Hello from my office.
I am not sure what has me pouring my thoughts into words to the degree that seems to be occurring over the last weeks, but some of it is the consequence of my returning home for the reunion last summer, of that I am sure. While I have gone back to Sioux City from time to time in the half century since I graduated from high school, seldom did I imagine it possible I would want to return there as a sort of prodigal. Ironically, the trip back to my Northwestern Iowa roots last summer did that very thing. As I drove from my hotel in a profoundly different South Dakota side of town across town, either by Military Road, West 19th, or I-29, I was surprised by how differently the town seemed. While I was there, I returned to three different cemeteries, visiting the resting places of those family members who have preceded my time in Riverside and beyond in that meat-packing, big-city of the local region in the Tri-state area. I think there is so much about that hometown that has continued to evolve, and while both Omaha and Sioux Falls have seemed to outdistance our population, what impressed me with what I saw “back home” was a sense of welcoming, an atmosphere of authenticity that I have not felt in past visits. Perhaps the change is on my part; perhaps I am more gracious in my attitudes toward that place I once called home. While I have been generally proud to be an Iowan, that was more a state thing than a specific location thing. Why is that? What gives us a sense of place, a sense of belonging somewhere? This is something I have often pondered, and even began to write about from a scholarly perspective, but never finished . . . perhaps I need to return to that idea.
As I walked the summer lawns of Graceland Park, of Calvary, or of Floyd cemeteries, I found myself reflecting upon the people who are nothing more than markers to those unacquainted. And yet the same is true in any cemetery: each marker is so much more than merely a cold monument or polished stone, a obelisk that has been worn by the weather, the seasons and the years since their passing. As I examined the stones that remember 5 generations of my family, I was stunned by how that weathering of their physical artifacts seemed to belie the amazing individuals they were. Even stones from this century were less than ideal in there appearances. And while, I am fortunate to have a cousin who takes the time to visit and leave appropriate remembrances yearly, the reality of Iowa’s four seasons has taken its toll. While I remember both standing and officiating at some of those services (I actually sang during the funeral and officiated the committal service for my father), there was one year that was particularly difficult for me (1977). I was 21 during the first of those services and 22 during the second. As noted in other blogs, my older brother, who graduated from Riverside in 1969, was injured in a construction accident and died about 5 weeks later, leaving a wife, a four-year old, a three-year old, and a five month old. He was 26 years old. That was my first experience with death, and it was stunning to me. I was in Ames at the time, trying half-heartedly at being a student and failing miserably. I began that next fall not in school at all, working both as server at a restaurant called Aunt Maude’s and a bartender at club called Reflections. Meanwhile, I also worked as a server at a sorority. That was quite the job . . . oh my goodness. I thought I had my fall figured out until I got the unexpected phone call, informing me that my grandmother, my mother when I was pre-school aged, my employer through high school, my protector when I was frightened and afraid, and the one person I believed loved me unconditionally, was gone. She was only 64 years old, and she was not a sickly person. I was beyond stunned, I was shocked and paralyzed because the foundation, the person I trusted more than anyone, the woman who taught be more about life than anyone, was gone.
While her older sister, my Great-aunt Helen, also provided important support, including love and care, my Grandmother Louise was beyond supportive in every sense of what that could mean. I was a lost 22 year-old barely out of the service, failing out of college, and doing more stupid stuff than anyone would want to admit. Coming back to Sioux City for that funeral was a life-altering event. It was the first time I felt abandoned. It was the first time I did not know where to turn. It was the beginning of a period that would either break me or purify me like the necessary flames needed when one hopes to change something into some more valuable, more beautiful. That purification began as I wept uncontrollably in that cemetery, the actual place I stood this past summer almost 46 years later. Sometimes it takes time for one to face the fire, and that was certainly the case for me. I would come back to Sioux City at that time, but lost, overwhelmed and directionless. I would find another job bartending (in the middle of that disco era) at a club called After the Gold Rush. It was a job, and it allowed me to be around all kinds of people my age, but I had a different perspective, and not necessarily a healthier one. I was able to smoke way too much pot, play pool all afternoon and get to work that evening. I was capable of working and consuming a fifth of Jack a night. It all went well until someone I knew well pulled a gun on me and ended up being shot. That was the turning point. What could have ended with my incarceration altered my direction significantly. I realized that the path I was on was the proverbial dead end, with profound consequence.
