Shamrocks on the Window
I believed him when he said Boston held a parade in honor of his birthday every year. That twinkle in my father's eyes was convincing. How strong the wonder is in a child's heart. The years passed yet the ritual of celebrating his St. Patrick's Day birthday was bigger than the holiday. There were surprises, elaborate dinners, pithy cake messages, mathematical formulas for the number of birthday candles, Grasshoppers, and corned beef and hash (only for him - no one else liked it). The birthday song frequently belted out by restaurant staff and family alike. The best part of this day was when he opened his birthday cards. My siblings and I presenting each one as if we were having a contest to find the one that would make him laugh until his face turned the color of a tomato. Bonus points for moving him to tears.
Then he got sick. On his last birthday, my father could only eat from a feeding tube. His breath was stolen not from surprises, but, from pneumonia after pneumonia. His annual Grasshopper replaced with mouth sponges. The sterility of hand sanitizer and latex blanketing any memory of corned beef. His hospital room full of machines that beeped with the alarm of caution when his oxygen was low, his tube feed needed changing, and air blowing into his lungs.
Despite the grim image of our dear father in his hospital bed, there were shamrocks on his window, thanks to his granddaughter. There was music in his room as we gathered around his bed to harmonize the birthday song. The birthday cards taped up on the walls around him, hanging next to get well cards, father's day cards, pictures of a healthier man - the reality that his stay in the acute care facility became longer than expected.
The luck of the Irish is and was upon us as we were able to celebrate our father's life. The party is just different. We miss you dearly, Pops. Happy 90th here and forever young there.
Then he got sick. On his last birthday, my father could only eat from a feeding tube. His breath was stolen not from surprises, but, from pneumonia after pneumonia. His annual Grasshopper replaced with mouth sponges. The sterility of hand sanitizer and latex blanketing any memory of corned beef. His hospital room full of machines that beeped with the alarm of caution when his oxygen was low, his tube feed needed changing, and air blowing into his lungs.
Despite the grim image of our dear father in his hospital bed, there were shamrocks on his window, thanks to his granddaughter. There was music in his room as we gathered around his bed to harmonize the birthday song. The birthday cards taped up on the walls around him, hanging next to get well cards, father's day cards, pictures of a healthier man - the reality that his stay in the acute care facility became longer than expected.
The luck of the Irish is and was upon us as we were able to celebrate our father's life. The party is just different. We miss you dearly, Pops. Happy 90th here and forever young there.
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