September 4th

 

The apple juice.

I was at Jim Abbott's no-hitter on Sep 4, 1993, at Yankee Stadium. It was enormously dramatic and exciting and I lost my voice in one of the rare times I let loose. I smiled all the way home.

I don't think of that or anything else when it comes to Sep 4 anymore.

Last year, Sep 4 was supposed to be an average Friday. It started with me flipping through my phone as I woke up. I called into WGCH to talk to Tony Savino and did a few other things as I prepared for the day. I had to take Mom to dialysis, pick Sean up, get them back home, and head to Bridgeport to call Little League baseball.

Let's step back to Sep 3. I gave up the day -- a familiar refrain by that time -- to take Mom to not one but two (yes, two!) doctors appointments. The first one, in Mount Kisco, was standard stuff. We took our time walking to the office, I sat in the office with my mask on, and we made our way out. The doctor in Mount Kisco always gave her a bag lunch of a turkey sandwich and an apple juice.

We drove from Mount Kisco to Peekskill for her second appointment. We pondered different lunch ideas but opted for Wendy's. While in line, she said something to me about my not liking fish sandwiches. That troubled me because she used to get me Filet-O-Fish from McDonald's when I was really little.

The second appointment -- with a cardiologist at the hospital near Peekskill (where Sean and I were both born) -- was not good. Though I couldn't go in with her and had to sit in the waiting room, she calmly told me back in the car that the doctor said her heart was bad. We knew that but, according to him, six weeks to six months left. But it could be more. 

Or less.

I quietly called my sister ASAP and told her. She called the cardiologist and found out it was even worse. He said she had six days or six weeks. Whatever the words, it was bad.

That night, I walked upstairs and looked out towards the living room at her sitting in her chair. I'd do that from time to time if only to keep an eye on her. She didn't see or hear me and I went about my business.

Later that night, she texted me (yes, she'd text me or even call me from inside the house) to ask about the apple juice. I told her I put it in the fridge.

That was the last communication between us. I often worried that I should have gone up and got for her. I found it later on at the top of the garbage. 

So back to Sep 4. Things sounded quiet upstairs. Normally I'd hear her walking around. It was eerie.

Finally, I saw her in her chair.

My heart sank as I hoped she was just sleeping. She'd do that sometimes. What concerned me, even more, was that she wasn't dressed to go to dialysis yet. I hoped for the best as I spoke.

"Mom, we have to go."

The silence was immediate and awful.

After trying to awaken her, I called 911. Things were now a whirlwind.

I tried calling Laura. No answer. I texted her.

"Call me."

She knew. Immediately.

I worked with the 911 operator, knowing full well that this was fruitless. I knew what I knew. 

My mother was dead. I'd tried to save her. I was her number one option, really, for years, because I always lived the closest. She knew I'd likely grumble but I'd still do whatever it was.

When she had her open heart surgery, I was told to stay away from the hospital. There was nothing I could do, so I went as soon as I could. What was supposed to be the insertion of a stent turned into much more. 

There were other times that I was the driver. I took her to the emergency room or to and from dialysis. I was generally the first call, with Laura and my niece Stephanie after that. We worked to create a network of people if the three of us weren't available. Cousins and friends helped out.

Throughout COVID, I was basically the only option, though I remember Stephanie pinch-hitting on a day where I picked up some work. Mom did always believe in honoring commitments where possible. Still, I shudder to think of the amount of work I gave up to care for her. Of course, it was the right thing to do and, while she might not have said it, she appreciated it.

She did say one day that I should be noted as her official caretaker because that's what I was, especially in the last year.

And now, here I was, her caretaker as I tried to save her life. I listened to the 911 operator. I performed CPR. I kept talking to her.

"Come on, Mom."

And at one point, I saw what I thought was the faintest sign.

But I knew.

Time stands still. I can't truly tell what happened when.

The Town of Carmel policeman was first to arrive. The paramedics followed. After talking to the EMT's, the officer took me outside and asked me questions. Just doing his job, of course.

No, she didn't have COVID. Yes, this is her home. Yes, her heart hasn't been well and she's been on dialysis for a few years. She was in a nursing home roughly six months earlier.

He put me at ease as I fumbled, understanding that my brain was in a bit of shock. More police officers showed up, including someone from the Putnam County Sherriff's Department. Eventually, I asked him to let Captain Jennings -- my cousin, Mom's nephew -- know what had happened.

I settled in at the top of the driveway. I stood there. I tried to stay occupied. I texted. I called. I watched as Connecticut officially shut down football and I knew there was very little I could do or say about that.

Around 10 am, the police officer confirmed Mom's death with his condolences. He and the others would be staying around to await the funeral home. There would be no point in taking Mom to the hospital. The EMT's collected themselves and also expressed their condolences.

"It's pretty obvious what happened," one of them said, reflecting that her heart had given out overnight.

I continued to wait. Always wanting to do the right thing, knowing that Mom (and my father) would do such a thing, I offered the officers a drink, as I felt helpless and useless. They thanked me but declined.

