So other than that Mrs. Lincoln: how was the theater?
The title of this blog reminds us that there are two sides to every story.
This is not a blog about Mary Todd, Abraham Lincoln, or the events that transpired on that April evening.
Today (July 31, 2018) is Tuesday. Twenty five years ago, July 31st fell upon a Friday. .
I remember this because this was the day that my mother died. I have often wanted to memorialize the events of that day, the events preceding that day, and the events after that day. I wanted the story to be written and read in a tone that was observational; not a story written in a tone that elevated or denigrated the people in the story.
This is not a cloying tale. It’s not a sad story. Not a tear-jearker.
I suppose I could save us all a lot of trouble and condense the story of my mother’s life to this:
She lived,
she was nice,
she died.
There; it’s done. Does the world need another maudlin Irishman’s laments about his mother’s passing? No, we don’t, and that isn’t what this ‘story’ will be about. If you need to read about the relationships between Irish men and their mothers, I recommend ‘Three Loves’ by A.J. Cronin.
In fact, I heartily recommend anyone with more than 50% of their genetic chemistry coming from Ireland to read the works of Mr. Cronin – read these books, or spend a thousand or two thousand with a psychiatrist: your choice!
It is said that alcoholics don’t have relationships – they have hostages. We weren’t alcoholics. No, our addictions were much more Catholic: we liked inflicting and enduring emotional pain upon one another. Always the rubber-hose kind (doesn’t leave a mark) - but painful none-the-less. I've only been able to experience life through some veil of emotional pain (again, very Catholic). The exuberance of youth was best left for the other children on the block to enjoy. Don't misunderstand, we were a funny people, jokes were abundant, a funny story or event was the most often spoken word in our household. The emotional pain was not expressed in anger, guilt, or in constant reprimand. It was the deathly pain of silence. Of approval ungiven. Of rewards offered with just the suspicion that the person receiving the meager reward, might, could have, would have, should have - done better.
While I did grow up in a house that housed a man, a woman, and two male children, and while we could then continue to presume that (logically) this house had a husband a wife a son, and another son, we would be more correct to describe the household situation(s) as three males of various ages, and one female, all being held hostage by their discontents.
Calling this a ‘story’ is wrong – it’s really a chapter from my (yet to be written) autobiography. Calling it a story suggests that it is a fictional account, or possibly a novelization of real events. These things really happened. Maybe these are the things that commonly happen in the course of human events, but I don’t think so. I call it a story, so that I don't have to own the events as my reality. As a story, they are kept at arms length. At arms length, they can not bite so hard, inflict more pain, or grow beyond the confines of the page or the boundaries set by the storyteller.
My mother’s death from pancreatic cancer had no element of normalcy. I've always thought that some (not most) families handled their Cancer-crises better than we handled our crisis. I guess I thought that the Cancer looked greener on the other side of the fence.
Cancer changes the script in everyone’s life, but I think, that most families find their roles in their newly written (Cancer) script and play their (Cancer) roles with only minor deviations from the character's descriptions. One person has the Cancer, one person is the spouse of the person with Cancer, then there are the children of the person with Cancer. Next we have the employer of the person with Cancer. Then there are the financial issues of Cancer: the insurance company, the co-pays, the invoices, the charities that provide assistance, etc. Finally, we have the various settings that the cancer takes place in, and the wardrobes that are needed for this Cancer Play to occur. At last, our drama is ready for production. There is some rehearsal, and adjustments to script, possibly changes to the scenery, and occasionally one of the actors will be found to be less interesting than originally thought. This actor's role is diminished, or possibly they take a bow, and claim a contractual conflict to exit the production. In this instance another actor's role will likely be enhanced. After all, in this world there's generally no lack of understudies: particularly for the juicy roles involving martyrdom and bereavement.
Once gathered, all of the elements roll along and much is accomplished in a three-act show (diagnosis, treatment(s), death). Kubler/Ross provides us with a model for a five act play, but that modality just won't fly on Broadway audiences, and we must be considerate of their sensitivities, so three acts it is. Unfortunately, there is no out-of-town tryout for the actors. This show hits-the-boards with the ink on the script still wet, and the paint on the stage still moist. The first months of the show find the actors tripping over one another trying to find the limelight that suits them (and their situations) best.
As with most things Irish: the Scanlon’s abhorred scripted behaviors. Thusly, my mother’s death was more like a summer-stock, improvisational-theater type of thing based upon ancient Greek tragedies. The scenery included various hospitals and nursing homes, a beach side home in Ocean City NJ, a leather bar in Provincetown MA, a few locations in Bucks County, and the theme music was The Rhapsody in Blue.