Much like Louise, my now vanished protector, had at one point made a decision to change course, I needed to do the same. And for many of the same reasons. Alcohol would consume and destroy me if I did not make a change. While she went to AA, and never drank again, I knew I needed to change my surroundings, my habits, and my practices. With a bit of a kick from my sister-in-law, the widow of my older brother, as well as some timely care from a cousin, who to this day is a special person, the requisite changes were made. So how might it be that someone who was gone from my earthly existence had so much influence? What I know now (and I was reminded this summer from a classmate), was my grandmother was unparalleled in her kindness and love, and she made a difference to so many people, often behind the scenes. My classmate noted that she was always looking out for her employees. I know she did the same with her colleagues in Eastern Star. What I realize now, as I am older than she lived to be, was her compassion and love were boundless. In spite of the hurt she had endured, she was never bitter. In spite of the loneliness she must have felt, with the long hours and being required to allow the two children she loved deeply to be adopted and, to some degree, taken from her, she was never one to feel sorry for herself. She worked all the more to make her life an exemplar of care and elegance. As I have noted at other times, the thing I worried about the most was disappointing her. I am sure I managed to do that when I was struggling to make sense of my life. I imagine she understood that path too well, but she was never one to tell me what to do. She would only tell me she loved me no matter what. What a miraculous gift she offered. Love is so powerful, especially when it is seemingly undeserved. She loved first and asked questions later. Perhaps what makes this all the more remarkable is she was singular in that gift in my life. It was never done with fanfare or in a manner that others would notice; she merely went about it as she did with every part of her life. It was a matter-of-fact daily occurrence. It was a calling for her, and it was what she did for her grandchildren. All these years later, I am still in awe of the person she was, but as importantly in the profound influence she had on so many others, most of all me. Quite a journey for a South Dakota farm girl, who began college but returned to the farm because she was needed. She would exceed perhaps even her own expectations, not because of ability, but rather because of her humility. How blessed I was, and am, that she was my grandmother. She is still my hero.
Grandma, I still love you with all my being, and to everyone else, thank you for reading.
Michael
thewritingprofessor55 
Dr. Martin
I understand how lost you can feel after you lose someone you love. It can be extremely life altering, especially when it was someone that you care so deeply for. Although loss is one of the most challenging things people can endure, it can be a sort of wakeup call too. Like your brother’s loss for you, my mother also had a sort of wake-up call when my cousin passed away. Although I was young, I saw the change in her. Her whole life view went from being surrounded by religion and God until his death. Death’s effects are endless. There is not much we can control in life; death is certainly not one of them. All we can do is try to grow and keep our loved ones in our hearts, and with us through spirit.