The waiting, a wise man once said, is the hardest part, and it seemed to take forever for the funeral home to arrive. That further saddened me and angered me as I knew that my mother was lying in the living room. Her soul, perhaps, was gone, but physically she was still there, in the same spot where my father had died.

That bothered me. 

I felt like I should sit with her, as I did for the doctor's appointments and viewings of Jeopardy and drives to and from North Carolina and wherever else she needed to be chauffeured.

Finally, the funeral home showed up and, like literally every other person I spoke with that day, overwhelmed me with information. The police officer returned to me.

"They're going to bring your mother out soon. You might want to take a walk if you want."

No chance. I was going to see this through. She'd want that.

I watched as they did that very thing, carrying her out of her home since 1963 for the last time.

Reminding myself of what my parents had taught me, I stood quietly at attention, my body as rigid as it had been all day. I resisted the urge to help, which I'd normally do.

This was, after all, my Mom.

They drove away. The police left. Everyone was gone. I'd talked with as many important people as possible but had not announced anything publicly. There were still a few people left.

Including Sean, whom I would tell in person.

In the process, I'd talked with some -- Chris Erway, Susan, Shawn Sailer, AJ, Laura -- and told them that I was supposed to call a game later in the day. They all said the same thing.

"Go. It's where you belong and there's nothing you can do now."

I went back into the house, tidied up where necessary, grabbed the broadcasting equipment, and drove to get Sean.

He said he knew something was bad when he saw me standing outside of the car.

That was truly the closest I came -- and have come -- to emotionally snapping. He decided to not come with me, opting to get himself together at his mother's. Admittedly I was hurt but I understand it better now. This was unlike anything he had dealt with and he needed to mourn on his own. Before I left I had him call his other grandparents so he could tell them, though I actually did it for him. It brought him a touch of peace.

The next few hours were a blur. I drove -- I know that -- and went to a Jersey Mike's in Fairfield to get a sandwich as I hadn't eaten in hours. I knew I had to eat, and get a little energy to call the game. My mind swirled. I felt tinges of guilt that I was going to a baseball game.

Shawn Sailer met me at the field in Bridgeport. He was supportive and we just talked. We set about writing down lineups when I found out that two people had announced her passing.

For the first time, I had a visceral reaction. It should have been up to her immediate family to say such a thing. I was pissed.

I whirled into action and posted a quick picture and statement. It needed to come from us and, knowing Mom, it needed to come from me. I wrote an equally quick blog post after the game.

I also wrestled with announcing her passing during the game but felt that as I've always considered the audience to be friends, I felt I could do so without detracting from the action. I did it in a quick break, said something, and moved on. I spoke of being taught to honor commitments and that was why I was calling the game.

Nick Castellanos was nowhere to be found.

There was still a question of how this awful day would end. Paul Silverfarb and I -- with Shawn -- were supposed to grab a drink. We planned to do so before the day began. Now, with nowhere to go, I felt like I might really need it. I found out Laura and many of her kids were at my niece's apartment in Bridgeport. So, I texted my niece's husband to see if he had a place in mind. My thinking was maybe they'd meet us.

Yes. That was Eric I texted, who died this past March. Eric's response was not surprising, especially from him.

"Just come to our apartment. We're ordering dinner. What do you want?"

Paul and Shawn both agreed that it was the right thing. A somber meal awaited.

But I also met a new friend, a black cat named Binx. Eric asked me -- seriously -- did I want this friendly thing. Nine days later, that black cat came home with me and, eventually, was renamed Rascal. He sits to my left as I type.

Eventually, the decision was made that I would sleep on an air mattress at Laura's, especially since I needed to be back in Bridgeport the next morning. I'd return to Mahopac the next day.

That's where I put my head. I couldn't sleep, of course. Frankly, all I could see was my mother's face. I was haunted.

All I felt was how I'd let her down. I tried and I failed.

Sep 4th faded into Sep 5th.

The funeral was the following Thursday, the 10th. I stepped to the casket, with no one looking, to make sure I didn't "make it about me," and apologized to her.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save you," I said. "I tried. I'm sorry." 

It's the last thing I said to her. In truth, I think she was ready. She'd accomplished her goals. She was ready to be with my father.

I look back with gratitude for everyone who was responsive and supportive that day. Susan and many others were just remarkable.

I'm sure some think I should have made this more about Mom tonight but, frankly, it feels therapeutic to write this. So if I'm guilty of "making it about myself," then I accept that charge. I'm a storyteller and I wanted to tell this story.

I needed to tell it.

I took care of my mother. In her waning days, I drove her everywhere and picked up food, and did grocery shopping. I washed her hair and helped her get in and out of the shower and a whole lot of other things.

I tried, Mom. I did.

We're still telling stories about you. Your presence is constant with Sean and me.

We send our love and laughs and tears your way tonight.

April 24, 1937 - Sep 4, 2020.