, arms around Julie, watching Declan being saved. Standing beside Poppy. allowing him to cry. Talking with Philip; praising his courage, his father's work. Offering to calm me and accepting my rejection with mature grace. Washing the blood from the sink and cabinets. "The children shouldn't have to look at this." the policeman said.
They made the unbearable bearable.No one wants cops in his house, but we demand that they be right under the window when things go bump in the night. They must walk gently amid the rubble of human emotions. It's ugly — what they must see. It's beautiful — what they do. The next time you're talking to a police officer— waiting for your ticket or whatever say thanks for us.

The Emergency Room. Our other family. Stunned and silent. they
reined in their emotions and worked to correct the imbalances that could threaten Declan's life. We were in a small, quiet room. a place for shaking. crying, praying. We did all of these things and drank the first cups of what would be vats of coffee drunk during the long vigil. Softly-spoken words of encouragement, assurance of prayers. offers of continued support were all around us. Finally, Declan was ready for transfer. Everyone wanted to do more, to say he would be all right. But, like us, they could only surrender him — and hope. There are no routine emergencies. Declan's presented the dilemma they face each day — "Let what we've got be enough to save this life." They did what they could. And then they cried. That's part of emergency medicine. Maybe you didn't know. They cry for all of us. It's something to think about when the E.R. is crowded and you have to wait a long time to be seen for your earache. Declan would eventually that the available, known treatment used to keep him alive contributed to his death. At the house having no suction, we had to blow large amounts of destructive fluid and chemicals into his lungs along with the oxygen he needed. Whatever lung tissue was still healthy after that had to be helped along with high concentrations of oxygen and pressure to get the job of oxygenation done. This tissue eventually was damaged from the prolonged use of high oxygen and pressure. It was unavoidable. On the night of February 17th, the doctors could only hope that the initial
while his lungs healed.
There was a very special, state of the art place in your midst called the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit at The Childrens Hospital of The King's Daughters. There were two, full-fledged, experienced pediatric intensivists there all the time along with a highly skilled. educated and astute group of nurses. Add to this the endless and immediately available lists of specialists, residents and social service personnel and you know that this unit is nothing short of superb. We lived with these people and what they do for 10 days.
Their work is demanding, exacting. One drop more or less of a drug can take a life. Reading and correctly interpreting the maze of machinery attached to each patient can save entrusted to them gives new meaning to the words critical, fragile. The little people themselves give new meaning to the words loveable, vulnerable, helpless. The thing that comes to mind when I think of that staff is love — in all of its meaning. Their challenge is to fix the smallest and the most broken among us and to grab the little body from which life has almost completely drained, find the hole and plug it. They know some of their patients will die. But they never know which ones. Wouldn't it be easier, emotionally, to focus completely on the machines.
the numbers, the cold — but reliably there — steel and polyethelene aspect of their work? Sure it would. Instead, they love the child, love the family, over and over again.
It's a very high risk kind of love. He would hear friendly, cooing. comforting voices always around him. "Mr. Clown's gonna play his music, Declan. I'll put him on your head so you can hear him." "Let's see what the kids did today, Declan." (At the doctors' suggestion, the children sent daily tapes of their activities so Declan could hear their voices and they could be with him.) We knew about the nurses' hugs and kisses, their prayers with Declan. They were saying, "I'm gonna love you, you tricky little kid, even though it's gonna hurt like hell if you die." They had to face us and the children, day and night, answering so many questions in such detail, having to admit to that awful set of limitations. They desperately wanted the miracle to happen but after 10 days Declan's lungs were saying they couldn't function with the high pressures. Only a jet ventilator could deliver high oxygen with low pressures.