Gianna Celano
As I read through your blog, I am brought back to the woman that I called grandmother and the person who had, too, guided and changed my directions of life when living here on this earth with me, and when soulfully flying through the birds. Margarette Connolly was a beautifully patient, strong-willed, radiant beam of sunshine. Although she had never met her mother due to complications during her birth, she grew up surrounded by such strong spoken and loving women who guided her into creating such a warm and loving atmosphere as a mother, herself. She had eight children, five girls and three boys, my dad being the youngest. Being a nurse, wife, mother, and almost everything else, she had gone through the worst parts of life, yet not a soul would have any clue due to her calm and faithful approaches on life. I don’t believe I have ever heard her complain. When growing up, I grew very close to my nanny and saw her as my best friend. She kept every secret without returning a sliver of shame or guilt back to me. She simply just enjoyed the gift of listening and possibly giving advice when need be. As a young girl, we would even have sleepovers where we would have tea parties, play with baby dolls, make little pictures out of cheese and pretzel-crackers, and ended each night in bed saying our prayers until we fell asleep. (as the catholic woman she was and the 5 or 6 year old I was, I always requested to say my prayers first because “she took too long”. Now that makes me giggle in nostalgia). We truly had a deeper connection than anyone else. She told me that I was an old soul and that she almost felt like she knew me before. It felt like it was me and her against the world. When my nanny had gotten older and she started losing energy, each of her children, my aunts, uncles, and father, would take turns spending the night with her so she wouldn’t be alone and would have someone to help her if needed. Although one night, she woke up gasping. Yelling for someone to come to her. When my aunt approached her, thinking that she was in pain or needed something urgently, my nanny appeared with the biggest smile on her face. My aunts say that was the best she’s looked in so long. She looked like she had some life back in her. My nanny rambled on trying to communicate every word that she wanted to say. She said “I saw my mother”. My other aunts rushed down to the house, squeezed on one singular chair, trying to hear every word, every detail of what was being said. As my nanny went through the descriptions of what she looked like, she paused and said, “she looked just like aniela”. Im not sure what that necessarily meant or if that has any deeper meaning than what we hear on the surface, however, that felt so powerful to me. Somehow I felt so connected to my grandmother and almost felt a sense of peace. I knew that everything was going to be okay. I finally knew that she found her own peace. A few days later, my nanny passed away in her sleep. We cried. We told stories. And we laughed. We wanted to celebrate her. She would have wanted a big happy party and she wouldn’t have wanted us repeating sad memories or losses. For that reason, I wore yellow to her funeral. She was never a dark woman. She shined all throughout my childhood and she shined on her last days. She just simply shined. Always. Today, I still drive past her house and make visits to the cemetery that roots her body. However, I feel like I see her all the time. Through the birds, through the sunshine, through the peace, I feel my sweet Margarette. She has and will continue to guide me throughout my life, like your grandmother does for you, whether with us physically or spiritually. No one can replace the love of a grandmother. No one can replace the light that they created.
-Aniela Connolly
Dr. Martin,
I really appreciate you opening up about loss. Losing those close to you can create a massive impact in your life, which for you happened. Those that cared for you and took care of you, you knew that you were never going to be able to converse or hug them ever again. I think that is the most terrifying idea about death is that you will never be able to see them, hear their voice, or say I love you to them after losing them. You are very brave for sharing your past but it is what made you into the person you are today and I commend you for sharing.
Reading through your blog I thought of numerous memories that I have about loved ones. I lost both my uncle and my grandmother at around ages 9 and 10 years old. My Uncle Todd was my best friend, he was born with autism and down syndrome, I always thought that I had to protect him from people that judged him but in reality he was the one protecting me form this crazy world. I miss him everyday, he passed from cirrhosis of the liver and I remember being told the story when I was young that my grandfather found him in the bathroom spitting up blood. This was traumatic to me, which I will go on about later. After he passed we had a funeral and I drew him multiple drawings so that he would have them with him in his casket. I just remember thinking, please wake up every time I placed a drawing in there with him. To this day I will always remember him saying “spirits up”, he taught me that no matter what, I have to live life to the fullest and for him I will. My grandma Ginny passed around the same time from lung cancer. I think what affected me the most was seeing her hallucinate and have child tendencies toward the end of her life. I had to visit her in hospice due to her cancer being very bad and all I remember is her telling me to “walk my dog” or “climb the tree in the corner”, well there was no tree and my dog was never able to come with us to the hospice center. I used to cry knowing that the cancer was affecting her so much. I did not deal with death very well, and I had to go to the school counselor to help me cope with their deaths. I used to have very vivid dreams about them, specifically my uncle that I would wake up sobbing after. Since then I feel as if I am numb to death.
Recently my husbands best friend, who I also see as my brother lost his father to cancer. Around the same time my husband also lost his neighbor who he also saw as a grandpa and it was on the same night. They really leaned on each other, I knew both men that passed and I felt like I should have been sad but I felt numb. Don’t get me wrong I felt sympathetic, I even cried to the thought that my husbands friend will never be able to see his father again or that my husband will never be able to see his “grandpa” again but death I knew was inevitable. The last image my husbands friend had of his father was him lying in the shower lifeless, they thought that he had a heart attack which they said was better than him dying slowly from the cancer that was throughout his whole body. The only positive that has come from any of this was that we all grew closer, my family took our friend in and he even lives with my husband and I now in our new house. I felt especially connected to him when my mother was diagnosed with cancer last December, all I could think about is my friend and what he must of actually felt. It is such a helpless feeling, you can only be there for them but you can’t heal them. I was fortunate though, my mother was able to get the cancer surgically removed having part of her tongue cut out and some lymph nodes removed. But as I was there for our friend, he was there for me and my family.
