Old Man Lawrence

For almost 35 years (and by “almost”, I mean 34 years and 362 days), my Great Uncle Ken was “Old Man Lawrence”. The closest I had to a grandfather (and pretty damn good at it), he was the oldest living member of our Clan - our Patriarch, if you will. At 86 years of age, the youngest (and least crankiest) son of Jack Cassidy Lawrence and his wife Minnie Mae (Robinson), was also the longest living of all his siblings.

Unfortunately, Lawrence men had a habit of checking out early. However, as the years wore on, their chances, or rather their time here on earth, seemed to improve. My great grandfather Jack died at 56 years of age. His wife, my great grandmother Minnie, outlived him by a solid 24 years, burying two adult sons in the process. A younger child, Catherine, had also been put to the ground, the victim of appendicitis at the ripe old age of 10 years old. Anyone (which is almost everyone, including me) that has said “a parent should never have to bury their children!” has forgotten about the 19^th and early 20^th centuries.

“No parent should have to bury their children.” “We had to bury Aunt Edna over the winter.” “I need Monday off – we gotta bury my wife’s mother.” Its funny how we say it but when are we ever standing in circle, around a patch of dirt, pick axes and shovels swung over our shoulders? “So who wants to start?” “Gee Frank, is this really open for debate? ‘Cuz Aunt Edna’s upwind and my eyes are watering. Somebody start fucking digging!”

On a cold February morning, in 1969, my Great Uncle Stan “had to bury” his older brother, Hap. Literally. Uncle Stan was the Sexton and overseer of Cedar Hill Cemetery. The same cemetery where, 32 years prior, my great grandmother bought three plots, side by side, for her and her children. The same cemetery where her father, mother and brothers now resided. The equally chilly morning before, Uncle Stan stood, pick axe and shovel swung over his shoulder, and prepared to dig a new 8’ x 3’ x 6’ home for his brother. That next morning, with the help of Kenny and their younger sister looking on, Stan lowered his brother into the ground. thus claiming his title as "Old Man Lawrence". Stan turned to Ken, placed a hand on his shoulder and told him, "Pretty soon Kenny, you'll be Old Man Lawrence". Three months later, Ken did for Stan as Stan had done for Hap. Old Man Lawrence.

Thirty-five years later Kenneth Ray "Old Man Lawrence" passed from an aneurysm with his family by his side. The last of his generation, the title would now be passed on to my Pop's generation - specifically, his older brother Jack. And there they stood, the next generation, when my Pop's placed his hand on his brother's shoulder and said "Welp. Looks like you're Old Man Lawrence now". My uncle Jack just nodded and replied, "Looks like it". But there was something in my father's voice when he said it. Something distinctly and wickedly him. As though he was thinking "I love you but better you than me". Because what does it really mean to be the "Old Man" of the family? The Patriarch of the Clan? It means, "you're next pal. Enjoy it all while you can". But Old Man Lawrence wouldn't "be next". It would be his smart ass little brother.

"I just want to die in my sleep like dear, old dad"

In addition to his cantankerous view of the world, my Pops also had a wicked, even morbid, sense of humour. A sense of humour I also share. When shopping for a new suit to wear to my wedding, my "hasn't worn a suit in 40 years" father told my mum, "well, this wedding will be one of two times I'll ever wear this thing. I guess 100 bucks isn't bad for two wearings".

37 days later he was wearing his suit for the second, and last, time.

Many times throughout my life with Pops, he's always told me - "I just want to die peacefully in my sleep like my father". He had mentioned it again while in the hospital and it reminded me of a funny bumper sticker I had seen. One that I told my Pops I would get for him when he got out. "Really? What'd it say?" It said "I WANT TO DIE IN MY SLEEP LIKE MY GRANDPA . . . NOT SCREAMING IN TERROR LIKE THE PASSENGERS IN HIS CAR". Pops thought about for a second, nodded when he got the joke then laughed. "Yeah, get me that. That's good."

Unfortunately, my father did not have the luxury that his father had before him. He did not go peacefully into that goodnight. He was, I believe, scared as hell. And that bothers me the most.

He woke up that Saturday morning and came down for his morning coffee. He took his medication, had two sips of coffee and announced he wasn't feeling well and was going back to bed for a little bit. He also asked my mum to cancel plans for a family visit as he wasn't up to seeing anyone. He was still very worried about what the results of the PET scan he was to have that Monday would say.