So, having worked so hard for so long, they had to turn their littleguy over to the Medical College ofVirginia for the only chance he had left.
It took 24 hours to fly the ventilator and a qualified inhalation therapist to Norfolk, prepare this special KD van, and then move Declan and all of his paraphernalia up to Richmond. It was with great care and courage that our doctor, nurse and paramedic escorted Declan to MCV. It was with great reluctance, hope and love that they left him there. It hurts not to be able to do the miracle.
Phil and I went up alone and settled into the Ronald MacDonald House. It felt safe and good — being in a house. We missed the kids. We were tired, scared. edgy. The staff at MCV would be edgy as well. Their new admission was a rare case a kid who had survived full arrest and serious aspiration in his kitchen, had normal brain function, no heart or kidney failure and had exhausted the miracle supply at KD. Only his lungs were shot. Would the jet ventilator be the key? Despite these dreadful odds, their embrace of Declan and us was complete from
the first meeting. Declan did not improve on the jet. Phil asked about ECMO — Extra Corporeal Membrane Oxygenation. It's like a heart-lung machine. Maybe we could rest Declan's lungs so they could heal while ECMO kept him alive. Consultations were made. It
wasn't recommended. It has been used successfully only on newborns. But, "We happen to have an ECMO team right here," they said.
The next day Declan started to decline rapidly. The ECM() team was
called. They would try to get him on. While they primed the pumps and the intensivists worked to keep Declan going. the surgeons explained to us how slim the chances were of surviving the treatment. There was a great danger of hemorrhage on ECMO. Any infection is fatal. The
pumps are geared for the small volume of blood in the neonate. Declan could die for any of these reasons. (Of course, we were in a large city, in 1984, with AIDS making a strong debut, priming his pumps with 24 units of donated blood. It gave me pause then and now.) If he doesn't get on ECMO, we thought, he'll be dead tonight. Yes, doctors, we understood. We signed the papers. It was a difficult discussion far all of us. They hated what they had to say. There would be a time limit. He could stay on for only 10 days. Any longer and hemorrhage would be certain. We could only hope that he could live on ECM() and his lungs would heal enough to work again on the jet. "If he makes it. he'll be the first in the world with his kind of disease," the surgeon said. They began at 4 p.m. At 2 a.m., Declan finally was on ECMO. Our children joined us the next day. team. The staff gently prepared the kids for the pumps, the motors, the tubes, the bleeding they would see. They helped them to see Declan under all of this to talk to him, to listened. They heard the truth. They saw how never to lose hope. And that other families had tragedy. They made friends. They learned how to support and be supported. A child Declan's age on ECMO was a new frontier. There were many technical problems, many close calls. We've After 14 days, the time came to turn off the ECMO machine. There had been no change in Declan's lungs. We talked to him, told him how much we loved him and would miss him. But we knew he had to leave and it was — would have to be — all right. He squeezed our fingers, wrinkled his nose when we blew on his face. His touch and reactions were playful, not desperate. Declan was not afraid. He knew no pain. no strangeness. He did not die alone or in silence but in the company of people who loved him enough to say goodbye.
MCV belongs to you. too. You needn't fear impersonality, a syndrome associated with large medical centers. It is warm and friendly, and people care. These same people made medical history that March. Other children will live because they had the courage to put Declan on ECMO. Maybe that was part of Declan's mission. Another part might be that two other children can now see with his corneas, still others fought their cancer with the juices from his thymus gland.
At Declan's funeral, there was a line of rescue vehicles, EMT's standing at attention. Nightingale (our rescue helicopter) hovered overhead at the gravesite. The staffs from KD and MCV were there. We released a dozen helium-filled baloons to escort him - and returned the salute to the gathered honor bearers. Declan could have left without a trace. He's left some rather large footprints for a little guy. But then, look at who his friends were.
Valentine's Day will be happy today - as it was in 1984. I'll more than likely NOT say the same of the Ides of March, 2011. L. . . .