The characters in this Cancer Play are best described as unoriginal, but entertaining. They are all archetypes. The Doctors were sage, and yet simultaneously incompetent. At times they were caring and then at other times they were brutally callous. The insurance companies and hospitals used Shakespeare's Shylock as their role model. There were minor characters throughout the show, but budget constraints limit their appearance in the script.
The family was brutally Irish. The family (mostly) espoused an affinity towards atheism but were surprisingly Catholic in their behaviors, attitudes, and decisions. The final scenes of the show reveal the atheists greatest fear: their belief that the end really is 'the end' may not really be what they want or believe. Unsurprisingly, a state of redemption is sought (by some) of the characters in the play and a state of grace is entered into before eternal damnation is rendered. There is nothing new in heaven nor on earth, and so it is in this Cancer Play that there is nothing new here to be seen or heard.
The story is trite, the characters are well-known to us, the plot predictable, but there is enough 'newness' in this storyline to make this Cancer Play interesting. It's an amusing little vehicle, and while we learn nothing new about life or love, we quite possibly see that our own secret absurdities aren't so unique
There have been many landmark anniversaries of my mother’s death. The fifth, the tenth, the twentieth. With each anniversary I have thought: “I’ll have time to chronicle the events of July 31, 1992”. I’m sure that the reader is now expecting me to lay in some foreshadowing of my impending demise, complete with a description of the rapture that I hope to experience when I become reacquainted with my dear departed mother. It’s a tempting literary turn to take, but frankly, I’m not dying, and really, my mother is quite honestly not someone I wish to reconnect with.
Don’t get me wrong, I admire my mother. As a child, I loved my mother. As an adult, I have come to understand that she (and my father) did not have good parenting, so it is unfair of me to retroactively demand good parenting from people who tried their best but who maybe, possibly, and in hindsight, could have, would have, and should have made different decisions that might, could, possibly, have averted some difficulties in all of our lives.
An example: After several years of living with a man who was eighteen years my senior (hereafter referred to as The Walking Id), I decided it was time to ‘come out’ to my family. In Wikipedia, my ‘coming out’ is listed as a prime example of ‘REDUNDANCY’. ‘The Id’ (who resembled Fabio – boom shacka-lacka, boom shack-lacka) thought it would be good for me to cleanse my soul and speak the name of the love that dare not speak its name in my parent’s living room.
My Mother’s reaction:
“They always blame the Mother”.
Not:
“ Oh, sonny boy, we’ll always love you”.
Not:
“I wish you much happiness”.
No, my life, my very existence, the core of my being, was something to be blamed upon someone – specifically her (how Catholic). "Martyr - table for one. Calling Martyr..........."!
In writing this ‘story’ I could feel my lifelong discomfort with my use of the word ‘mother’. I stumbled in my writing: should that ‘m’ be capitalized? “Mother”! Was there a way to write the story telling you (the reader) the events surrounding the death of Catherine C. Scanlon and my role as her son without using any ‘mommy’ descriptions? I don’t think you need to have studied Freud to see that my relationship with my mother may not have been as comfy-cozy as I had led myself to believe.
When people die, other people tell you (the bereaved) all kinds of stupid things. These things are called 'condolences'. I admire people who can 'condole' in a respectful and appropriate fashion. I think that ex-President's of the United States (and their families) are the quintessential examples of excellent 'condolers'. How they manage to not spit on the grave of their former opponent (or spit on each others shoes) is a trait to be admired.
I am personally quite the clod when it comes to extending my condolences and I hope I have done better than some of the rather memorable sentiments that I now relate to you:
THE WALKING ID’S CONDOLENCES:
The Walking Id and I had been co-habiting for about ten years before my Mother/mom/Catherine's demise disturbed his 'id-ness'. The relationship was to last another four years, and at this point (actually at a point in hindsight noted as 9 years, 6 months before this point) I had suspected things weren't really working out between us. Before Mom/Mother/Catherine passed away, I gave her the gift that she had longed for: I confessed that the object of my desire (The Id) was really something of a cad. I believe her response was: "I am so happy that you're finally seeing that!" I must say, I commend her for making no previous derogatory comments about a person whose intentions, morals, ethics, and intellect, rarely (no never) rose above his waistline (which through the years never exceeded an enviable 34 inches).
