Daddy

My father writhes on the hospital bed. He’s finally loosed from all the tubes, except for the catheter, that have bedeviled him for weeks. He kicks and twists and claws the air. He moans unintelligible things. His actions become feebler but his strong body carries on for a long time before he finally goes.

So the question that haunts me: when all hope is gone, why does the body carry on?

I am sure that when it is my own time to die, I will refuse to go into the light until the powers answer that most important question. I am sure that there must be a little heaven in the answer because to the stricken families of the dying it seems to be something from hell.

My dad’s personal trip to the next life was different from my grandmother’s. She lay calmly in her hospital bed, grabbing for every breath, waiting for her kidneys to stop working. My grandfather, mother and I waited for hours throughout the long night, sharing stories of her life and lives of those past, our voices catching as we listened for her next breath. I finally left in the wee small hours, needing sleep the young are able to wrest from tragedy. My mom and grandfather hung on till her last breath near dawn.

My father’s exit was a slow decline. His family thought he’d achieve a plateau. We’d gather around him either singly or in groups looking for a vital spark of his personality. Then he’d slip down into another valley or nearly slip away and teeter near the brink. He’d never quite leave and never regain the lost ground. We’d then regroup around his bed, hoping for a little progress.

His death was a little easier for me because his wonderful, warm, fun-loving personality had been going for a while. Some of my siblings would argue that loss with me. One sister could manufacture a glimmer of life when it didn’t really exist and another had been too busy to visit for the last several years so she could remain in denial of his Alzheimer’s progress. The third sister refuses to go to hospitals so she doesn’t have to see anybody that’s sick. These are all wonderful coping mechanisms. I prefer to meet adversity head on and grasp for my own sanity when reality hits me in the face.

It is not death that so consumes me now, it is the process to arrive there.

So angels or aliens or that great candle snuffer in the sky, be ready for when it’s my time, I will want to know why, if it’s something we all have to do, why is dying so hard!

Grandma and Food

It was a cold December day and my grandma was dying. In truth she’d been dying for nearly a year. Her stomach cancer was finally freeing her of her body. The surgery she’d endured the year before had taken such a large part of her digestive system that she’d never really recovered. She’d been stoic when they’d treated her with radiation and forced her to lie in one position until she could hardly bear the pain. Now her body was wasted and exhausted and she was dying.

Although she was tough as nails, my grandmother had never been especially healthy. She’d had various complaints throughout the years. Much of these could probably be attributed to her appalling diet as a child. Her father, my great grandfather was the kind of man who chased a dream from time to time. He never really caught the brass ring but he continued over-reaching for it his whole life. He never had any qualms about dragging his family with him. There were times they only had soda crackers and hot water to eat. They called it “wind soup”. Her digestive problems and osteoporosis were probably the result of poverty and bad nutrition. How tragic that her illness began in her stomach, an organ with which she had a strange relationship.

When my grandfather married her, he was a little embarrassed that she didn’t know to cook. His mother, the old farm wife, knew how to cook; hearty meals that could carry her men folk through the fields all day. My grandmother may have been a bit ashamed of herself for she set out to learn to cook. Wonderful meals of fresh and cured meats from the animals they raised on the farm. Interesting concoctions of vegetables that she prepared the old-fashioned way, boiled with a little pat of butter and a dash of salt. Heavy, whole-grained breads that she would mix on the dining table, the only surface that could hold the multi-loaf batches she prepared several times a week. Fruits made into pies, cakes, jams, preserves and sauces. Foods were her muse, made without elaborate herbs or spices. Cooked with a pat of butter or a dollop of lard and seasoned with salt and pepper and truth be told, a lot of love.

That last year, as the doctors had left her with just enough stomach to survive, she’d lived on Ensure and other liquids. It kept her alive but she could not thrive. Picture a 5’4” 120 pound woman in the clutches of cancer. What did she do the last summer and fall of her life? She canned! She slaved over a hot stove in the scalding kitchen and preserved food for her beloved husband. She wanted him to have enough. She wanted him to have something of her after she was gone. She canned. She canned her life away. She preserved food that she could not eat and would not survive to enjoy.

Daddy

Alan R. Mitchell

Alan Rinker Mitchell passed away on July 8, 2014 at Morrison House after a series of illnesses weakened his body and set his spirit free. He was the beloved husband of Rita (Yaw) who was joined to him in marriage for 55 years. He cherished his daughters Mary Thelma Mitchell (Jeffrey Hayes), Peggy Lawlis (Timothy), Bonnie Bean (Jeffrey) and Heather Mitchell. Daughter Susan preceded him in death. He doted on grandchildren Clarissa Bey (Daniel), Lyndsey Lawlis, Barrett Lawlis, Kristopher Fichthorn, Kimberly Bean, Matthew Bean, Nicholas Bean, great grandson Clayton Bey and step-grandchildren Kayla Stewart, Jeremy Stewart, Michael Hayes, Bethany Hayes and Megan (Eric) Bradison and step-great granddaughter Morgan Bradison.

Alan was born on the way to the Zanesville hospital in Norwich, Ohio on July 9, 1935 to Professor Robert H. and Thelma (Rinker) Mitchell. He was welcomed by sister Jean, who preceded him in death, and was joined by younger brother Paul (Diane) 3 years later. Some of his earliest memories were supporting the war effort during World War II and delivering the daily newspaper in New Concord. He loved growing up in New Concord and the protective atmosphere it provided.

Alan was a hunter; his love of the outdoors began at an early age. He later gave up actual hunting and found any excuse to be in the woods. He was a keen observer of nature and wildlife.