PS

Almost forgot. Of ALL the things I wanted you to know about Grandpa. TaDa!

I give you,

"WILLIE'S WINDOW"

NOW you get the picture - of Vincent William Grocki. That's all, folks. I mean, that's what's left - in the imagery department - after last night's outpouring. Blank tape. It happens. Akin to "blank page". And, well, gotta get ready fo 'Da SOUPA BOWL'. Later, L. . . .

The Biography of an Exit

It's amazing how tall people can look when you're five years-old. (No. I'm not kneeling. Long-term memory's good, that's all. I don't mean that's all that's good. I mean, what was I saying. . . .?) Of course you don't realize how distorted your perception was until you look at pictures of yourself standing next to the tall one. THEN you can see the proportionate height difference. The real shocker comes many (many) years later when you happen along the same photo and the giant in the tall one is back again, this time to stay. My Grandpa had this kind of tall. I knew him best when I was five.

Dad worked the four to midnight shift at the plant and Mom worked from nine to four during the day so I spent a lot of time at other people's houses. But that year that I was five, I spent most of my time with Grandpa. The first half of that year we went out a lot. We would walk to where he worked, in the factory neighborhood. People would stare at this odd couple - silver straight hair pushed back by his broad forehead which was up-staged by his broader grin. He'd be wearing a work shirt with pants slung low to accommodate his doughy pot belly. And me, little girl with long, chestnut brown 'bah-sie (as in "kielbasi") curls (thusly disciplined with rags every night while still wet & very bumpy to sleep on. My hair was just as straight as Grandpa's), neatly tied back with ribbons, dress starched and standing at attention around skinny legs set in white anklets and Mary Janes. And I would stare at the factories.

Leviton was the biggest. They made electrical things. They actually closed the street that ran between their two buildings to public traffic. I mean Grandpa could remember playing stick ball on that street. No more. (no-sticky-no-walkie-no-touchy/keep-outie) So, when someone pushed you around in Greenpoint, you could glare, "Who d'ya think ya are, huh? Leviton?" and everybody got it. Grandpa said the Levitons weren't pushy, though. They were smart. And I wondered where the Leviton boys played (did they?) and if anyone pushed them around.

Then there was Sucony Gas and Oil, spread out right down to the river, with tanks and towers that burped out the soot and smoke that covered my mother's sheets if she didn't get the clothes in off the line before noon. (Now this used to make Grandpa nervous. Not the soot. The clothes line routine. Mom was short, did EVERYTHING quickly, efficiently. And our railroad apartment was on the fifth floor. I just KNEW he pictured her going ass-over-head with a clothespin in her clenched teeth.) After Sucony came the glue factory - which smelled like rotten eggs. Grandpa said they used horses' hooves to make glue. I cried. He understood. I held his yellowed, calloused hand and jumped over the oily puddles and broken glass. And he reminded me that lots of kids' daddies had jobs because of Leviton, Sucony and glue.

His shop was on the second floor of a furniture factory. Grandpa made reed baskets and furniture. (I'd heard that Grandpa used to OWN - as in Liviton - THREE furniture stores. And then there was a crash and some things you don't ask about.) The long strands of wet reed hung from a string strung horizontally near the ceiling. The old men took the just-right-wet-enough strands and braided them, twisting and pulling until you began to see a cradle, or a rocking chair being born. Pretty things. And pretty things were made slowly, Grandpa said.

Sometimes, we started out for the shop, but didn't get there. We'd go to the park and feed the birds or "listen to what the leaves were saying." And I knew he was missing work and Gramma would be mad and he'd sing, "You gotta GIVE a little, TAKE a little. . ." and if she was still mad he'd sing "Peg 'O My Heart". Usually you'd laugh just to see him burst into song like that. And, too, Gramma's name wasn't 'Peg'. So. Well, I guess he used "Peg 'O My Heart" the way some people used, 'pain in my ass' and, well, Gramma laughed. Everybody laughed - especially at the tap dancing that went with the singing. Except for the routine he liked to do on the kitchen table. I loved it. Gramma hated it. (The top of their table was some kind of porcelain-covered metal - PERFECT, ESSENTIAL even, for the wonderful tinny ring, the very heartbeat of tap dancing. Even then, I had the feeling Stella didn't 'run deep', 'ya know?)

Anyway, I digress. (imagine) We also had lots of friends to check up on. Frank, the pretzel man, would be by the park. Frank had shiny, white whiskers and a pipe. He also had a pushcart filled with steamy, hot, fat pretzels. You could get mustard but we liked them plain. So did the birds. The cart and the lid that covered it were pale blue and dressed with giant pretzels rendered by Frank in oil paints. Grandpa said that Frank was an artist and lived all by himself. His wife and kids had left him - would pass him up in the street. This wife couldn't "know" a pretzel man/artist. I didn't understand that. Grandpa said some day he would take me to Frank's rooms. He really wanted me to see these paintings, not prove anything. It would be a treat. Kids used to make fun of Frank's Italian accent and I would smile inside because I knew that he was SPECIAL and nobody could hurt him - not even a Leviton.