Though it felt as if your life was spiraling out of control it was never too late to find your way back to your life purpose. I love that your sister-in-law was there to help give you the push you needed and you also allowed yourself to let your grandmother push you even beyond the grave. It is always important to remember them and to keep them alive in your memory even after they pass. That was the big subject that we were worried about, talking about our friends dad after he passed because we thought it was a touchy subject. We soon found out that it helped him be able to remember all the good times with him and it helped him cope. I was so nervous that he would spiral down the wrong path for so many months, but his girlfriend and I made sure that, that was not going to happen. Having support can change someones life I think tremendously and no matter what I want to be able to be the one that could change someones life even just a little bit for the better.
-Alexis Schleef
Alexis,
Thank you for your thoughtful and significant post and response to my thoughts about family, and particularly my grandmother. If you come into my office sometime, you will see a picture of her on my desk from when she was 19 years old. I think she was the first one of a generation to attend college, though she did not graduate. She went back to work on the farm because of the depression. What I have come to realize is every life we encounter is significant in some manner. Every person we have an opportunity to meet has the potential to create something much more meaningful than we realize in that moment itself.
Thank you for your thoughts here, and it is a pleasure to work with you.
Dr. Martin
Dr. Martin,
I am sorry for your loss and for losing some close people in your life so young. I’m thankful that, being twenty-one, I haven’t had great loss in my life yet. I believe that those losses brought certain strength and growth into your life that have probably helped form you into the person you are today. Loss is something no one can escape, and I don’t think anyone is ever truly prepared for losing someone close to them. We’ll never truly have enough time with those we care about, no matter how long we get.
I also share a close relationship to my grandmother as you did to yours. My moms mom, who is now ninety-one years of age, and who also helped raise myself and my older sister in certain ways, has always been a hero of mine and someone who I’ve looked up to. My “Baba” as we call her, which stems from our Eastern European roots, grew up poor in Allentown, PA, on a street shared by her entire family. She never knew her father, who left her mom when he found out she was pregnant, and so was raised, collectively, by her mom, aunts, and uncles who all lived on that street. Although my Baba grew up with little money, she has always been very content and happy in her life. It is one of her many assets that I aspire to adapt into my own life, considering I commonly feel restless and unsatisfied with my life and where I’m at. She became the mother of four, my mother being the second oldest, and helped out on the farm that they ran once they moved to Bloomsburg, PA. I grew up close to the farm, and so Baba was the go-to babysitter, person to watch you when you’re sick from school, weekend shopping mall partner, and all around caretaking grandmother. I resonate with the love and closeness you felt for your grandmother as I do to mine, and hearing about your time with yours, it only makes me feel more grateful and appreciative of having my Baba in my life, and the time that we STILL have together.
Erin,
Thank you for your words and your thoughts. While my family is not from Central/Eastern Europe, my trips to Poland, Hungary, Ukraine, and having an exchange student from Estonia, I have fallen in love with this area of the world. I am amazed by the culture, the history, and the food. It is always incredible to have those who have trod their paths that blend into ours and to learn from their examples.
I am glad you have had that influence in your life. Thank you again for those words.
Dr. Martin
Dr Martin,
I am so sorry for your loss and hearing about how your loss was at a young age is devasting. Although I am still young, being only eighteen years old, I feel I have been through a great deal of losses in my life, one of which was the most affecting was the loss of my grandfather and my childhood cat.
