Mother Hamlin

She was feisty, sometimes harsh, but typically amusing in her own special, outspoken way. Her mind remained sharp, and she was the best damn proofreader I ever had. Mother Hamlin, as I called her, loved to catch typos in my manuscripts, which I welcomed since she was always a first reader before publication.

Because of Covid, I spent nearly every Sunday evening with her and her family on Zoom. These were bittersweet visits, especially after her youngest daughter, Liz, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. Together we traversed Liz’s fight, witnessed her courage, and ultimately her surrender to the hideous disease. During this period, however, I got to spend time with Mother Hamlin, which never would have happened if not for Covid. I saw her own amazing strength as she faced her daughter’s inevitable end.

And now I, along with her family, grieve her passing at age 87. Much of the blame falls squarely on Covid for this as well. It kept her isolated for nearly two years, avoiding doctor visits, only venturing out for vaccinations. What should have been minor ailments for a woman her age, bloomed to the point that hospitalization was ultimately the only recourse. This was followed by a stint in rehab where Covid ran rampant not long after her arrival.

Although sent there for physical therapy, the virus quickly took its toll. Eventually, despite her weakening condition, the facility sent her home since insurance would no longer cover her stay if she wasn’t participating in PT. Sadly, getting a doctor to see her and redesignate her condition proved impossible.

Despite 24-hour home care, her condition worsened. When her breathing became labored, an ambulance was summoned, but it was clear she had little time left. Her son, Bob, convinced the EMTs not to take her to the hospital. Before she expired, he was able to hold her hand in the ambulance, in her driveway and tell her that her wish to die at home had been realized. Her daughter-in-law, Linda, then sat sentry over her in the living room of her beloved home until the funeral transport arrived.

This is just one tragic story, out of millions, during this time of Covid. The healthcare system, clearly overburdened, has resulted in many dying needlessly. With every loss, our own lives are irrevocably altered. 

Beyond clinging to memories, I try to find solace or at least perspective. Neuroscientist and philosopher Sam Harris offers this:

“The process of dying, whatever it is, will be a finite experience. Which is to say that however painful it might be, there will come a time when it ceases to be painful. Even if one suffers a long illness and a blizzard of medical interventions, there will be a moment when all of that ends.”

In the heaven she has long believed in, Mother Hamlin, Ann, is at peace.

Poof

One minute, she was here, full of life and laughter. Then she was gone. Or so it seemed, when after eleven months of battling cancer, on a sunny day in June, we laid Liz to rest at age 52. Although, in truth, we watched that burst of energy that always surrounded her, diminish each week during the regular video call, on the suddenly all-pervasive Zoom technology. That was how we shared her final journey.

She left us to ponder how, with all she did in life and how she lived that life, that insidious disease could choose her. A health-conscious vegetarian, with a passion for yoga, she was not only a practitioner, but also an instructor. Exercise, we’re told, is a mainstay for longevity and not many could compete, as Liz did, in two Ironman Triathlons. What it took to prepare for the 2.4 mile open water swim, 112 mile bike race, and 26.2 mile marathon, would challenge anyone to understand how that level of endurance could be vanquished by unforgiving, multiplying cancer cells.

Yet, over and over, it takes away people we all know who seemed destined for long, healthy lives.

Admittedly, I’m among the baffled. Meant to be a mystery, perhaps. Still, maybe there’s an answer in the First Law of Thermodynamics. We’re told that energy cannot be created or destroyed. However, it can be changed from one form to another. Is that what happened to Liz? Is she still with us, here on earth, just no longer visible?

I wish that could provide much needed comfort. Because just the other day, she was vibrant, laughing, and now ... poof. 

On behalf of the President ...

My father, a World War II veteran, died on January 6, 2017, at the age of 101. He was buried with military honors at the small Nichols Farm Burial Grounds behind the firehouse in Trumbull, CT. The service was dignified, moving and for me, unforgettable. After a volley of shots, the bugler played taps, and the American flag, which had draped my father's coffin, was carefully folded in the traditional tri-cornered shape, which I have since learned is emblematic of the tri-cornered hat worn by the patriots of the American Revolution. 

The flag, showing only the blue field with stars, was then presented to me by a member of the Army honor guard with these words:

"On behalf of the President of the United States, and a grateful Nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."

This emblem of our freedom, and all those who fought and gave up their lives for that freedom, now rests on a shelf in my home where I see it daily. 

I am grateful for many things, but this Independence Day, as I look lovingly and with pride at that flag, I am particularly grateful that when the banner that represents our great country was presented to me, the individual who held the revered office of President was a decent, respectable man, just like my dad.

Remembering Charlie: December 27, 1915 - January 6, 2017

Almost without fail, when we were out with Dad, typically at Outback or the Plaza Diner, you could hear waiters, waitresses and even some diners call out “Hey Charlie” when we walked through the door. Often someone would walk over to say hi or have a quick chat. They either worked at GE, bowled, golfed at Tashua Knolls or played bingo with him. Sometimes they would ask what his secret was, since he had reached 100 years healthy, happy and living the life he wanted. He used to say “Dewars and soda.” But Tim believed, especially lately, that it was his attitude.  

Charlie enjoyed simple things nearly up to his last moment. Hallmark movies and sports on TV – in particular golf, football and of course UCONN girls basketball. He watched with delight and enthusiasm; remembered scores and which teams were playing when. 