On the days we didn't get pretzels, we'd walk to the north end of the park (McKaren Park - named for an Irishman who grew up with Grandpa in our mostly Polish-Italian section. Grandpa said, "Everybody's the same - American." There, right behind one of the ballfields, was what I called the onion church. It was Russian Orthodox. A beautiful, white onion growing up into the sky. We were Roman Catholic so my parents said we couldn't go inside the onion church. Grandpa laughed when I told him, Said God had all kinds of houses and HIS problem was getting people IN not keeping them OUT. Naturally we went in - and returned often. God had some neat houses.

Sometimes we'd watch a baseball game and eat a hot dog with sauerkraut. I noticed that the hot dog man was charging some people more than others - much more. I'd hear "fifty cent", then "twenty-five cent" then "two dollar fifty cent." Or "FOUR DOLLAR TWENTY FIVE CENT" so I told Grandpa. Thought he should tell the guy we were on to him. Turns out the guy was a bookie. Actually, the way Grandpa told it, he was kind of like the man at the bank. He took their money and put it away for them. Didn't seem odd at all. Lots of people we knew had two jobs.

We always saw Mrs. Gerardi - talking. She tried to make it look like she was sweeping or beating rugs or something but we figured she just brought all of her cleaning junk out to make it hard to pass without stopping to tell her the latest. And if you didn't have a story, you'd better cross the street because when Mrs. Gerardi said, "What's new?", she meant business. She only asked us once. I immediately looked up at Grandpa who was looking up at the sky. He never broke stride. He just said, "Can't you see I'm talking to the Sun, Panie?" (Which means "Mrs." in Polish)

Then there was Ray Ray - who usually hung out around the fire house. He was a big kid - around twelve, I guessed. They said he was 'retarded' and I had trouble understanding him so I asked Grandpa where he was from ( the whole neighborhood had an accent). "Where's he from?', he said, (and this really got me). "What does it matter where he's from? We're all here together." One day when we were talking to Ray Ray, he said, "I have a present for you.", and he gave Ray Ray a plain block of wood. He took it, held it in his stubby, very white fingers and turned it around and around. Grandpa took out his pocket knife and showed the both of us how to whittle. Then he gave the knife and block of wood to Ray Ray who took them and grinned and drooled and set to work. We left him like that. He was too busy to notice. And Grandpa said, "You watch. Ray Ray is going to make pretty things."

We didn't get to watch too closely because all of a sudden Grandpa announced that we weren't going to be going out much for a while. We had important stuff to do at his house. So we started spending a lot of time at Grandpa's. (Actually, everybody called it "Gramma's" but she must have been very short because I distinctly remember that Grandpa filled the place.) Now, basically, you COULD say that one gray, sooty block of eight and sixteen-family row houses was pretty much like any other in Brooklyn. But if you did, you'd be wrong about at least one block - India Street - that I know of. That's because India Street was Grandpa's - 183. As I swung around the corner - sort of spiraling - one hand on the subway pole, straining to see the other end of the block, there he'd be, draped on one elbow at his window, five flights above the stoop which rested on the rock of garbage that had - from time to time - been dubbed, "the sidewalks of New York." That's how it went. You had the cracked and chalked cement at the bottom, then the black pickets marching up to the chipped door frame, then the four strata of venetian-blinded or shaded windows - all TOPPED by Grandpa.

I always took the time to enjoy the variety of ethnic cooking, laughing and yelling as I climbed the four flights of steel=tipped steps leading to Grandpa's. I especially liked and savored the smells because that was one thing you never found at Grandpa's. To be fair to Gramma, you might find the occasional aroma of fresh kielbasa but it succumbed completely to the admixture of Sloan's Liniment and beer. Anyway, I'd be breathless and burst in, face to belly button with Grandpa, who'd smile and shake his head as if in wonderment at this miracle he thought was me. We'd walk from the kitchen (nothing happening there), through the two bedrooms and into the parlor where we'd light by the American flag, which stood ceiling-high (no matter how old or tall you were) in the corner, by Grandpa's window.