10 minutes later he was back downstairs - panicked and desperate. He had an immense pain in his chest that went through to his back and radiated down BOTH arms. He quickly took a Nitroglycerin pill and my mum called me. The pill is supposed to work within seconds and if not, another should be taken. While my mum was on the phone with me he was taking his third. Then he passed out on the floor. My mum called an ambulance and he was concious again. The ambulance came and he begged them to help him - "I can't breathe" (this probably breaks my heart the most).

My mum is convinced he died before they even got him in the ambulance. He was talking to them the whole time they were wheeling him out, however the stretcher became stuck on the walkway and as they struggled to get it moving again, he stopped talking. His eyes rolled back, his head went back then fell forward. It was approximately 8:31 am.

Immediately after hanging up the phone with my mum I got dressed and began to leave. Then I thought "where the hell am I going? What hospital are they taking him to?" I thought about it and finally said "fuck it" and made my way to my parents house. I got there just as the ambulance came blasting down their street. I followed it all the way to Brookhaven Memorial - the closest hospital.

The one thing I struggle with the most is what if I didn't stall? What if I just jumped in the car, pajamas and all and headed right to my parents house? What if he got to see me, even if for one last time? What if I was there when his head went back and he ceased to be? What if I shouted out "DADDY"? Would he have woken up? Would he still be here?

I just have to keep telling myself, it is what it is and there's no changing it.

He giveth, then he taketh away - God's cruel joke.

Almost one month after my wedding, my Pops began experiencing a weird pain in his chest which sometimes radiated down his arm. What made it "weird" was the fact it wasn't anywhere near his heart - it was just between his breast and his shoulder and went away with a heating pad and ibuprofen, but it also felt nothing like pain he experienced when he first needed a triple bypass some 5 years earlier. Another odd thing? It seemed to dissipate whenever I was around. I spent the whole evening with him Friday and the whole day/evening with him Saturday and he seemed fine - confused even as to why the pain would come and go. However, as soon as I left both times the pain came back. Now we're thinking they were panic attacks (which he's had before and presented in a similar fashion in regard to the chest pain), a possible result of my recent marriage. Although I had been moved out for over 3 years, now that the wedding had come and gone it was pretty much a done deal - no turning back . . . no coming back home. An "Empty Nest" type panic, if you will.

That Sunday, my mum called - the pain had gotten worse so she drove my Pop to the hospital (he, of course, screaming and bitching the whole way that she was "driving like a maniac" at all of 35 mph). He went, not because he thought he was having a heart attack but because he didn't want to believe he was and wanted to hear it was something else. Unfortunately, it was in fact a heart attack. Also, they found a small "calcification" or mass on his lung that would need to be looked at (my father's biggest fear - cancer). But first, they needed to get things with his heart in order.

The next day, my 1 month "wedding anniversary" (or as my husband calls it "Lame! Lame! Lame! Are we going to celebrate the first time I took the garbage out as a married man too???"), my Pops was transferred to Stony Brook University Hospital where they performed an angiogram. It would the same drill as before - if they found minimal blockage they would put him on medication and send him home. Moderate blockage and they would perform an angioplasty right on the spot. Anything beyond that would require yet another bypass.

They found that two of the three bypasses were blocked - one 90%, one 100% (!) but that they could be remedied with the angioplasty - three stents total. My Pops was scared and resolved he would start taking better care of himself - quitting smoking and finding alternate treatments for his Colitis. He was also absolutely miserable the whole time. The bed was uncomfortable. They guy down the hall played his t.v. all night . . . and loudly. The nurses would wake him up every 15 minutes to check his vitals or give him yet another pill. All he wanted was to go home. Others around him were having full on bypasses and getting sent home before him. He was frustrated. Finally, on Thursday, I got the o.k. to take him home. And take him home I did. They tried to keep him another day but he wasn't having it. I sometimes wonder how and if things would be different if he did stay that extra day. But I think it just would have meant one less day (actually NO days) spent at home with his family. I cannot tell you how happy he was to be home. How relaxed he finally was. At one point, Thursday night into Friday morning, he woke to go to the bathroom. Upon his return, he told my mum how happy he was and how wonderful it was to be home in his own comfy bed, his wife beside him and his dogs at his feet. I spent the entire next day (Friday) with him - making him healthy meals, watching T.V. with him, looking up alternative treatments for his Colitis on the web. I made a nice healthy dinner for him and mum when she got home from work and all was good. Almost out of the woods . . . almost. We still had that thing on his lung to contend with and on Monday I was to take him for a PET scan which would tell us if it was cancer or not. He was worried about it. I sometimes wonder if he worried himself to death over it.