During covid and quarantine, my grandfather fell ill with the corona virus and ended up in the hospital. Due to the restrictions, only my mother got to see him, while my sister and I weren’t allowed to go into the hospital and see him. I would constantly call and text him asking how he is and how he’s feeling, being under the impression he was getting better. When I was at school, at my final period, I get a text from my friend sending condolences about my grandfather and sending my mother’s Facebook post about his passing. It shocked me and shocked up my whole world, turning it upside down. My grandfather was my best friend, and he was my role model throughout my childhood and life in general. It brought me to a deeper understanding of life and gave me an appreciation of life and family.
Then in February my childhood cat, Coco, was concerning me and my family with behaviors that wasn’t his normal behavior. The day of his death, he wasn’t eating all day, eating was his favorite part of the day, and he loved eating. Then what made my mom decide we had to put him down was he peed on the carpet. My sister and I tried to persuade my mom to not do it, but deep down we know he was in pain and had to be done. We went to the vet and in the process of getting Coco put down, I was trembling and sobbing that I had to walk out of the vet and wait in the car. For 20 minutes, I waited in the car knowing that when my mom and sister came out, my cat wouldn’t be in his carrier. This tragedy was the moment that deepened the depression that I was still in from my grandfather.
Loss is heartbreaking and wrecks someone’s whole world, now I know that my grandfather is in a better place and my cat is also in a better place.
Dr. Martin,
What I think gives us the best sense of place is the surrounding people of the area we are in. How well we fit in with the people around us plays a big role in how well we think we belong. I know when I am in a place where I feel right, I feel like I fit in with the local community. Their attitudes and way of life are easy to connect with, and it comes naturally. When I feel this, I know that I am in a place where I belong. There are other factors that affect how well we fit in, but I believe that the surrounding people are the most important.
I am so sorry to hear about your loss and what you had to go through. Things like that can be hard and really send us off track with where we want to be. Thank you for sharing about your change of course in life. It is never too late to change things around and I am glad you made that change for a healthier lifestyle. Thank you for your time.
Dr. Martin,
Death and I have a complicated relationship. I have always had cats and they have ended up passing away from health complications. It was a never a peaceful death. They always went down in pain and effected my family greatly. Both my grandfathers have passed away and someone else very important to me also passed. The last death effected me the most. I was closest with this person and I was so young when she passed away. I have a horrible memory but I remember so much about her funeral. I have always known of death and I am scared of it. I have heard of so many people dying in natural disasters, war, genocide, and even at their own hand. Loss is something I have always known and it is a part of life now. I cope with it in my own way. I move on now. I realize that I need to get over the grief at some point. i am tired of grief.
Dr. Martin,
I appreciate the sentiment of what you shared in this post, but it is not something that I can relate to firsthand. I have lost loved ones in my life, but death has always been approached differently in my family. From the time I was young, there was a hush hush ambiance surrounding death. The “cry for a moment and move on” method of grieving.
My uncle died when I was young. I remember sitting in my father’s lap as he cried. Then suddenly, it was over. I was told that he died in a car accident and everyone moved on. Years later, my cousin told me how my uncle actually died, and I grieved the death again. I use the term grieve loosely because it consisted of me pondering the death for a moment, and then putting it behind me. That cousin later died in his 20s. My mother told me that he was once a funny and bright young man. I knew him as a felon and a drug addict. I never grieved his death as I feel I should have.
I would not say I suppress the grief I should feel, I simply never grew up in a family that experienced death in a deep way.
I appreciate you sharing your thoughts and I respect the vulnerability that I can feel with your words. My responses are generally longer with a greater depth than I feel I am providing today. This is not from a lack of thought or interest. It is simply because I do not have the experiences to relate to your writing. I could have picked a different blog post, but the lack of experiences made me want to respond as I have a different approach than just agreeing with what you wrote.
I also do not want to provide some empty sentiment in response to your post. Your words were very deep and personal. To find some story in my past that may closely relate feels insensitive and insincere. The lack of authenticity in the world today is painful, and reading this post was refreshing, even with the heartbreaking nature of the words.
I will end by saying this – I hope you get the closure you need. If you already have, I am relieved and happy to hear that. I have less experience with death, but plenty of experience with open-ended emotions being healed by closure. Sometimes moving on isn’t the best way to move through something. Whatever path you took, or are taking, to get closure and grieve, I hope you find peace.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts.
Shannon Drexel