Anyway, I suspect that 'The Id' was at some point summoned to the hospital bed where my Mother/Mom/Kay read him the riot act, told him what she thought of a slut such as himself, and warned him that if he ever told me of this conversation she would haunt him to his last day (a day that still has not occurred - twenty five years later).
I would like to think that 'The Id' was fairly smart - after all, he had a fairly good job that required some thinking ability. I would like to think that it was this (alleged) meeting with his ersatz in-law that prompted his disregard for her illness and eventual passing. I would like to think that his actions on July 31, 1992 and his actions in August 1992 were a reaction to the umbrage he took to be the expressed misperceptions from that woman who was only slightly older than he, in that deathbed conversation. I would like to think that, but I think that the truest answer is generally the simplest answer. The Walking Id, was, quite simply, focused on himself, his needs, and his vacation. This would explain why within 24 hours after my Mother’s death, he whisked me to Cape Cod for our pre-planned, yearly vacation.
The memorial for Mother/Mom/Catherine service was going to be held in mid-August and it was thought that everyone in the family needed time to compose themselves. Having pre-paid for the Provincetown lodgings, ‘The Id’ saw no reason to miss a moment of his fun-in-the-sun. I had done all that I could and should have done, and frankly, remember those first twenty four hours as being in kind of a robotic state.
Cape Cod is an idyllic spot to celebrate life, and its natural beauty had always been calmative. Our first night in Provincetown was a Saturday night. ‘The Id’ thought it would be good for me/us (but really him) to ‘go out on the town’. This meant: he was going to find himself a date.
So, thirty six hours after my mother’s death, I stood in Provincetown’s best leather bar watching The Id pick up the younger version of myself. I was in head-to-toe black leather which, was about the closest thing to mourning clothing that I was going to get to.
I threw back a drink or two, or ten. I’m a fairly chatty guy under regular circumstances but after a drink or two or ten, I’m a real chatty Cathy. So, I’m talking to the guy next to me. He’s from Boston. He asks: “What’s new?” I say: “My mother died yesterday.” Believe it or not, there are normal people in leather bars, and this guy empathetically asks: “What are you doing here?” I respond: “Well, right now, I’m watching my life partner pick up that twenty two year old guy”.
I will add, that my mourning attire in that biker bar included the de rigueur leather vest, leather cuffs, and biker boots. I added a bit of 'couture' (and thereby elevating the elegance of the scene) by wearing my double-inverted-pleat, lambskin leather pants (black) from Yves Saint Laurent that had seen quite a bit of duty in and around the fashion shows and salons of Paris. Upon reflection, a Paris fashion show really isn't all that different from a biker bar - probably just a little (and I mean a little) more silk charmeuse.
My birthday is on August 11th. Never before (I think) and never again (I’m sure) had he done what I'm about to tell you. "The Id" knew only one method to sooth that which ailed one's spirits or body. Recognizing that I was suffering both spiritually and physically and possibly in honor of my mother’s death (and this took me many years to figure out) he hired a hooker for my birthday. (I really wanted a Rolex).
MY SISTER-IN-LAWS CONDOLENCES:
In 1990 maybe 1991 (who can remember?) I faced a terminal diagnosis. I had seven years left, and possibly only three of those years would be ‘good’ years. The illness was shameful, merciless, and relentless. I am surprised that I survived. It was my father/Father/Dad whose death was anticipated to come first. My mother/Mother/Mom’s death was a complete surprise. In such situations, we try to make sense of the situation by explaining Why? My sister-in-law explained my mother’s pancreatic cancer as probably a good thing, because (my mom) was spared the indignity of my illness. Nice –really nice.
MY DAD’S CONDOLENCES: My Dad was handful. On his best day, he was a handful. When Mom died, my brother (who hated/hates) my Dad (and me) saw an opportunity to walk away from any familial responsibilities – and he did just that. My brother had no need to pay his last respects. He was not encumbered by his employment, or the needs of his wife and children. There was no obstacle to his accompanying his father to the hospital for a 'visitation'. He had no particular objection to doing so, he just didn't want to do it. One would think that someone who had no regard societal traditions would have little opinion on the traditions that others chose to ignore. His vitriolic opinions about the lives and lifestyles of others was always a surprise to me, and so, his refusal to 'man-up' and do the simplest, cursory duties that fall upon the sons of recently deceased surprised me.
My father and I visited the hospital to ‘visit’ my (now deceased) mother. The scene was absurd: we were met at the nurses station by some teenage nurse-trainee who lied-through-her-teeth and said that someone was with Mom when she died. No, my mother died alone.