By Saturday morning, 8:30 am, it was all over. The Widow-maker had come.

"You're Gonna Miss Me When I'm Gone. Just You Watch." - Pt. 1

My Pops had a very funny if not cantankerous outlook on life. His friends nicknamed him "Grumpy" - a nickname he was actually quite proud of, as proven by his collection of Grumpy (of "The Seven Dwarfs" fame) t-shirts, hats and dolls - always worn or displayed with pride. Our sweet Amy called him "Uncle Grouch". My husband nicknamed him "The Crank" (who himself earned the moniker "Crank Jr.", courtesy of my mum).

His views were sometimes whimsical and mostly politically/socially incorrect. But without a doubt, he was usually right.

I can't remember what exactly the topic at hand was - probably something to do with the culinary delicacies of another country in relation to the common (Western world) household pet. You know the conversation - "In some parts of Asia, they eat Dog!!!!! The poor things!!!!" What a lot of people don't realize is somewhere in India they're pointing in disgust at a Westerner tourist saying the same thing in regard to our palatable love of the moo-cow. And I believe this was the point my Pops was trying to make, in the form of one of those "what would you do if you were stranded on a desert island" queries.

"You mean to tell me that if you were stranded on a desert island, just you and Petey (our grossly overweight Chihuahua - f.y.i.), you wouldn't give him a kiss goodbye then start roasting him???"

"No pop, don't think I could"

"You know that fat fuck'll eat you just as soon as look at ya?"

"Yeah pop, I know."

My Pops was also a die-hard Mets fan -our whole family are baseball's pariahs fans. Which of course means he's had his heart broken every season since 1987. And despite every yearly, fist-pumping promise to never watch another one of their games ever again, there he was, year after year, cursing at the latest game. One thing that probably irked him more is how the salaries went up, up, up while their averages went down, down, down. My father believed that if you were being paid 5 million dollars to hit a ball (or at least attempt to) and run around a field in circles, you better be playing .500 baseball. Or, as he explained it in "lay man's terms" - "Try this - go to work tomorrow and out of the 10 things you do, fuck up 8. See how long you still have a job"

My Pops also dreamed of a utopia . . . one of his own making. An island in the middle of nowhere. "Ron's Island". Which of course would be governed by "Ron's Laws", an almost communist form of "my way or the highway" government. First item on the agenda - EVERYONE speaks English. Second? Everyone's packing heat. His thought was, no criminal would be stupid enough to walk into a bank or store and hold it up if they knew everyone else was armed as well. And if they were that stupid, well, they'd be dead anyway, the victim of community justice. Sexual offenders, child abusers/murders and animal abusers? You get your own island - right over there. And you have to fend for yourself. We ain't feeding ya and you build your own damn huts out of coconut and bamboo. The Professor did it, you can too. And if you try to get to our island, we shoot you on the spot. Let's see, what else was there? Oh yeah! You have to take a driving test every time you renew your driver's licence - fail and you walk everywhere. Probably the one "law" that garnered the most eyeroll's (usually from my mum and I) and chuckles (from everyone else) was a moratorium on children, or breeding. It was an almost daily rant of his in regard his belief that the world (or at least America) was overpopulated. The economy was bad, gas prices were bad, we're at war and people are still bringing little "tax-suckers" (my Pops dysphemism for "children") into the world. Despite his many almost daily rants about anything and everything, it was always this one that would get my mum's head shaking the most. And, as I said, my Pop was usually right, there were a few times he was just off the wall which would lead my mum to exclaim (lovingly, of course) "You're such an asshole, you know that?" My Pops would just shake his head, return, hunched, back to his computer and mumble, "You're gonna miss me when I'm gone. Just you watch".

If only he knew how true this was . . . or how soon we'd find out for ourselves.

The "Widow-maker"

6 years ago this February (although an anniversary we no longer happily celebrate), my Pops had a triple bypass surgery, courtesy of the good folks at Stony Brook University Hospital and an artery from his left leg. For about a week prior, he began feeling weird sensations down his left arm accompanied by an ebbing pain in his chest. While he would normally run to Google and Web MD to secure proof he was suffering from one tragic malady or another ("for the love of god, Ron - it's not thumb cancer - IT'S A HANGNAIL!"), he was now trying to convince himself he was NOT having a heart attack. Finally, one morning on his way to work, it felt different. It made him scared. He turned around, went home and called the doctor. They told him to come right away. The Dr. examined him and told him to get his ass to the hospital NOW. My father asked how much time he had - can he take his car home? Get a change of clothes? Call his wife and daughter to accompany him? The doctor advised he was having a heart attack - period. Whether in 10 minutes, 10 hours or 10 months, it was coming. And there was no surviving it. The doctor predicted my Pops was on his way to having what they called "the Widow-maker". No grabbing your chest and popping an aspirin to hold it off until you got to the hospital. No revival via funny, electrified paddles and KY Jelly. No eat right, quit smoking and exercise and it'll be alright. Just BANG - your dead.

