When a Friend Dies

Touch football on Arcola Street was a big part of our unsurpervised activity on Detroit's east side.

We would routinely play in front of our two-story aluminum-sided home where my parents and six siblings resided. 

Before dark, or the street lights came on, John Domenick, Eddie Stepowski, my brother Bob, Ray Malinowski, at times, among others, comprised the opposing teams.

Here we learned how to resolve conflict without parental or legal intrusion that prevents the like of play today.

John died about midnight as Saturday gave way to Sunday, July 1, 2012.

About thirty minutes earlier I left St. John Macomb Hospital in Warren.

Brenda Domenick, John's and Paul's older sister said she'd stay a bit longer after looking out of Room 625's window over the parking lot.  She worried if it was safe for her to leave alone.

"Leave with me, if you want," I suggested.

"I'll stay," quipped Brenda.

It was a long ordeal.  That day of his passing over also.  Long.  Yet, patient caregivers, among others, including a hospice nurse, responded well personally and professionally.  Chopped roast beef over bread with gravy, mashed potateos, and green beans was a treat the nurse generously offered me this long Saturday. And, the hospice nurse wanted to "up" his pain medication so John would be comfortable as he was dying.  +  Bless her!

After caring for his mother until her death, John's health seemed well even though he smoked and contended with diabetes until infection, internal organ malady, and more, silenced him late Saturday night.  He worked with his uncles in Detroit area dry clothing cleaners for years.  He like cigarettes and lottery tickets too.

Saint Clement Church in Center Line, Michigan, was the home church for his mother, Joan and dad, John.  Philip, his youngest brother was killed by a car on Van Dyke decades ago. John loved watching EWTN Mass and more daily. 

When silence poked deep I turned on that TV channel as John was passing over.

John's breathing slowed with loinger gaps in between each breath.  Morphine depressed his respiratory system as I watched him grip oblivion. 

After all, palliative care is the best medicine can provide to alleviate suffering.

John's eyes spoke volumes since he was unable to speak after a stroke and internal bleeding since
Tuesday.

He seemed to penetrate my eyes locked  looking  deep into one's soul. After all, the eyes are the window of one's soul, noted  Ernest Hemmingway in the Old Man and the Sea.  "Everything was old but his eyes," observed the author Hemmingway.  I savor those words these days.

A faithful son to the end, John never married.  However, he seemed to like another resident at the nursing home he dwelled in for years now.  Happier, John, was excited to introduce me to her as he wheeled his way from his room to his down the hallway of the former Nightengale Nursing Home in Warren, MI.

Brenda was glad also that he met someone.

More buoyant now, John was making some progress, although I knew his kidneys were shutting down. Time was short. After all, both legs were removed.

Earlier today, I recalled my visits with John.  He knew suffering watching his own mother, Joan, die after a long bout with cancer.  And, Tony, the family dog was defensive for her as people came close and Tony would growl.  Tony has yet to learn of John's passing over, reported Paul when I asked if he told Tony, the family mascot of thirteen years or so.  Tony was getting groomed this Saturday while Paul completed a visit earlier with John before he returned Saturday night with his sister.

"Buddy" was the name John called me when I visited him at the same nursing facility where my Aunt Gertie died of Alzheimer's disease after twenty-four years there. I didn't relish the thought of John being there either, although John seemed satisfied for the duration of his days there.

I liked John's greeting, although I never thanked him for claiming me with that endearment. Regretfully, I would have told him I appreciated the salutation.  No second chances now.

John seemed to do the best he knew despite his pending death and obstacles for years now.

An ordinary guy, he was a joy to chat with regularly.

He seems depressed at times but that was far from his name.  Baseball was usual commentary.

I'll mist that.  I do already.  Visits were rare with him recently. I regret that also.  No second chances.

Death's knock seemed to scare him in his final days in ICU.

Trying to assure him, I thanked him for being a "good guy" who loved his mother.

The hole lingers long now.

Even though his death was anticipated, the final closure when the lights go out, grip me with sadness.

Stillness does that.

After all, John's legs propelled him to play and live and run with that football for years decades ago.

Now, his breathing labored until the last one.

Eternal rest grant unto you, O John, and may perpetual help be with you as you rest in peace, dear friend!