His maroon, horse-haired chair tickled my arm and the backs of my legs. The rest of me was stroked by the fuzzy flannel of his robe, as I always sat on Grandpa's lap. (The robe was something new. The slippers, too. Same work shirt and pants, though. He told me many gentlemen wore robes when they came home from work. But he wasn't working. Said they called them 'smoking jackets'. He didn't smoke. Whatever. I decided it was his 'window outfit' because that was our post.)

Here, he explained all about life and people. The window was essential, you see because from there we had all the props - real and/or imagined - at our disposal. Some days we looked straight out and talked about crowds and ships and factories and what they were and did - for, by and to us. Some days we'd focus on looking down and watching the movements of India Street - its cars, its kids, its vendors, its sewers. Sewers, in fact, introduced me to what I might now call the notion of ambiguity. Grandpa just said sewers are good and bad. The city empties its bowels into them daily, but, viewed from atop, as it were, they were measures of athletic achievement. If you punched or hit a Spalding ball two sewers far, it was an automatic home run.

Grandpa and I had a favorite game which I might as well tell you about since probably no one from India Street will be reading this. On days that looked especially gray, inside and out, he would take a fresh piece of chewing tobacco and give me a tiny piece. After we had worked up a lot of spit, he would say, "Let's aim very carefully and try to hit the next Ford." - or Plymouth or whatever he decided would be the target. Now you may cringe. And I can understand that. But let me tell you this feat is both art and science and God, it was fun. Especially trying to look innocent when you missed the Ford and got the fedora.

Sometime, I don't remember exactly when, Grandpa didn't seem to be having as much fun as I was anymore. I figured he was bored. Some days, though, he'd say he was tired and sigh a lot, "Matka, Matka," or "Boze, Boze," which mean Mother and God respectively in Polish. He'd even go with a "Matka Boze" every now and then, which had me a little worried. I guess he figured me out because one day he said he said he had something very special to show me. He checked to make sure Gramma wasn't around - a touch that transported me skyward as a rule because I loved intrigue, especially when it meant he was putting one over on Stella.

Anyway, he goes to his dresser, which smelled like English Lavender (Stella's smelled like moth balls, What can I say?), reaches way in the back, and reverently extracts a holy card-sized picture which had been bound over and over again with tape, now yellowed such that I could hardly make out the image. "This," he said in a harsh whisper, "is the Black Madonna. I speak to her every night. I always have." He was holding back tears now, so I could tell this was serious. "Last night", he continued, "my Madonna began to cry." I was anxious to assuage his obvious pain and pointed out that whatever it was, it must be over because she wasn't crying any more. He said, "Look closely." I did as I was told.

There it was. Now, unmistakably, a large tear was sliding down from her suddenly discernible, heavily-lidded eyes. Naturally I asked him why she was crying. He said it had been going on for a while (probably the whole time I thought he was being bored) and that he didn't even know himself why until last night when she had finally told him. He reminded me that Stanley, my father's youngest brother, was fighting some big war for us over in some place called Korea. He had been talking to his Madonna about God sending Stanley home safely. Well, it seemed that when push came to shove, Grandpa had ( I'm sure in a wildly careless moment and if you'd known Stanley, you'd be sure, too) made a deal with God. If God brought Stanley back, Grandpa would go. I couldn't believe it. I was frantic. Wasn't there time to reconsider? Couldn't Gramma go instead? Is THAT why the Madonna was crying? See. Even SHE thinks it's a rotten idea! My pleas and arguments were endless and to no avail.

There was a fair amount of crying going on in our house over the following few weeks. I figured Black Madonna must have leaked the story. Who else knew? Then, one Saturday morning my brother and I went to the dentist while Mom went to Grandpa's - which she had been doing a lot of lately. When she came home, I didn't tell her about my filling because she looked like she had lost something very big and very important. Actually, it was something very, very tall. Grandpa was gone. They were saying he died of cancer. They were also saying, with tears of sadness and joy, that Stanley was coming home. Stanley, who was so SHORT! I'll never figure God and Grandpa out on that one. Didn't seem fair when I was five.

Now that I'm very much older, it still doesn't seem fair. I can still hear him, though, "You gotta give a little, take a little, and let your poor heart break a little. . .the story of love". Love is the tallest thing I know - his kind of tall. . . .L