Alan was US Army veteran, serving as a reservist. He was also a member of the New Concord United Methodist Church. He served as secretary/treasurer of the Dairy Service Unit, advocating and aiding local dairy farmers. It was through this group that he became involved with the ice cream stand at the Guernsey County Fair.

Alan received a full scholarship from and was a graduate of The Ohio State University and an enthusiastic Buckeye football fan. He also enjoyed the Ohio State Marching Band and was proud to have had so many family members in the band.

Alan was a dairy farmer on his farm near Claysville, He loved the land and its potential to feed the world. After his retirement from full-time agriculture, he became a waste management professional with Ace Disposal. Earlier in his career he was employed by the Carroll County Extension Office. That is where he met and became a member of the John and Mary Albright family. He counted Martin Albright as a brother until his death in 2011.

A music lover, Alan took pleasure in his musical family members. He enjoyed hearing their bands at John Glenn High School, Liberty Union High School, The Ohio State University and Ohio University. He delighted their orchestra events at John Glenn High School. He was also a fan of the Friendship VII Sweet Adelines who filled his heart and his house with music.

Calling hours are 6:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m. Thursday, July 10^th and Noon to 1:00 p.m., Friday July 11^th at Farus Funeral Home in New Concord. Funeral services will be held at New Concord United Methodist Church at 1:00 p.m. on Friday, July 11^th.

Alan will be buried at Pleasant Hill Cemetery near his daughter and his sister.

Butterfly

What is a butterfly?

OK so the obvious answer is that it is an insect. Look it’s just a bug! They’re pretty and all until you get them up close then they’re just another bug. Or maybe you get a more scientific answer; it’s the sexual reproductive part of the life cycle of a multi-part life cycle. You’ve got the egg, then the disgusting, voracious worm, then the half-dead chrysalis and finally the winged, breeder that flits aimlessly over my flower bed until it mates and dies.

These answers are correct if you’re a soul-less wanderer on the planet. If you have a soul, you will be able to see the butterfly as a metaphor for life. Quick- check. Do you have a soul?

We all start out life as an egg, full of potential but only potential. That hope for greatness is unrealized at that point. The only real goal as an infant is for survival and with luck, nurturing.

Then as life progresses. For the butterfly, an all consuming caterpillar, for a human a devouring teenager and young adult. The all consuming drive for self preoccupation and the ignorance of an impending tomorrow is the hallmark of this stage.

Small doubt that butterflies and humans hunker down in an immovable chrysalis. The drive seems gone. Life, for the butterfly seems gone. The process of life-- going to work, keeping a home, raising kids—seems to suck the life out of humans too.

Then finally the triumphant return. The blossoming of new life in a new form. The full expression of sacrifice transformed into riotous color and movement. For the butterfly there is finally the reproduction and cementing of new foundations for life. For humans, a chance to find perfect expression of the years of toil and suffering into a spiritual rebirth.

Have you ever watched a butterfly? Spend some time watching them flitting about in your sultry summertime yard. Have you ever seen anything so aimless? Like a scrap of brightly colored paper floating on the breeze. Have you ever tried to catch that delicate wanderer? Unless it’s injured, it is nearly impossible. It evades your touch with little effort, making a mockery of your attempts. Like the soul of a human, taking flight with delighted abandon, leaving earthly bonds and soaring heavenward without a backward glance at those attempting to check its flight.

Perhaps what we assign to lowly insect is actually the representation of the human soul. The magic of that flight leaves me breathless.

Tricky

As I sit here I feel like I am so close to the secret of life that I just have to write it all down.

Douglas Adams in his “Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy” reveals his answer to the secret of life. In his story, a culture of extraordinary beings decides they must know the secret of life. They expend huge amounts of resources and build the ultimate super computer. They fire it up and ask it to reveal the “secret of life, the universe and everything”. It replies that request is “tricky” and will require a long time to calculate. For a long period of time, I can’t remember exactly how long but for our purposes here let’s say a thousand years, the society goes along with just a little hint of smugness, secure in the knowledge that they will have the answer. When the computer finally, with great pomp and circumstance, reveals the answer the people are stunned. It’s “42”. A great hue and cry goes up. “What does that mean?” they shout. The computer inquires back, “So what’s the question?” The people then set out to create an even more fantastic computer to discover the question to the secret of life. Douglas Adams is writing the story so hilarity ensues. In my case, I’m not sure if I have the answer or the question but I feel that I may be onto something.

As we all have, I have had deaths in my family that affected me profoundly. Although these experiences had the finality of death in common, they were as unique as the people involved. They touched me and gave me the prospective I have on death. I’m not sure that I’m unique in my beliefs because it’s not a subject I share with others often. I sense the fear and loathing they experience when I start on the subject so I generally reverse course or touch it blithely and move on.

Part of the revulsion we all feel about death is that it doesn’t just happen to the principle character; it touches everyone with a relationship to the deceased. Some merely note an absence while others are ripped raw by the experience. The actual pain of the loss is dulled but the horror lingers like the taste of blood in your mouth.

That’s why writing about this subject may be cathartic for me. I know I have to get it out before I scream like a primal thing in the dark. I am losing someone very precious to me right now and feel powerless. I know I can’t stop it but I long to find a measure of control. I’d like to control the situation, snatch my beloved father from death’s icy jaws, but I know I can’t. I also know I can’t prevent the rising horror, the isolating grief from consuming me. All I have is my intellect and a desire to understand to hold me firm in the path of the monster.