I had read that some corpses look happy. My mother looked angry. Which of course, she should be – she was dead. Her hospital room usually had some bouquet of flowers in it, but that morning, there was only a carnation in a little plastic water tumbler. I removed the flower and placed it in her hands, and Dad gave his wife one last kiss.
I took Dad back to his apartment, and made him dinner. Mom’s cat had died two weeks before, and Mom’s things were where she had left them when she was last there many months ago before being hospitalized.
Dad fidgeted. He had one of those touch-tone lamps, and he turned that light on and off a thousand times during my visit. We had expected some cousins to stop by, but there were tornado warnings in New Jersey that day, and they seized upon that excuse to avoid what any reasonable person would want to avoid – my father, and myself. Although, they lived in a multi-unit building, Phil had pretty much alienated everyone in the building, and no mourners (or their casserole dishes) came to his apartment door that day or evening. There were no tears during our dinner – it was the perfect Irish sang-froid.
I avoid reality by keeping busy. I clean, I tidy up, I cook, I arrange, I do anything except accept. I did not cry on the way to the hospital. I did not cry at the hospital. I did not cry at dinner. I left Phil/Dad/father in the early evening. I don't recall him offering me any words of solace, and I suppose I assumed my caretaking duties (i.e. making dinner, cleaning the apartment, etc...) would absolve me of any verbal duties that might normally be expected in this type of situation. As I bid my leave, we awkwardly shook hands. I think we both would have preferred it if I could have just evaporated out of the room. I closed the door to the apartment and proceeded down the long, dimly lit hallway. This hallway had only a few years ago, in fact only a few months ago, been the path that my Mom/mother/Mother took to the place she cherished most: home. DadFather/Phil was incapable of caring for Mom/Mother/Catherine and she became imprisoned in the hospital 'system' many months before, without regard to her desire to visit that which she cherished the most. So, there I stood, in this long hallway, breathing the fragrances of the ten or twelve other dinners being prepared in the ten or twelve other apartments on that floor.
I will confess that I am embarrassed that I (having a sense of the dramatics) lept upon this 'stage moment and allowed myself the heaving sobs that are best attributed to fat ladies in Italian Operas. Had there been cameras, had there been an audience, had I planned to tell this story, I could, and should be charged with contrivance. In fact, I questioned the motivation behind my tears. A part of me mocked myself for such self-indulgence. The scene was too perfect, and I was much too aware of 'the scene'. It was easier to be aware of the scene then to be aware of 'the events', 'the reality', the cold relentless finality of death. My outfit: triple pleated imported Italian wool pants, suspenders, a Sea Island Cotton shirt, a $100 neck-tie, and probably shoes from Bruno Magli fit my 170 pound, 6'1" frame perfectly. My outfit: perfect! The hallway: lower middle class - but perfectly lower middle class. The weather: perfectly stormy.
Two women were coming down the hallway. They were not coming in response to the sounds of my sobs. Some chore, or task, or maybe just a need to get some fresh air jettisoned them from their apartment. They identified me as Catherine's son, and shared pleasant reminiscences of their times with her. With rolling eyes, they explained how they simply could not be sympathetic to Phil/Dad/Kay's husband. I understood - after all, I had been his son/hostage for my entire life, and while I understood the genesis of his behaviors, and to some extent forgave him for not knowing the errors of his ways I could not then, nor can not now, accurately articulate what made that man do the things he did.
The ladies continued with their chores/tasks/perambulations. I exited the building, and journeyed homewards. No, I didn't just start the truck, and drive away. When I put the key in the ignition, and when the engine roared to life, I drove away from what had been. I was unaware that this moment was in fact the sign pointing to The Road not Taken that Robert Frost had so eloquently described. My mother/Mother/Mom had emancipated that which shackled her to the trivial things that burdened her life, and in doing so, she emancipated me from the self-built prisons that restrained me.
Truthfully, Phil/Dad/Father didn’t like me, and would have much preferred the company of my brother and my brother’s family. But, my brother used his children like the little hostages we had been raised as, and withheld from my Dad the one thing my Dad wanted: the visits of his favorite son, and his favorite son’s children.