My pops went home and called me and my mum at our respective jobs. We rushed home then rushed him to Stony Brook. First they would do an angiogram to determine the damage and from there they would either do an angioplasty (while they were already in there doing the angiogram) or, if the blockages were too severe, he would be scheduled for heart bypass surgery. Of course it would be the latter - nothing is ever easy. So bypass he had - triple. He had three blocked arteries - one at 75%, one at 80% and one at 85%. His aortic "trunk" (the part that leads the aorta into the heart) was also blocked - 95%. Since that couldn't be bypassed, they would "scrape" it clean (shudders). The surgery was not only a success but my Pops bounced back very quickly which was unexpected. He also started taking much better care of himself - he quit smoking, started eating right and was the picture of health. Sadly, he took up smoking again - not because of the addiction but because it was the only way he was able to get his painful and excruciating Ulcerative Colitis to go into remission. Yeah, I know - smoking? Believe me, up until the day he died we've been getting the same (or harsher) reaction, mostly from doctors. But, the studies have been done and it's been proven (somewhat). Nonetheless, it's the only thing that worked for him. However, he continued eating right, getting excercise and seeing the doctor and cardiologist on a regular basis.

A few years later, after 40+ years as an auto mechanic, my Pops retired. Not only was he turning 60 and feeling older, he still suffered certain side affects from the surgery (pulling muscles in his chest, etc.) and was more and more limited to what he could do and how much he could exert himself. Looking back, I believe this may have been the beginning of the end. With no job, no hobby (he had all but abandoned the restoration of his beloved 48 Ford and 59 Studebaker due to his health), and nothing to look forward to except for the daily return of my mum from work, he sunk into depression. And with that, he was no longer taking very good care of himself. He wasn't out filling up on garbage, but he wasn't making the wisest choices either. And after a few years, it catches up with you.

"If it wasn't for Bad Luck, you'd have no luck at all, kid"

My pops said this phrase on many occasion and every time it was in reference to yet another mishap in mine and my fiance's life. And there were quite a few - from the tranny blowing in yet another one of our mini-vans to Erik breaking yet another cell phone. In the 4 years we've been together my (now) husband has been through as many vehicles and about 6 cell phones. Pops called him the "phone menace". He also called him the "car menace". Even when one of my cars broke down, the cosmos had so aligned it would occur when that poor sap was behind the wheel. Nonetheless, we crossed our fingers and plunged feet-first into unholy matrimony on 8th, November 2008.

And of course the day had it's hiccups. First, our photographer bailed and sent in his place one of the most bumbling, crotchety, inept old German man one could find. He immediately rubbed my Pops the wrong way; both arriving at my Aunt's ("Uddah-Muddah") the same time, he complained, fist pumping in the air, "you know, you should put a house number somewhere - I couldn't find the place!" My pops just glanced over his shoulder and replied "Why the fuck should I? I don't live here." (Pops was always good with a nice quick witty cranky reply.) Barely halfway through the night the hall ran out of Killian's and had no Guinness (my husbands two favourites). But the sweetest, funniest "screw up" of the day came at the beginning of our ceremony. Never being married before myself, and a good 41 years since Pops made his way down the aisle, we found ourselves a bit confused over the process of his handing me over to the man I was to marry. We assumed the Pastor would first say "Who gives this woman . . . etc." then the hand-off would occur. Instead, the hand-off occured first and thinking he was done, Pops when to find his seat. Just as he was getting settled, the question came "Who gives this woman unto this man?" silence Again, "Who gives this woman unto this man?" Whispers could be heard from the corner of the room "Ron! Ron! That's you! THAT'S YOU!" At which point he jumped up and exclaimed "Oh yeah! That's me! I do!" As bumbling an idiot as our photographer was, he managed to capture the moment on film . . . and it's everyone's favourite.

Pops and Aunt Jan (his sister, my "uddah muddah")

Exactly one month to the day, my Pops was being transferred, in the midst of a heart attack, from Mather Memorial Hospital to Stony Brook University Hospital. Hours later he would undergo a triple angioplasty.