My journalism journey, part 5

My Montana adventures get sidetracked as I rush home for my dad's death

When I left Illinois, I knew my dad was not well. He had been on dialysis for awhile because he was in kidney failure. He didn’t want to ask any of us for a kidney, although I know any of the kids would have given him one. I would have done it, I know.

I got to Montana in March 1984. In late April, I found out he had colon cancer and it was terminal. I found out on a Friday afternoon, after we got the paper out, and I walked home and cried for a long time. I probably wouldn’t see him again. How would I afford to get home? Driving would take 2-3 days. I had no idea what a plane ticket would cost, but I was sure it wasn’t cheap, and I was having trouble just getting by after the move.

My publisher, Dean, offered to foot the bill for the plane ticket and I would pay him back. He had me talk to his travel agent and we arranged for a date a couple of weeks away. I felt hopeful.

But the day I was to pick up the ticket, I got another call, this time from my sister-in-law, Debbie. She said Dad had been taken to the hospital and was in intensive care. He probably didn’t have long.

So now the ticket was going to cost more, a lot more. Dean again came through for me. He picked up the tab, with me paying him back. I got on the puddle jumper from Butte to Minneapolis to Chicago the next day. My sister picked me up at O’Hare Airport and said, “You didn’t need to come home. He’s not going to die.”

Wishful thinking. She would be proven wrong.

I got over to the hospital as often as I could. I didn’t have a car but I took a bus when I could. One day, I came over there when there were no family members. The resident was there checking him out. He said, “This is my daughter, Eileen. She’s a sports writer in Montana. She’s a very good writer and I’m very proud of her.”

Now, my parents were very sparse with praise. You were expected to get A’s in school; you didn’t get praised for that. My parents had been getting a free subscription to the Anaconda Leader courtesy of Dean, so for the first time, they actually got to see what I did. They read my stories. I had given them copies of my stories in the past, but I guess it didn’t click as much as it did when they saw it in the actual newspaper.

Those words surprised me, though. And they gave me such a boost of confidence that stayed with me all these years.

A few days later, Dad’s port for dialysis was clogged again and the doctors couldn’t do dialysis. The only way he could have it was to do it through a vein in his neck. It was very risky. My sister-in-law, Sue, was the family member at the hospital who was asked how the family felt about this. She said we didn’t want to have that done. Dad never wanted any extraordinary measures. So he was moved out of ICU, to a regular room, and we waited for the inevitable.

A day later, Mom, me and some of my siblings sat with him while we tried to get some pain medication. He was in serious pain, but the nurse couldn’t reach the doctor. He spent that evening in a lot of pain, mumbling to me to call the Sun-Times, tell them the hospital withheld his pain medication. I felt helpless. Finally, we said our goodbyes. Final goodbyes. He would die early in the morning the next day.

We had told the hospital to call my oldest brother, Ed, when Dad died, and he would call Mom. We didn’t want Mom answering the phone and getting shocked by the news. That happened with my Grandma Briesch when Grandpa Briesch died, and she became hysterical.

Well, the hospital dropped the ball. Fortunately, I was staying with Mom and heard the phone ring first. The nurse didn’t want to tell me first, but I told her I had to tell my Mom. And so I did.

I hugged her and we cried a bit, then I walked with her to the phone.

I have included this in my Montana adventure because it shows how much of a family I had in Montana. When I came back after the funeral, my editor insisted on running my dad’s obit. I thought that was strange because nobody in Anaconda knew my dad; I had only been in town a few months. But Wally said we always ran obits who were related to people who lived here, so why not me, too? So I wrote his obit.

People in town started contacted me after that. I got sympathy cards. I had written a column about my dad, too, and people reacted to that. One family invited me to their Father’s Day cookout.

I went to that gathering and there was this big Irish setter/golden retriever mix dog hanging around outside the fence. The dog wound up following me home. I called it Lady at first because it reminded me of my sister’s dog, Lady. I kept it for a few days and took it to the vet; it was actually a male. So then I called it Sox, after the White Sox.

A few days later, I let it out at night to go to the bathroom and it ran away. I figured that was the last I’d see of Sox. My editor’s wife, Margie had two cats that had had litters of eight kittens each. She wanted me to take a couple. I had never had cats, but I was lonely. I thought, why not.

And that began my love of cats. More to come, of course.

 

Reviews

[PoeGirl100]

Oh, this one was hard to read, but once again, the honesty in your words draws the reader in. You have a good narrative going here. I'm eager to hear more.