My brother had also scheduled his vacation for August 1st and he saw no reason to provide comfort to his Dad/Father/father who was otherwise known to him as the cause of all the evil in the world (again: such an Irish Catholic cliché). Off went my brother and his clan to the Jersey shore. He would not have his vacation interrupted with his father's lamentations and so he remained incommunicado for the duration of his beach stay. Phil's emotions were my property and duties. I was allowed to report any outrageous behavior or expenses that Phil/Dad/Father exhibited or executed. But any signs of empathy towards the widower Scanlon were not to be expressed.
My brother distanced himself so successfully from his mother's death, that he received her ashes and promptly stored them in a shed on his property between a gallon of Glidden deck paint, and a half quart of turpentine. I only know this because (a year after Mom/Mother/Catherine's death) I went to visit my brother on a glorious fall afternoon. I had forgotten that he and his family were away from home that weekend. I had access to the house, and recalled that we had some informal plans to (again informally) distribute the cremains along Mom/Mother/mother's favorite lake.
As much as my brother would like to deny any similarities between us, it is our similarities that drive him crazy. A cursory examination of spaces in the house where one might normally enshrine the cremains of a dog, cat, or possibly one's mother produced no results. I then, began thinking like my brother: "Where would he put them?" It took only moments to realize that they would be found in the shed. I will have to say that the Glidden and the turpentine were somewhat surprising, but I think that by phrasing it as 'surprising' I suggest that this was 'unexpected'. No, putting Mom/Mother/Catherine's cremains with the other dusty, useless, and meaningless items were really just the way he saw (and sees) things.
I have not spoken to my brother since the year 2000. I'm not quite sure of the reason why - but I'm sure he's given more than a few people his reason for my excommunication. In hindsight: I had predicted my expulsion from his orbit by the time I was six or seven. Does 'not talking to someone' require action? If so, I am surprised that my brother actually stood up to take some action - he's usually more passive-aggressive in his emotional hostage takings. I think he comforts himself in the knowledge that he 'did nothing'. Yes, you did nothing - and maybe that's just the problem: you did nothing, when something, was probably required.
So, we return to that awful Friday, July 31, 1992:
I actually liked my Dad. I had come to know his history, and through his history, I gained an understanding of who is was. He could have been better, he could have been worse.
I called my Dad daily from Provincetown on a daily basis. We were making arrangements for the memorial service, and I thought it was good therapy for both of us to talk about that service and the details surrounding that service. The service was planned for some time around August 15th. As mentioned, Mom died on Friday morning. The following Tuesday I called Dad. I asked him how he was doing. His response: “ Oh, I’ve just come from your Mother’s funeral”!
Well, it’s one thing to not be invited to ‘the party’. It’s really quite another thing to not be invited (or informed) of your mother’s funeral. Especially, when you thought you were planning your mother’s funeral! Especially when your Dad doesn't invite you to your mother's funeral.
What he had done, was tacked ,my mother’s name (funny how I go from capital “M” to lower case ‘m’) into some other family’s funeral mass. How he did this is a long story. The short version is that my cousin (his niece) was (and is) a very powerful force in the Catholic church and she can kind of get-things-done.
MY MOTHER SENT HER CONDOLENCES:
There are a few more stories to tell, but I’ll tell this last one and call it a day.
Phil often remarked that he saw his life as Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. In fact, at Dad’s funeral mass, I read the Requiem scene from I read Death of a Salesman. The Scanlon’s were very much like the Loman’s. Willie (the father), Biff( the son) Hap/Happy(other son) and Linda (the wife). As I wrote earlier Cancer took the Scanlon’s off the script that Arthur Miller had prepared. Think of when Archie Bunker lost his Edith. Had Linda Loman predeceased Willie Loman we would have had a very interesting play. In the case of the Scanlon’s, without Catherine (the hub) the spokes (Phil, Steve, and myself) fell off the wheel and all hell broke loose.
It is said that what is done in the dark eventually comes into the light. What had been done in the dark so many decades earlier in the Scanlon household, may or may not have come into bright light, but it did come out of the darkness to be seen in all its ugliness. In hindsight, we were victims of our genetic heritage: this is just how The Irish behave (mostly).
My mom left a small insurance policy. Then, one day, and much to our surprise, another insurance policy was found. Steve called me and told me the details. It wasn’t a large amount, but it was certainly going to be helpful as I shouldered the needs of my widower father. I was in the kitchen of my home when I learned of the new insurance policy. I walked from into my living room, and there, descending across the hill, heading towards my house, was a bouquet of balloons………
They had escaped from someone’s party a day or so before, and at that exact moment, they had chosen that exact spot to land in front of the only person on the block who was home at that time – me.
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