The Longest Night

Today is the anniversary of my father's death forty-eight years ago. He died the day before my oldest brother's birthday, and just two and a half weeks before mine. My father had rarely been sick, and had never missed work due to illness. He always said that the day he couldn't go to work was the day he would die.

That morning, I remember my mother calling to me, worry and urgency in her voice. When I emerged from my bedroom, my father was sitting on the bathroom floor, my mother steadying him so he wouldn't fall over. She told me to take her place while she ran to the phone to call for an ambulance. He had vomited blood, then collapsed from weakness. Two weeks earlier, he had been diagnosed with what the doctor thought was the flu and told to stay home from work and go to bed. Today, it was clear that something much more than the flu was wrong with him, and what he'd said about not being able to go to work went through my mind.

For years, my father had been plagued by heartburn. Today, he most likely would have been given medication to treat his symptoms and protect his esophagus, but back then he was told to take an antacid, such as Tums, and cut out spicy foods. He was rushed to the hospital, tests were done, and we received the diagnosis--cancer of the esophagus. Surgery was the only thing that might save his life, and the odds were 80/20 against him. But when the doctors opened him up, the odds dropped to zero--every organ in his body, except his heart, had been invaded by cancer. The doctors said they were amazed he had kept going as long as he did, and that there was nothing they could do. They closed him up, returned him to his room, and the family took up vigil at the foot of his bed, waiting for him to wake up. He never did.

I remember sitting in his darkened room with my mother, my three brothers, and my aunt. I remember the nurse speaking to my father, trying to wake him from the anesthesia. I remember the sound of his breathing, the sounds of monitors to which he was connected, and the sound of the clock on the wall. When he stopped breathing, all of the other sounds stopped, too...except for the ticking of that clock. In addition to losing my father, I felt I had lost my sense of security, as well as my childhood.

The Longest Night

When I was thirteen,

I sat beside my mother

at the foot of his bed,

listening to the steady

t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k

of the clock on the wall,

to the steady

drip - drip - drip of the IV,

the s t e a d y

R I S E and f a l l

as the lungs

F I L L, e m p t y, F I L L

as the nurse takes his pulse,

as the light outside grays to dusk,

blackens to night,

as the steady

t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k

of the clock on the wall

counts out my father's life

second by second,

as the drip - drip - drip - of the IV goes on,

the breathing becomes labored

the chest RISES . . . p a u s e s . . . fa l l s,

and the lungs begin shutting down

as the nurse takes his pulse again

and shakes her head,

and the steady t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k

of the clock goes on,

the chest R I S E S . . . f a l l s . . . stops,

as the nurse removes the IV,

and shakes her head,

the light of my childhood

grays to dusk,

blackens to night,

and he's gone.

--Donna B. Russell

© March 30, 2005

Snow Days

A few nights ago on the news, the reporter said there had been snow in forty-nine states, with Hawaii being the only exception. I know that many of my friends have been shoveling most of the winter, with snowfalls of two to three feet burying not only lawns, but decks, cars, and shrubs. But in my little corner of Vermont we have only had one significant snowfall, and for most of the winter we've had bare, or nearly bare, ground. For the most part, temperatures, too, have been unseasonably mild...not like when I was growing up.

It seems to me, that when I was a child, we had to really bundle up all winter--thermal underwear, flannel shirts, winter weight slacks or woolen skirts, thick tights and knee-high socks, heavy sweaters, wool jackets or coats, warm woolen mittens, scarves, hats, and fleece-lined boots. It took so long to get ready to go out that we didn't have much time to play before an early dusk, and we were called in for supper.

I remember hiking up the hill to school, sometimes knee-deep in snow because the sidewalks hadn't yet been cleared, arriving at my classroom with numb, red cheeks and nose, and mittens, snowpants, and boots caked with snow. There were times when we had so much snow during the morning that school was canceled in the afternoon and we were sent home to enjoy our unexpected half-holiday sledding or building snow forts and having snowball fights with friends, or building snowmen. Mothers listened to local radio stations while preparing breakfast, waiting for those fateful school cancellations, that meant their plans for the day would be altered because the kids would be staying home. Children also listened to the radio while getting ready for school, hoping to hear the announcement of liberation before they headed out the door. No matter what the conditions, my father would always tell us that we "had it easy," not like when he was a boy. "We didn't have snow days," he'd say, then launch into one of his stories about walking for miles in blizzard conditions to get an education.

Several years ago, while taking a writing course online, my father's tales and a winter photograph inspired the following poem. I want to dedicate this to my friends who have had more than their share of snow days this winter, and to those of us who wish we had at least one or two.

Do you have a favorite "snow days" memory? Please share it in the comments section.

SNOW DAYS

Outside,

Gray-limbed skeletons bow and sway

While verdant maidens curtsy in the wind.

Cherry-red barns with powdered sugar roofs

And lemon-meringue windows wait to welcome

Plaid-clad farmers come to milk rust-brown cows.

Across the street, the white-robed church

Points a gray, bony finger toward a steel blue sky.

Inside,

Golden pancakes, gilded with butter,

Line up to be baptized in maple syrup.

Clouds of whipped cream

Swim in mud-brown lakes of cocoa.

Bacon snaps and crackles in the black-backed skillet

Of scrambled eggs and homefries.

Chairs scrape, voices blend in a medley

Of "good morning," "pass the potatoes,"

And "Thank You, God, for food to eat..."

Bob clicks on the radio, a voice crackles--

"Because of the snow, no school today..."

And the rest is drowned in loud hurrahs

As mother groans, and father says, again,

"When I was a boy, we didn't have snow days."

--Donna B. Russell

© March 13, 2005