On December 18^th, the night he fell at his house, Tim and I had just left him watching football after our traditional dinner at Outback where he had clam chowder, fillet mignon, and garlic mashed potatoes. Bob Gadys, someone he hadn’t seen for over 20 years, stopped by our table to say hello to Charlie. He lived behind the Clark family on Asylum Street for years, worked with Dad at GE and bowled with him on the GE league. His parting words that night were, “Charlie, you are my hero.” That was a common theme. The week before, Tim’s nephew Ryan and his wife, Lindsey, joined us for Sunday dinner at Outback. Ryan later told Tim, “Charlie is my role model.” 

Dad’s mind was sharp, a better memory than most. Over the past several years he would text me every morning on his iPhone to let me know he was up and about, usually by 8 a.m. In fact, he used his phone, always attached to his belt, to text his neighbors Russ and Janice when he fell and that he needed help; then called us. He knew how to get from point A to point B better than any nav system. He helped run Saint Gabe’s bingo for years and the staff there continued to seek his help when there were problems with the equipment. 

He loved his family certainly, but he loved no one more than his wife of 60 years, Marion, who he called Clarkie, which is what he subsequently called his great grandson, Clark. He missed her every day, visited her grave often, but never complained. He just kept going. 

For those of you who don’t know, he was the eldest of 15, born to Nellie and Charles Adam Clark. Sadly many of his siblings have predeceased him. He was a veteran of World War II, serving in the Army. Most recently, we texted each other while watching the History Channel on the 75^th anniversary of Pearl Harbor. I asked where he was when the attack occurred. He wrote back that he was stationed at Fort Wright off of New London. Like most of that generation, he said little about his service overseas. When I asked who was his favorite of the 17 presidents who held office during his lifetime, not surprisingly he said without hesitation, FDR. 

Dad was always there for us – whether for directions, to make sure my tires had enough tread, or tell us what was happening around town or the world. And ultimately, he helped me deal with the inevitability of this day. He was a gentleman, tipped his ball cap and held doors open for others. When he drove, which lately was only to the diner up the street, a cigar was a constant accessory.

His special, indescribable manner endeared him to all he came near, although he seemed unaware of the effect he had on people. Many of the nurses who cared for him at Bridgeport Hospital and Cambridge Manor would say to me, “He’s so cute.” When I told him that, his reply was “horsefeathers,” his strongest curse word.

His support and strength have meant everything. When the surgical team was wheeling him into the operating room to repair his hip two days after he fell, we held and squeezed hands right up to the OR door. When finally I had to let go and walk away, one of the team called back, “He’s lucky to have you.” I replied, “No, I’m lucky to have him.”

The Way They Were ...

As my sister-in-law’s twin, Gerrie, said at the recent tribute honoring Patty’s life, “It is a rare love story.” She was talking about my brother Bob’s 48-year marriage to Patty, who left us with a huge void in our family on December 20th. On December 29th, a very rainy Sunday afternoon, some 300 people – family, friends, teaching colleagues, students -- gathered in a beautiful setting on Long Island Sound to remember and celebrate someone they clearly admired and loved.

I was honored to be among the several speakers who recalled how Patty touched their own lives in some way. Here’s what I said:

I would spend the night at Patty and Gerrie’s house on Lewis St. in Trumbull, and likewise, Patty stayed over at my house. She had a “crush” on my big brother. When she found out that he and his buddies were going to the New York World’s Fair, she asked me to ask him if we could go along with them. Bob was a junior at William & Mary in Virginia at the time and home for the summer. I had to beg him to take us along. Ultimately he relented. And a good thing, because it was indeed there -- and I swear that I can still see the look on his face when I turned around -- that I saw him fall in love with Patty. And you may not believe this, but I even remember fireworks going off right then. After all, it was the Worlds Fair.

Later that summer I went on vacation with my parents, and Bob and Patty had their first date. She wrote me nearly every day and in one letter she said, “He’s real cool.” And about their date she said -- and I quote, “I wrote you a letter earlier saying it was great, but I’ll tell you again (I don’t mind) it was real real great!!” She also asked me to burn that letter. Obviously I didn’t. I saved them all and I’m so glad I did. Those letters document, in Patty’s own words, their earliest history. I am passing them along to Paige and Elizabeth now.

I’ve watched Bob and Patty as a couple for some 50 years. I have observed her total, unrelenting devotion to her daughters and my brother. They rarely spent a night apart, up until her most recent extended hospital stay, and even then he was with her nearly every moment.

Paige’s husband, Christopher, said something to me at one of our holiday gatherings that really struck a chord. He said, not everyone can have what Bob and Patty have. He was, of course, referring to their loving, supportive relationship. I saw that often. I remember vividly the last time I was with Patty at a get-together at Elizabeth’s house on September 1st of this year, just two days before her AML diagnosis. It was for Bob’s birthday. We were sitting on the couch in the living room chatting about any number of things. Patty’s hand lay gently on Bob’s arm the whole time we sat there.

And the rest is history, as they say. Their strong bond has given them a life of love and joy, two wonderful daughters, and two rambunctious grandsons whom they’ve doted on as well. As I recently told Bob, his love for Patty is beautiful and I realize more than ever that this kind of devotion is the only thing of value on this crazy earth. And that will stay with him forever as will all our individual memories stay with us -- those who loved Patty and had the privilege to share so many wonderful days with her.